A/N: So this hasn't been updated in over three years. That's rather impressive even for me. I had intended to give myself a late Christmas/birthday present by getting this (and the chapter of another story) posted before the end of 2017, but I got really sick so that didn't happen. BUT I'm still working on it, and this last November I wrote out another four chapters after this. Any original predictions for how long or how many chapters it will ultimately be have been pretty much scrapped. This might end up being twice as long as I originally intended.
Anyone still patiently waiting for updates on this weird thing, your patience is amazing, appreciated, and I hope this makes it worthwhile!
Soundtrack: 'The Ironmonger's Heart' on 8tracks.
Betas: SkyTurtle
Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man, Thor, nor the characters from them. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Other Disclaimer: It's not history, it's just vaguely historical.
…
The Ironmonger's Heart
Part IV
Raven Ehtar
…
Feelings were not kind in the Realm Eternal for the second Prince, but this was not an unheard of circumstance. The ways of the Sky Treader were well known to be crafty his motivations and desires convoluted, and to feel such little trust in his own home was a thing Loki was well used to. The warning of the blind hunter weighed more heavily on his mind than the warnings of any other, including that of his brother Thor. Höðr was a man who had been his friend for many years, but who was also steady and grounded. His words regarding one who might betray him were words which stuck in Loki's mind like thorns, sinking in deeper whenever he chanced to brush against them. Who might it be that wished him ill this time, and how was it they caught Höðr's ear? From which direction must he guard himself?
Such considerations were all cast from his mind, however, when he touched the heart of the Ironmonger and felt its fear, its distress. Though the heart was removed from its original owner, still there lay a connection between organ and man, just as still there remained a connection between god and the magic he left in the Ironmonger's breast. Through such a connection was Loki able to sense the thoughts and moods of the other. Through such a connection was Loki able to sense the danger Anthony felt was so near, and he made with speed to the side of the mortal that had so caught his interest.
Danger there was, though not in any form the Sly One might suppose. Askival had been attacked in Anthony's absence. Homes pillaged and burned, animals killed, holes knocked in the bottoms of fishing boats, many a precious item stolen, and neighbors murdered. Danger had indeed swept through the village, and at a time when such warriors the most suited to its defense were all away. A village which had never claimed much suddenly felt the terrible effects as though they were a rich community. It was an honor none were glad to receive.
But though such danger had indeed come to Askival, it had passed by the time Anthony returned. The fires were out, spilled blood grown cold, and those that could be saved already being tended.
The danger which Anthony felt, and which Loki could feel as a tremble deep in the heart he kept, was one not borne on the back of blade and torch. The danger to himself was far subtler. It was a danger which even a god full of tricks would be hard pressed to resolve.
…
Anthony heaved with all of his strength, concentrating on little else but the way the muscles of his back, his thighs, and his shoulders burned as he attempted to lift yet another beam out of the ashy remains of one of his neighbor's homes. The wood crackled beneath his fingers, the flames having robbed it of so much of its integrity, but it held. Ash and grit dug into his skin as he pulled. Mercifully no blackened slivers stabbed into his flesh, for which he was very grateful. He's already been stuck with far too many of those.
Picking his steps carefully, he hauled the broken beam away, to the pile he'd been building of detritus. No one helped him with his load, despite those about him at similar tasks. None approached him, none spoke to him, none so much as acknowledged his presence among them.
It was fine. Anthony was used to it, was coming to expect it, even. It was how it had been ever since his return from Kaupang, and while he didn't enjoy the treatment, he could ignore it easily enough, just as he was being ignored by others. So long as the cold treatment and empty stares didn't become open hostility, he could bear it. There would be time enough to repair the damage to his reputation once repairs to the community had been seen to.
So he bent his back just as so many were doing, clearing away the remnants of what the outlaws had wrought in Askival so they could begin rebuilding. Anthony wondered which neighbor it was he was helping today, trying to fit a name to the location of what had once been a home, before deciding, as always, that it didn't really matter. It didn't matter who he was helping, just that help was needed and that he gave it - and to a lesser degree that he be seen to be giving it. It was important that others know that the smith's hands had not been idle when time came to assist.
He bent, he heaved, he hauled, and he stacked. He sieved through the ashes of lives, picking out the memories that had survived - a dish, a knife, an arm ring - and returned them to whom they belonged. None did more to acknowledge him than nod. Not a word was spoken to him, and after a time he came to appreciate it. He hated being a ghost, but if anyone chose to speak to him now, he could guess what it would be they would say - if not the actual words then the tenor, and he was in no way prepared for that kind of talk with anyone.
The day dragged on, as had the last several days preceding it, the work only interrupted to drink or to eat. It was filthy, sweaty work, and by the time Anthony was ready to say he was finished for the day he was coated in fine ash and grit. It was even worse than the black film from a day in his forge, which would gather and cling to his face, neck, hands and arms. This ash was ubiquitous, floating in the air whenever someone stirred the burnt mess. It settled and found its way everywhere - in hair, all along skin, under clothes. It itched, but he dared not scratch, for once he started he knew he would never stop.
He wanted a meal, a drink and a bath. He wanted to retreat to his forge and forget for a few moments what had befallen Askival. He wanted to go to the drinking hall and share a cup with friends and neighbors, mourning those who had passed and planning what was to be done next. Looking about, however, and seeing how carefully every eye was turned from him, he knew he would receive no welcome in any hall.
He wanted to take off his damnable tunic and feel a fresh breeze, but even that was denied him, now. He could not risk any seeing the talisman.
Holding back a snarl, Anthony left the burnt out home and began to make his way back to the forge. He had worked at a different home that day than the days previous. Every day he chose a new neighbor, to avoid testing the patience of any who were working the same site. This day he had chosen a home as far from his own as possible, on the opposite side of Askival's center and near the shore. He'd gone so far out of his way in the hopes of a more grateful, less hostile reception. Such was not to be, it would seem.
Keeping close to the water for his return trip, Anthony ran an eye over his home village.
According to those who would still speak to him, the outlaws had come from the mountains, descending down on the village from a direction none would have anticipated. And why should they? Any force of men would almost have to come from the water in ships. The path Anthony had taken to Kaupang was too narrow to allow for great numbers to pass through quickly, and the mountains were too wild for any men to try their peaks. There was nothing on the other side of the mountains for leagues, only wilderness. Who would even think to come from that way, let alone be desperate enough to dare?
Outlaws appeared to be the answer. A band of them the size of which none of the village had ever heard of before.
It was not unheard of for such men to group together, to draw strength from their own numbers. When one was an outlaw, there was little choice but to trust people who had committed crimes terrible enough to warrant ostracism and outlawry themselves in order to survive. But there was an added danger to such a course. There was one way by which one might cast off their sentence of outlawry and so be allowed to own property, deal with others or to live at all as a civilized human once again: With the blood price of another outlaw.
It was a brutal deal, but one which had its benefits. One was that the population of outlaws never grew too great, with each looking to the other as their means of reclaiming whatever life they had before. It offered a sort of redemption to those willing or desperate enough to seek it. And it prevented the outlaws from becoming too great a united force and threatening their more civilized counterparts. How could one outlaw trust another with such stakes?
At least that was how it was meant to work.
The people of Askival were a pragmatic lot, and repair efforts were well on their way. Doors that had been torn from their hinges were replaced, broken fences shored up, scattered belongings gathered, whatever livestock which had not been killed or stolen rounded up and redistributed to those who had taken heavy losses. The dead had all been gathered and dealt with. Animals were being processed for meat, hide, and bone. Residents were cleaned and lain to rest by surviving family. The outlaws that had been killed… they had been given the sort of respect such men could expect at the hands of those they had come to pillage. Anthony had heard that the village völva, Grima, had taken something from each of the bodies before they had been taken away. What she intended, or even exactly what she had taken no one could do more than speculate.
With all of that, there was still plenty to do before Askival would shed the last signs of the attack. At least its most obvious signs. Many homes and halls were damaged, blackened wood showing where flames had done their work. Though the invaders had concentrated their efforts on the fringes, some had still made it through the more densely populated center. That they had managed to push as far as the water when coming from the mountains was impressive, but most of the damage Askival had taken had been, ironically, on the side everyone had thought the most protected: the hill.
Where Anthony's forge lay.
Anthony shook himself, doing his best not to think of his forge, or of his most immediate neighbors. Before he could force his thoughts along another track, though, he couldn't help but wonder, as he always did, if things would have been any different had he been home when the outlaws had come down the mountain. He was no warrior, but might he have been able to turn the tide - just enough to save his neighbors, those he had lived beside for years and known by name?
Because he hadn't, would he ever be able to forget their faces?
Why Askival? It was a question he'd been asking himself for days and which no one else seemed to give much thought. The nature of their attackers seemed to be enough to answer for any eccentricity with most of the residents and with their Jarl, Tyrvi. Outlaws were a desperate lot, so they would not be picky as to their raiding choices. They would descend on any town they thought could provide enough reward to make the risk worthwhile. Askival was not rich, but compared to what outlaws must make do with, particularly such a large band that must need much in the way of supplies to keep them all fed, it would provide a tempting target.
There was nothing over the mountains but leagues of forest, gullies, cliffs and hungry predators. There would be no signs of civilization unless one traveled for days or for weeks, until they came to the lower slopes on the other side. There was no one out there to catch a band of outlaws roaming about as these must surely be doing.
There was also nothing out there to hold them, to tempt such men to remain.
Word had been sent soon after the attack, a warning going out in all directions of a troupe of criminals that were working in unison and proven to be bloody handed. No news had yet come back of the outlaws striking anywhere else. The idea that perhaps this band only clung to the very edges of the wilderness, attacking those settlements unlucky enough to be near them was one that was worth considering, but also one that was as yet unsubstantiated. None in Askival had heard of them before they had been descended upon, and no others could say that they had seen or heard of them since.
Anthony couldn't believe that they were so unlucky as that, to be the one village a band would happen to choose before disappearing back into the wilderness.
Logic wouldn't allow for it, and neither would his instinct.
Something was wrong. He couldn't pinpoint it, but something was wrong. He could feel it creeping along his skin, under his skin, an awareness that something was out of balance but with no way to say what it was exactly. He had felt it as he had gotten ready for the faire, and along the road to Kaupang. Before leaving he had been certain it was his near death experience and its unforeseen consequences lingering in his mind. Along the road he had thought much the same - after all, a very pointed reminder stayed with him wherever he went. And then there had been the odd encounter with the wolves that had followed his caravan. Or at least so said all of his travelling companions, Anthony had never spotted them. But fear had affected all those around him, and so had its effect on him as well. The last of the journey to Kaupang had been a watchful one, with that same creeping sensation of being stalked, of being hunted following them all the way to Kaupang's border.
Within the town, amid the mass of humanity shouting it wares to each other, Anthony had not been able to escape the sensation entirely. It had been greatly muted, but still there, making it impossible for him to relax. He wondered now if it wasn't that feeling which had made his meeting with Jarl Oddbjörn so strained.
When he'd made his way home without the presence or rumor of wolves, Anthony had still felt wary. Like a cloak wound round his shoulders, the conviction that he was being hunted had settled over him, and he could not shake it loose. Even so small an incident as meeting another, elderly traveler a day outside of Askival had almost been enough to have Anthony reaching for axe handle, his nerves had been wound so tight.
And then he'd come home, and found it ransacked.
And still the feeling wouldn't leave him. He would have assumed that upon such a grisly return home the premonition of doom would have left him. He'd been sensing something wrong, some disaster stalking nearer and nearer. Surely the outlaw attack must have been it, and he would feel more himself.
But no. The feeling lingered on, the certainty that there was someone or something beyond his sight waiting its chance to attack becoming impossible to ignore.
Anthony came to a stop, boots crunching on the rock beach. This was where most of the fishing boats, nets, and other such things for the village were pulled up at the end of the day, and where now many lay useless, their hulls split open. Some could be repaired and were even now in the process of being so, while others would have to be pulled apart, the serviceable planks reused, the rest used for kindling. Villagers of all ages were bent at the task, while in the distance Anthony could see some had taken those boats which were still whole and were going about business as usual, hunting up fish.
No one looked his way, but this time it was due to distraction rather than conscious choice. None noticed him, and he did not advertise his presence. Instead, Anthony made his way to the edge of the water and began to scrub away as much of the ash as he could without immersing himself or removing his kyrtill. It was salt water and he would need a proper bath later, but for now it would do. Anything to rid his skin of the itchy, prickling sensation of a destroyed life clinging to him. If only he could do the same with what had made its way into his lungs, or his mind. If only…
"Anthony?"
He startled, jumping halfway to his feet before he recognized the voice.
Ranka stood behind him, her fine brows beetled close over her nose in a look of concern. He flashed a grin, but it only made her expression cloud over more. "How are you?"
Anthony straightened, shaking off as much water as he could, using the time gained to gather his thoughts. Ranka was worried, and had been ever since he'd gotten back. He knew, because her farm had been his first destination upon returning to Askival and seeing smoke. He'd run, abandoning cart and pony as soon as the path became too narrow to maneuver them through and sprinted the rest of the way. If he'd still possessed a heart, he would have been carrying it in his mouth the whole way.
When he'd come round the final bend and found the house not only standing but practically untouched, his knees had nearly buckled with relief. Ranka and Sölvi were both safe, their farm only showing the smallest signs of the attack. He'd rushed up to the door and embraced them both, and was greeted with an equal amount of relief. But it was short lived on their side, and Anthony could hardly glimpse them now without being reminded of it. Like the creeping sense of unease, it was a feeling he couldn't shake off.
"Well enough," he answered, quickly checking to be sure that no one else had taken note of his name or were observing their conversation. "Better than most, no reason to complain. Helping out neighbors where I can." He cast an appraising eye over her, taking in every detail - the strained lips, her pallor, the rigid way she stood, signs of her concern and of the stress everyone in the village was experiencing just now. But there were other things to see in Ranka. What Anthony noticed the most was just how she stood in relation to him. Not too close, in case he proved to be as unsociable as he had been the few times she had come to see him at his forge. But she was also positioned in such a way that should someone chance to look over there would be no way to mistake who she was, or fail to see who it was she spoke with. He wondered if it was intentional or an accident, and if her coming to see him out in the open was better or worse than coming to his home. Being seen here was more public, but could be put down to happenstance, whereas there was no mistaking the deliberate intention in coming across town to the forge - but there were fewer witnesses.
He didn't want Ranka to be stained with the same distrust that affected him by association.
But… he had missed her. "And yourself? How go the repairs on the farm?"
Ranka made a dismissive gesture, her concerned expression gaining a layer of annoyance. "The repairs have long been finished, the day to day chores picked up again. A thing you would know, had you bothered to visit since returning." She narrowed her eyes at him. He pretended not to notice.
"I knew it wouldn't take long for things to be set to rights," he said with a shrug, as though the state of the farm - and how much worse it could have been - hadn't weighed heavily on him the last few nights. "You're far too efficient a task master and Sölvi too much a workhorse to allow anything to remain broken for long. There have been other things to take my attention, other families who have not the benefit of you and your husband to fix what has been broken for them."
Ranka nodded, taking in his ash stained skin and torn clothes, the scrapes and bruises along his arms and hands. "I know. You've been working hard to help everyone. It's not as though you are very well known for letting things remain broken for long, either."
He grunted noncommittally, carding his fingers through his hair, surreptitiously glancing down to be certain that the talisman was in no danger of becoming exposed.
Silence stretched between them, awkward and strained. Anthony wanted nothing more than to be far away, as much to avoid the discomfort between them that had never been there before as to spare Ranka any unpleasantness should she be spotted in his company. But he couldn't leave so abruptly without it being seen for the retreat that it was, and he wasn't quite willing to be so obvious in his cowardice.
"Have you… How have you been?" She asked. "Still meddlesome?"
Anthony almost laughed. "You should stick to your spear when going fishing, Ranka. It's much more direct and better suits your temperament."
She glared, but her posture did relax a little bit, more herself than some stranger tiptoeing around a subject no one wished to acknowledge. "Fine, then, you pigheaded fool. Have Appi and Bergi been allowed to return?"
"Yes," he admitted, glancing in the direction of the hill. "But I think it's more to do with the loss of an investment should they be forbidden to continue their studies than any real show of trust. The boys themselves couldn't seem to care less about… the lay of the land. I'm fairly certain their parents grew weary of their wheedling and sent them back as a way of salvaging any peace under their roof."
Ranka sighed, a hint of a growl hidden in its tail. "It's ridiculous. You realize it's ridiculous, don't you?"
He shrugged, not willing to comment freely on what he thought of his current situation or the circumstances which had led up to them. Ranka didn't know all - and never would - and there was little he could see to be done about it which he was not already doing.
But if he was unwilling to speak, Ranka was not so similarly constrained. "I thought before that the talk of the village concerning your wound strained the bounds of credulity. That any could see your survival of so grave a blow as anything but miraculous was beyond the pale. Would they have preferred it if we had found you cold, and our village robbed of its smith? Narrow minded idiots." She said it with such venom that Anthony glanced around to be certain she hadn't caught anyone's attention. Somehow she had not, but that couldn't last long. Ranka didn't look as though she were prepared to stop any time soon. She was a stream previously bound in ice, and now that she was in full flow nothing would stop her short of a boulder.
"They choose to see your survival as a bad omen, as some sort of sign that we have fallen out of favor with the gods. That you lived. Not as some kind of gift that they wouldn't take you so soon!"
Anthony let his eyes drop at that, his fingers itching to touch the talisman through his kyrtill. No gift from the gods was his survival. Rather a deal struck with one god in particular, the full ramifications of which he wasn't sure he would ever really know. There was no way to know all of how the deal would affect him and those around him without having the god to question. Even then, Anthony doubted he would learn much more than he knew already, if anything. Loki was not known as a god who spoke clearly of his mind, and from their short acquaintance, Anthony could all but confirm that impression. Even had he the Trickster standing before him, he would still walk away ignorant of all the ways the talisman could affect his life.
Anthony had spent far too many hours since that night recounting his experience with the Sly One. Too many hours going over the words, the expressions, the body language, trying to remember his voice, his face… Still the memory taunted him. At once vivid and foggy, like a candle flame viewed through mist, he could both remember all that had happened, while being unable to pinpoint the details. Clear and diffuse, unforgettable and indescribable, Anthony had wrestled with the riddle of his memory since the day following their creation and had still come no closer to any kind of solution. In a way he wished the Trickster would appear again, just so he could be certain his memories weren't playing him false.
His fingertips tingled, the talisman seeming to grow weightier in its nest of ribs, and he licked his lips distractedly. That was almost the only reason he could wish the Trickster to reappear, but not quite. After several decades of giving the gods next to no thought, he'd been giving this one far too much, and as was his wont, when he turned his attention to something, he wanted to know more about it - he wanted to know everything there was to know. Loki offered his curiosity a puzzle too intriguing to be left alone, and he found himself going over his memories again and again, seeking out clues, signs, anything to unlock the deity.
Why had he answered Anthony's prayer? Why offer him the deal and save his life? Why would he want a mortal's wounded heart? What would he do with it? Had any other god answered him, would they have done as Loki had done, or would Anthony have been left to die?
Why had he kissed him?
That last weighed on Anthony's mind more than he liked to admit, much more than he thought was reasonable. And he suspected that all of his questions could be dismissed with the simple phrase, 'He's a God,' or even more to the point, 'He's Loki.' What mortal could ever hope to understand the workings of the Æsir, let alone Loki? And yet to just dismiss his uncertainties felt like a mistake. Especially when they were all topped with the one question which weighed on him the most:
In making a deal with Loki and trading his heart for his life, was that life now forever affected by the deal? Would Anthony live out his years forever aware, one way or another, that he had bargained for his days?
He blinked, forcing his wandering attention to come back to the present. Ranka was still going on, her complexion well on its way to matching her hair.
"… as though your presence was the cause of the outlaws coming here. How anyone could believe such a thing is beyond me. Yet I've seen how they look at each other, heard their talk, and it just-"
"Maybe they're not completely wrong, Ranka." He said it softly, but it had the effect he'd been hoping for, interrupting her rant against their fellow townsfolk - a rant which was not like to win her many friends if anyone other than himself ever heard it. When she stared at him without replying, he shrugged again. "Maybe I'm cursed, a charm of bad luck, doomed to bring ill fortune to all of those around me until a counter spell can be found. Or I die."
If he'd thought she looked pale before, it was the bloom of health compared to how white her face became, her freckles standing out like constellations. "That's not funny, Anthony," she said, the anger undermined by a tremble in her voice.
"Oh, come on," he flashed another grin. "It's a little bit funny."
She shook her head, and finally took a few steps closer to him. "Not when some could all too easily take such ideas to heart, Anthony, and not when there are so few standing who could prevent it."
Anthony allowed his grin to stretch wider, though it felt more like a snarl than any real amusement on his part. "What, you don't think Jarl Tyrvi would step in on my behalf should the village decide it best I were decapitated?"
"You know he wouldn't."
Which was true. He knew that Tyrvi wouldn't bestir himself in any way to assist should public opinion turn against him so violently. While Anthony couldn't be certain that Tyrvi would take an active role should such a thing come about, he would no doubt take great pleasure in the fact that it was happening at all. Their Jarl was a man who took great pride and pleasure in his relatively high position, and seemed to be selectively blind when it came to how that position - and therefore his own perceived worth - measured up against the same position in more powerful towns. He was curiously oblivious to his low standing when compared to other Jarls, but was not so oblivious to any sort of perceived threat to his power. Such as Anthony.
With a reputation, wealth and a family legacy - whatever Anthony's personal feelings might be on that last - he represented a clear and immediate threat to Tyrvi's influence. Any wind which blew in the direction of Anthony's losing face or popularity would be one their small Jarl was like to encourage rather than stop. Anthony didn't think he was being too unfair in thinking that even should the townsfolk really go so far as to drive him out of Askival or even to kill him, Tyrvi would do nothing to prevent it or to punish those involved.
"No, he wouldn't," he agreed, still maintaining something like a smile on his face. He made a show of looking around, taking in the village which had been the home of his youth and his adulthood, only his adolescence spent out in the world, honing his skills. It was a familiar place, teeming with memories good and bad. It was the place he had left in rage and spite, returned to in much the same state of mind, and then remained in because nowhere else had called him away. As much as he had hated it in the past, he hadn't left for long. He'd returned to a home he could find very little reason to give such loyalty to, but which somehow still had it.
And now it was pulling away from him.
"Maybe it's time to leave. Move on," he said. Ranka didn't respond, and he didn't look over to see what expression she wore in response to his abrupt suggestion. "It's not like Askival is the best place to get a reputation, right? It was just easy because this was where dear old dad had set up, and where better to start when trying to surpass him? I could pack up, find some larger town, expand my business, get some competent help - or take the ones I have with me. All with the added benefit of no risk of a lynching-"
"Anthony."
The nearness of her voice startled him, he hadn't heard her close the last few feet across the stones. But it was her touch which made him jump - her hand coming to rest at his chest, very near to where the talisman lay hidden, the glowing secret of how he had survived an arrow to the heart.
He looked at her, sure he would see confusion as she felt something out of place beneath her hand, even without touching the object itself. But there was no sign she noticed anything. Ranka was staring into his face intently, all her focus on him and not on whatever might be beneath her fingers.
"Anthony, you don't have to leave. What has happened wasn't your fault. As much as I rail against the morons here, eventually others will see that, too. That you're helping and not causing the troubles we have. Don't let jealous and superstitious fools drive you away from your home." She dropped her eyes, and Anthony's stomach plummeted as her gaze settled right where the talisman lay. Surely she must see it, its glow visible beneath the cloth when she was so close?
"Unless there's nothing at all left to tie you here."
It took a moment for her meaning to sink in. When it did, he felt a little faint with relief. Still aware of how terribly close Ranka's hand was to the talisman, he put his own over the top of hers, regaining her gaze before pulling her hand away to hold in both of his. His breathing got a little easier.
"It'll take more than a few dirty looks to drive me away, Ranka."
The tension in her eyes eased, but wasn't fully chased away. It wasn't what she wanted to hear, but it was enough, a reassurance that he wouldn't be packing up his tools and leaving by week's end.
She brought up her free hand and cupped his cheek, thumb rubbing at something, probably a bit of soot he'd failed to wash away. "Why don't you come to the farm this evening," she asked softly, carefully. "Spend the night with Sölvi and I. We've both missed you."
Normally Anthony would have said yes. He was still tempted to now. It had been some time since he'd last shared bedclothes with anyone, and Ranka and Sölvi were both lighthearted lovers. Neither of them begrudged him his roving ways or his occasional black moods, and they could always make him laugh and forget his trouble for a time. He could use their warmth just now, their gentle distraction… but there was no way to do so without exposing what had happened to him. No way to share so much of himself without sharing everything.
"Not tonight, little love," he said, not needing to feign his regret. "Days are long and I am in no condition for such antics."
One side of her mouth came up in a half smile, either grudging acceptance or amusement at something only she was privy to. "But soon?"
"We'll see," was the best that he could offer.
Apparently that was enough. Ranka nodded and visibly gathered herself back into her usual composed self, taking a step away from Anthony and disentangling her hand from his. "Until we meet again, smith." She nodded and turned away in a swirl of skirts.
"Until then," Anthony agreed, watching her back until she was swallowed up by distance and the crouching shape of Askival.
He couldn't help but think as he watched her disappear that everything he was feeling - the creeping sense of unease, the disconnection from Ranka, the hostility of his neighbors - all came down to one thing:
They all still belonged in Askival, while he did not.
…
Eventually the walk back to the forge would mean having to cut through Askival itself, rather than sticking to its outskirts. There was no practical way to get up the hill without utilizing the roads, not unless Anthony felt up to a real hike and some climbing, which after a long day of hauling beams out of ash, he was not. He would have to make his way through town and risk the gazes of his fellows in order to get home. It shouldn't have felt like such an internal debate to make such a decision, and when he chose to stride through the very center of town, his chin angled up, it was with no small measure of spiteful defiance.
He had done nothing, and he would not be shamed out of his home for the sin of surviving an attack, or for the misfortunes of others.
He got his share of looks, but not so many as he had expected. It was nearing the end of the day, and people were as tired as he was. There was little energy to spare in glares for the blacksmith. Rather than be faced with a sea of hostility, Anthony was instead surrounded by the more familiar sights, sounds and smells of the village running along just as it had for years. It was soothing.
Through the center of Askival, it was possible to forget about the outlaws and their attack. Even with most of the warriors gone, the citizens had been more than willing to fight the invaders, and the sheer number of them if not the skill of arms had proved too much for the disreputable band. As such, fences were still whole, doors and valuables in place, even clothes hanging on lines and bunches of herbs strung along the eaves were all undisturbed. Dogs still wandered about, some following masters as they made their way home. Chickens, geese and goats all milled in their pens, calling out occasionally to one another, content with their evening feeds. On one fence an orange cat with a torn ear regarded Anthony as he passed by and mrowped at him in a demanding fashion. He paused long enough to scratch its ears and chin, the furry creature leaning in to the caresses.
Anthony smiled as the cat contorted to get his fingers in just the right spot. "At least there's some that don't despise me too much to appreciate a kind gesture," he murmured. The cat purred in agreement.
With a final rub of its orange head, Anthony went on, his movements watched by a pair of bright green eyes.
Anthony strolled with a little less urgency than before, taking in the sights as he went. The mead hall's doors were open, the sounds of people spilling out in a warm invitation. He knew from experience that within those walls there would be an unspoken agreement to not speak of the misfortunes recently befallen them, save perhaps in horns raised to a fallen neighbor, comrades and brothers. For a few hours those within could forget at all that had happened and be content in a day filled with work and a night with full bellies.
He passed it by, knowing what sort of welcome he could expect should he dare step across the threshold.
Not far from the mead hall lay Tyrvi's hall, home of their lauded Jarl, barracks to his warriors and hearing ground for disputes. Unlike the mead hall, the doors were closed against the lengthening shadows. Tyrvi's hall was no place of revelry now. While the mead hall offered a balm to the townsfolk, the business of the other was of a more serious nature. As little as he and many others respected their Jarl, he was still their leader and acted as such. Rumor had reached Anthony that he was gathering his forces, plotting some scheme in order to track down the outlaws and bring them swift justice. He merely waited enough of Askival's warriors to return to make such a move feasible. Anthony suspected - hoped - that Tyrvi had also sent out word to other towns, calling in favors and the loan of more men to fill out their ranks in the hunt.
However many there were, Anthony intended to fit his weapons into as many hands as possible when they went on their mission.
He passed people along his way, people heading home or to one of the halls. Men and women, farmers bearing tools, fishermen loaded with catches, the occasional warrior in fur trimmed cloaks and heavy swords. Anthony only received the occasional dark look, but made certain not to linger too long in his path home.
That is until one person caught his eye, and he nearly stumbled with how quickly he came to a stop.
It wasn't a very impressive figure which caught Anthony's attention. A medium sized man, a little slender, perhaps, with blond hair and beard and travel stained clothes, sporting a cloak a muddy shade of green. He was going about his own business just as everyone else, strolling along slowly, his direction suggesting his destination was the mead hall. He was a stranger to Anthony, face utterly unknown - which given his usual habits wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, even in a village the size of Askival. He could assume that he was known to someone, else he would not be having such an easy time in town. So soon after what happened, any strangers to Askival were like to be met with suspicion at best. But none hindered him. None so much as glanced at him, he realized, as though he weren't there.
None save Anthony, who couldn't have looked away had he tried.
There was nothing about him which should have arrested his attention. Taking each of his features individually or as a whole, he was completely ordinary, a man as any other and as like to be lost in a crowd between one blink and the next.
And yet that… wasn't quite right. Anthony's eyes ached, trying to understand what he was seeing. The man was too vivid, the colors of his clothes too bright, the textures too pronounced even at a distance to ignore. At the same time, he was a ragged looking wanderer. It was like seeing two men sharing the same space, at once plain and remarkable. The way he moved was wrong, too, as though he were half a step ahead or behind where he ought to be, unmoored from time.
He didn't fit into his surroundings, even though there was nothing about him Anthony could spot which would give that sense. He just didn't belong.
Anthony turned his feet and began walking to him before he had time to think it through.
He wasn't subtle in his approach, made no effort to mask his intention to meet the stranger, and yet the man didn't seem to notice Anthony until he'd stepped directly into his path.
"Good evening." Anthony greeted him with a smile.
The stranger blinked at him, a line appearing between his brows. He looked a little confounded, which was reasonable enough when greeted out of nowhere by a stranger in the street. To Anthony's mind, however, it looked as though he were surprised anyone had noticed him at all. "Good evening," he returned, his voice surprisingly light. "And who might you be?"
"I was just on the point of asking you the same thing." He looked over the man's face, but like the rest of him, there was nothing really remarkable. "It's not often we get strangers to Askival, especially in such times as these."
The stranger tilted his head. "In the springtime?"
"On the heels of an attempted rout." He smile never budged.
The face of the stranger, on the other hand, seemed to clear at the veiled implication. "Ah, now I understand your interest in one such as I. Peace, friend, for no stranger I to your village. Many a time have I passed through here, occasionally staying a time. My last visit was not so very long ago, in fact."
"Really." Anthony allowed his smile to drop, his examination of the other to become more blatant. "And yet I can say that I've never before seen your face."
That actually coaxed a grin out of the stranger, one full of sharp, white teeth. "Of that I've no doubt. I often keep to myself on my visits, though a few may boast of having had me 'neath their roof. I believe I have seen your face. In passing."
Anthony narrowed his eyes at the man. There was something familiar about him, but as with the sense that he simply didn't belong, he couldn't pin down why. A certain impertinence in his attitude, maybe, or the way he grinned? It was possible that Anthony had seen him before and just couldn't remember… but he doubted he would be able to forget someone as unfitting as this man was. Not even if he had only seen him in passing. There was something about his eyes, as well…
"What's your name, 'friend'? Who are you?"
The man opened his mouth, and Anthony would have sworn he was ready to answer, when a sudden look of surprise crossed his face and his mouth snapped shut. The look was gone again as quickly as it had come, and he grinned, a picture of friendly insolence. "No one of consequence. Just inconsequential me."
With that he side stepped Anthony and began to make his way past.
He ought to just let him go. He had no real reason to detain him, to demand answers of him when he had done nothing more than catch Anthony's eye and seem not to belong in his surroundings.
But he couldn't let him go. There was something off in the way the man looked, walked, spoke, the indefinable sense of familiarity chewing at his awareness. He couldn't allow him to just wander away, never to be seen again, without some sort of clue as to his identity.
He reached out as the man passed. "Hey, hold it a second, Goldy, I-"
Anthony's fingers closed around the man's wrist, and his breath caught. Beneath his breastbone, where for weeks there had only been silence and stillness, he felt something - a flutter. He gasped, his free hand coming up to press over the talisman. There was no movement beneath his palm, but there was no mistaking what he had felt. There had been something, something that had felt like a heartbeat where there was no heart to beat. What had it been? Was the talisman failing?
Anthony dragged in a ragged breath, forcing himself to calm. Whatever it had been, it was gone now. His chest was just as still now as it had been before, even his momentary panic not enough to cause ghostly racing of his heart. Everything was fine.
Thankfully he had not released the other hand during his brief fit, or he was certain the stranger would have taken the opportunity to flee. Tightening his grip just a little, Anthony brought his attention back to him, and felt his eyes go wide.
The strange feeling of looking at two men sharing the same space had intensified, but that made it easier to see the images as separate. The two men he saw were not identical. One was vivid color and light, looking at him with confusion and the beginnings of anger, while the other was more muted, watching Anthony with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. They had the same eyes, though, which Anthony could finally see clearly.
Nearly black, with a half hidden sheen of gemstone green.
Those eyes widened slightly as he saw the recognition dawning on Anthony's face.
For himself, Anthony wasn't certain if he wanted to fling the arm he held away from him like a dangerous animal, or to hold on to it, for at least then he would know where one of those hands was. It felt as though the flesh and bone beneath his fingers were a brand he couldn't risk to lay down, lest it burn away everything it touched. So for now, he held on.
"You." It was all he could force out between his teeth. More clamored to be let loose - questions, demands, an accusation or two, but faced with the man himself, the words cowered at the back of his tongue.
A procession of emotions flickered across the unfamiliar face, too fast to make out any for certain besides shock, which was quickly swept away by a wide grin. A grin which was very familiar now that Anthony could remember which face he had last seen it on.
"I," Loki agreed, eyes dancing with mirth and delight. "And you," he added, looking over Anthony from head to toe. "Looking much the better for not being mostly dead I must say, though I would perhaps suggest that you not sleep in your forge, Smithson. The soot tends to get into the most uncomfortable places."
Anthony shook his head, still hardly able to believe what his senses were telling him and yet unable to deny them. Even wearing a false face, there was no mistaking the stranger for anyone but the Trickster now he had grabbed hold of the truth. The Sly One, the one who had knelt over him in the forge and taken his heart, the one who had saved his life, the one whose touch both soothed and burned. The one who was but a half remembered dream he now held in his grip, a being of flesh and bone he could feel.
Not a dream at all. Loki was real. He was real and standing before him with a gaze glimmering secrets and a sharp grin full of promises.
"What are you doing here?" It wasn't the most clever of questions, but Anthony's mind seemed to have become a cold stream, moving sluggishly, his words still reluctant to venture out.
The god raised his brows at him. "Have I need of a reason to be here? I was unaware. I told no falsehood when I said that I have been to your village many times in the past, and I will probably find many more reasons to return in the future. You need not concern yourself of my intentions."
That broke through a little of the fog in Anthony's mind. "Somehow I think I ought to concern myself especially with your intentions when it has to do with anything near to me."
"My, my." Loki smirked at him. "Have we grown so high and mighty that we think to meddle in the affairs of the gods now, Anthony?"
It might have been a veiled warning, or even a threat, but it didn't feel like one. It just felt like mockery, the same sort which Loki had taunted him within the forge, light but with a hidden edge to it. Still, the words made Anthony glance about, abruptly aware of the sort of picture the two of them must make standing so in the street, speaking so where any and all could hear them. But no one looked their way, or seemed to notice them at all, even though a few had to alter their paths to make their way around them.
Loki's low chuckle brought back Anthony's attention.
"You needn't worry of your neighbors taking an interest and being shocked to find a god amongst them. None will even notice us unless we wish it otherwise." He glanced down at where Anthony still kept a hold of his wrist. "No matter how fraught out interaction might become." It came out almost as a purr. That coupled with the awareness of how close they stood to one another convinced Anthony to let go and take a step back.
It looked as though he was telling the truth, at least. None of the men and women passing by so much as glanced at either of them, their eyes sliding past as though they didn't exist. He remembered how he had seen everyone around Loki do the same before he'd approached. "Is it magic?" Curiosity temporarily overrode all other emotions. "The same kind you were using before?"
"Yes." He seemed rather pleased with himself. "Not quite the same as being invisible, but close enough. To all around us, we simply do not draw enough attention to exist. We leave no impression, they part with no memory."
Then why did I see you? Anthony wondered. The double image remained, making it difficult to focus on him. More than the optical illusion, if that's what it was, it was unsettling to see Loki, to know that it was Loki, and yet to see a strange face. Dream-like and vague though his recollections of their first meeting were, with the layer of unreality granted by agony and visceral panic, his memory was clear enough to reject this face and body wholeheartedly as wrong. Of course, if Loki were capable of giving himself a false face now, then there was no reason to assume that the one he had been wearing then was any more genuine. When he'd first appeared he'd been a woman, after all. Still, even when wearing such a guise as that, the face had been nearly the same. No, this one was false, and it was beginning to give Anthony a headache to look at it when he knew it was wrong.
"Nice trick," he said, doing his best not to squint when he looked at Loki. "I can imagine that comes in useful."
"Indeed it does."
"Seems like it could use some adjustments, though," he went on, his tongue finally beginning to loosen. "Looks like it's working fine now, but it loses a lot of its effectiveness if the bubble pops as soon as you meet someone who knows you."
Loki's grin dimmed a fraction, his look sharpening on Anthony by about the same amount. He almost sounded annoyed when he replied with, "That is a bothersome quirk, to be certain. I must arrange some time to correct it soon."
Anthony allowed himself a smirk, as though he were personally responsible for the failure in Loki's magic to work on him. He didn't allow himself to actually believe it was so, but it was pleasant to pretend It was nice to forget for a moment just how outmatched he was, familiarizing a god into something less threatening, less completely unknowable. It was a way of batting back the panic attempting to rise up in him, a way of dampening the questions that clamored - What did he want? What was he doing here? What was he going to do? Had he ever left?
"On your way home, Smithson?"
He blinked, aware he'd permitted his thoughts to wander. He nodded. "Yes. End of the day, back to my paddock."
"Allow me to walk with you, and we can speak over the days since we last saw each other."
The offer was so unexpected, made in such a friendly and familiar fashion, as though the two of them were old companions and this were a regular part of their routines, that for a moment Anthony was drawing a blank on how to react. The fact that he was speaking with a god, that Loki had never been a fever dream - a suspicion he had held despite the glowing evidence to the contrary - seemed like the kind of thing he ought to not make light of. Of such things were legends spun, when gods and men came together. Anthony couldn't call to mind any tale where the meeting involved a leisurely stroll to one's front door. Given that the god in question was Loki, and given the nature of their previous meeting, Anthony was more willing to believe there was some sort of ulterior motive in the offer of company.
Seeing his hesitation and perhaps guessing its source, Loki took half a step closer to him, lowering his voice as though any near them still had a chance of hearing them. "It seems you desire to escape the notice of your neighbors. I understand the need to go about from time to time unseen. In my company you might so remain, and all the while in not entirely repulsive company."
He ought to refuse. Just like he ought to have just let the stranger pass him by and out of his life, never the wiser of who he really was. He ought to turn his back and go home, sleep through the night and attempt to put back together the splintering pieces of his life. There was no reason why he should interact with gods more than he already had, and compelling arguments could be made why he should not. Did his life need to be complicated any further with the presence of gods?
He hand came halfway up to his sternum before he caught himself and stopped. When it came down to it, he ought to be dead, yet here he was. He had never been well known for making entirely rational decisions. And it was hard to resist the draw of that smile.
He beckoned to a side, using the hand that had nearly come to rest against the talisman, as though that had been what he'd intended the whole time. "May I assume you know the way, or do you normally travel by air?"
"I travel however it best suits and pleases me in the moment," Loki said, taking the invitation to walk with a little flourish. "Just now it pleases me to travel in such company as I find." He winked impertinently at Anthony as they began to walk.
Anthony snorted to cover his surprise. "You don't have very demanding standards, do you?"
"Ah, that's not it," he said with a coy grin. "I'm just very lucky that circumstance matches my taste so well."
He rolled his eyes and walked on, continuing along the path which would take them up the hill and to his forge the quickest.
In truth, there weren't many folk still out of doors. The shadows were long already, the night reaching out slender, grasping fingers before pulling the world into the fullness of its grip. Only a few remained, and those few completely failed to take notice of them. It felt a little odd, like the nightmares he'd once had as a child where no one would look at him no matter what he did or how shrilly he called out. Unlike the nightmares of old, though, there was no accompanying rush of horror or plummeting sense that he was alone - abandoned. There was only a sense of relief, of freedom. With no gazes following him, trailing indefinite accusations over his skin, a weight was lifted off of him. For the first time since returning to Askival, perhaps even before, Anthony felt as though he could relax.
Or he would, had it not been for who was walking right beside him.
To be just, it wasn't so bad as he had expected it to be, walking with Loki. He had imagined the god would wish to speak the entire way back to the forge, and it would be a back and forth of twisting words and veiled intentions. But no, he remained silent, for all the worlds appearing as though he were waiting for Anthony to speak first.
The silence itself wasn't even that bad. Not so awkward as he might have expected, and somehow with none of the tension which by all rights really ought to have hovered between them. Again Anthony was surprised, for in a very short period of time he felt his shoulders begin to lower from his ears and his breathing to ease. If he hadn't known better, he might have thought it an ordinary walk, heading home after a day out of the forge and bringing along a friend.
Just as they reached the foot of the hill, Anthony canted an eye sideways at the one beside him.
"That isn't your face."
The man walking beside him returned his look, brows raised. "Isn't it?"
"No," Anthony replied, and Loki looked faintly surprised by the conviction in his tone. "Why wear that one when you can make it so no one notices you in the first place? Lose a wager with someone?"
"You say that as though I would ever take a wager I couldn't win," he said with a smirk. Anthony made a note to never get into any sort of betting games opposite Loki. "To answer your question, I wear a face other than my own out of preference. Not all tricks work on all creatures, so anonymity is better achieved through layers."
He frowned, absorbing that. Not all of Loki's tricks worked on everyone. Well, that might explain why he had been able to notice him at all, but did it also explain how he was able to tell that the face he wore was false? Was the reason neither magic worked on him due to a fault with the magic, or with him? He pushed the questions away to the back of his mind. Doubtless he would be taking them out to examine again later. For now there was a god to focus on. "Would there be any dire consequences if you put your real face back on?"
Loki gave him a curious look, then raised his eyes to the darkening sky, considering. "If I took certain other precautions, then no. There would be no difference whose face I showed."
"Then would you mind changing back to your own? Looking at this one is… unsettling."
"Is that so? In what way does it unsettle you, Smithson?"
It sounded as though Loki were genuinely interested, the way his focus became locked on him also giving the impression. Anthony hesitated in his answer, not certain how to describe the effect he was seeing whenever he looked at Loki in his guise. He was scarcely able to process it himself, let alone parse it into words. In the end he shrugged. "It just… does. I know it's not you, yet I know it is you that stands there. The container doesn't match the contents, and it's disorientating."
"Hmm," Loki hummed thoughtfully, examining Anthony's face, perhaps searching for more than what his words were saying. Anthony had no idea what he found, but after a few moments he gave a quick nod, made a few odd, complex motions with both hands, and then waved them through the air in a wiping motion that took in his whole body.
A green glow rippled down his body, dissolving the image of a slender man of middling height and golden hair and beard, and left behind the Loki of Anthony's hazy memory. Memory which abruptly sharpened once the true Loki was before him again. Taller than his guise - and taller than Anthony, he noticed - hair black as a crow's wing and slightly curled, smooth faced and sharp featured, with a mouth that broke so easily into the knife edge grin which had haunted Anthony's thoughts for weeks. The gemstone eyes finally fit the face they were set in, and, to Anthony's immeasurable relief, there was no more doubling of his vision. There stood only one man beside him instead of two attempting to exist at the same time. Anthony sighed.
"Better."
Loki chuckled. Even his voice sounded more as Anthony remembered it, and he had to repress a shiver as the sound crept down his spine. "I'll be sure to mention to the one whose likeness I borrowed that you prefer my features to his. I've no doubt it will depress him for some time - he fancies himself quite dashing."
"Well, it's not as though your own features leave you lacking." The quip was natural, a part of his usual banter, and slipped out before he had a chance to think better of it. "You said you've been here often," he went on, ignoring the smirk turned to him. "Does that mean many other than myself would recognize you, if they were allowed to notice you?"
"No," he said, allowing Anthony's comment to pass unremarked on. "I have been here many times throughout the years, but there's none who would remember to make note of my face. Or anyone's I might happen to be wearing. Save yourself, of course, but that is rather a special circumstance."
"So I gathered," he muttered, fighting down yet another urge to finger the talisman. Did his hand always stray to it this much and he had just never noticed, or was Loki's nearness making the need to touch it more pointed than before? "So are there many who pray to the God of Tricks in Askival? If there are it's a practice I have heard naught of."
Loki's newly returned features were much better suited to the expressions he wore Anthony decided, as his face registered exhausted resignation. "No. So far as I am aware, and I am in the unique position to be completely aware on this point, there are none who turn their attentions to me when it comes to prayer."
"Really? I would have thought there would be someone who would pray to you. There's always some fool who could use a bit of cleverness to get them out of a scrape."
"Oh, doubtlessly," Loki replied airily. "Of those, I have my share. Perhaps I phrased it poorly. There are those who come to me to think a way out of their problems, to ease their way or outmaneuver an enemy. Once their difficulty is over, they move on, their attentions returned to more… respectable Æsir. But those who simply pray, who offer worship with no thought to receive anything in return, that is not something that is ever offered to me." He gave Anthony a thoughtful look. "You are perhaps the closest I can say has ever come to it, and that simply because you offered an exchange, rather than simply begging a favor. And even that was an offering made to any who would listen." He shrugged, but the motion seemed stiff to Anthony's eye.
"Is there such a difference between praying for a favor and prayer for its own sake?"
"Oh yes." His mouth curled up on one side, his eyes fixed ahead on their path. "There is quite a difference, forge master, to those who receive them. The devotion of mortals is greatly coveted by some amongst the Æsir, and not a thing to be squandered or taken lightly."
And not something which Loki enjoyed the benefits of at all. Anthony lapsed into thoughtful silence for a while, considering what that might mean.
He was jogged loose of his thoughts when Loki spoke again. "There's something that weighs on you, Smithson. I can feel it tugging at the place where once your heart lay. What is it?"
Anthony stopped in his tracks, forcing Loki to do the same, and looked at him incredulously. The god did not react to the expression at all, save to tilt his head and wait for an answer. Anthony huffed out a breath, holding out his arms to his sides, taking in the darkening village around them. "You must be joking. You've been wandering around in this town and just failed to notice how bits of it have been used for tinder? Or how some of the buildings have fewer doors, or brand new windows cut with axes?"
"Oh, I noticed that well enough," he said, unperturbed. "The doings of mortals are fleeting, but I'm not so blind to detail as some. But none of this affects you, does it?" Anthony felt himself stiffen a little as Loki narrowed his eyes on him, seeming to see more than there ought to be seen. "Those who have taken the gravest losses are no connection to you, by blood or bond. The outrages against the village are regrettable, but not so great as to cause you any difficulty - no lasting difficulty at any rate. Winter is far off, and even were it not, the storehouses for winter fodder are untouched. So. Why is it that Anthony Smithson is so troubled?"
Anthony stared at him for a moment before shaking his head. He began walking again, wanting a little more distance between him and the trailing god. "You must think I have a heart of ice to be so unaffected by the plight of those around me."
It wasn't perhaps the wisest thing to say, as it left him wide open for Loki's quick retort. "Heartless, rather. Though I know better than ever to think the heart you once possessed was cold."
Anthony didn't reply. That seemed a loaded statement, waiting to be prodded at and unfold into something entirely unexpected, and he was in no mood to try and unravel riddles. He kept his silence the last of the way to his forge, feeling rather than seeing the expression the god must have worn, waiting for the next opening, the next peek beneath Anthony's armor. He could wait all he wished, Anthony determined, his lips pressed together in a flat line.
It wasn't long before they reached the slight curve in the path that led to the forge's door. When he turned to face Loki, he intended to say something to make him leave, some kind of thanks for his company, perhaps. The words stuck in his throat when he looked on the faintly smiling god. The sun was finishing its descent, the golden light on the waves of the bay giving way to the deep indigos and soft violets of an evening shading to night. The brightest of stars were already visible, pinned high in the sky and sparkling silent songs. It was the halfway time, the few moments between day and night where it could be said to be neither, the beauties of both shared for all to see. The light of day and shadow of night both played over Loki's face, casting his features into sharp planes and soft hollows, the deep green of his eyes seeming to glow where the light caught them at an angle.
Anthony's skin felt too tight around his limbs. He licked his lips. What he had meant to say deserted him, the idea of making Loki disappear suddenly no longer so welcome. Instead, he found himself motioning to his forge, an invitation for Loki to look upon it.
"You want to know what it is makes my heart heavy, here it is."
Loki glanced over the building, eyes running over it in its entirety without pausing to examine anything in particular. His brow furrowed only slightly when he looked back at Anthony. "Yes? There's nothing at all wrong with your forge. It lays untouched."
"Yes," Anthony agreed, pausing before he went on. "That wasn't lost on the rest of the village, either."
The frown deepened as Loki looked at the forge again. Anthony waited as he looked at the forge, and then cast his eyes around them in a wider circle. He saw in the way his posture shifted the moment when realization hit him, a moment before he quietly exhaled a little, "Ah."
The outlaws had come over the mountains, where by rights no outlaws ought to have been in the first place. They'd swept down on Askival, hitting its borders the hardest, but due to simple proximity, those on the infant slopes of the mountain were the hardest hit of all. Many homes had been burnt to the foundations, the distance to the water as well as the force of the attack dooming them. For some, the families had still been inside when the torches had been set to them.
Anthony's forge, the forge of his father and home of his earliest memories was untouched, with not so much as a broken window, while without exception, every single one of his neighbors was nothing but a charred cinder.
"I'm a smith," Anthony said quietly as Loki continued to look. "Even if I had nothing more to recommend me than that, and my father as unknown as any shepherd, my forge would still have been a target. There are metals inside, ores, tools, all manner of things which could be taken and sold somewhere else. There's silver inside which need not be sold at all, only spent. And all that if this were merely any man's forge, and not that of my father and my own. Weapons with either name attached to it would be worth more than anything that could be taken from the rest of the village together. The alloys I've created are so coveted they could have found those willing to pay outrageous sums for even an inferior blade made of it. And yet," he ground his teeth, the frustration of days not abating in the slightest. "I remain untouched, while my neighbors burned."
Loki did not reply. His face had gone remarkably blank, only a little tension showing at the corners of his eyes and mouth as he looked about at the fallen homes. Anthony watched, also in silence, as the tall god strode around the circle of destruction that surrounded the forge. With careful but purposeful motions, Loki prodded here and there in the ashes. It seemed a random, useless sort of gesture. There would be nothing to find in these homes, no remaining piece of the lives once lived inside, and certainly not in the places where Loki ran his hands, along beam and board which once made the front doors of the homes. But still he would go, and repeated the same action with each of the burnt out frames, his pale hands coming away filthy, the wanderer's clothes he wore gaining a soft layer of dust.
When he was finished and began to walk back to Anthony, the smith couldn't withhold the question which had been nagging quietly at him for ages.
"Am I cursed?"
Loki stopped and blinked at him, pale face only seeming to grow blanker. "What?"
"This," he swept an arm around without taking his eyes off of Loki. "Is this some sort of side effect for having struck a deal with you? Does this," he tapped the talisman hidden beneath his kyrtill, "act as some sort of beacon, attracting misfortune to my door?"
It took a long moment for Loki to answer him, his eyes locked on the place where the talisman rested as though he could see it clearly. Possibly in the dying light he could, the glow finally visible through the weave. Anthony refused to glance down to check, keeping his attention on Loki.
"The ways of magic are not always predictable," he said at last, picking his words carefully. "Even to one such as I, to whom the practice of such arts is familiar cannot always see all the ways it will behave, once it is set loose. Especially with something so unique as what we have wrought," he said with a nod towards the talisman. "But a curse?" He met Anthony's eye, irises gone black in the failing light. "The bargain we struck was no curse, Smithson. What has befallen you, your village, is no fault of the magic which resides within you now."
It ought to have reassured him, but it didn't. At least with the possibility of a curse, there would be a reason for why any of this had happened, an explanation for all of the unlikely circumstances which had all come together to bring about this result. Anthony had been willing to accept 'curse' if it meant all of the pieces of the puzzle fit together. Without it, then the solution to the 'whys' was still unknown.
He would find it. Anthony knew when he applied himself that there was little he couldn't accomplish. He would discover why this had happened, regain his standing within the village and bring justice to his neighbors. He was Anthony, the next Great Smith after all, and eventually the Greatest Smith, renowned throughout all the worlds. He would not be bested by such a setback as this. He'd been struck down with his own weapon and made a deal with a god in order to rise again. This was nothing.
Still. At the moment, he was very tired, and felt it. He rubbed a hand over his face, the thick stubble of his normally trim beard rasping against his palm, the grit of soot still present even after his cursory rinse at the beach. He needed a bath. He needed hot food, a strong drink and a shave. He needed a good long tumble and an even longer sleep. He needed-
"You look as though you could use some time away from all of this."
Anthony's eyes snapped open. He took a startled step back when he realized how close Loki had gotten while his eyes had been closed, mere inches separating them. He had to tilt his head back in order to look Loki in the eye. "What? How do you mean?"
Loki's smile returned, but it was one without mocking or the menacing edge of teeth. It was an almost soft expression meant to reassure, but which worked to put Anthony more on his guard. "I mean it seems as though all of this is weighing heavily on you, Smithson. The fate of your village, the perceptions of those who you would help… I believe you could use a reprieve. I would offer you one, if you wish to take it."
His pulse quickened, the warning thought of 'danger' bouncing around inside his skull. He'd already made one deal with Loki, and now he was offering favors? Every instinct he had and every tale he'd ever heard of the Trickster told him to refuse point blank - politely. Dealing with such a creature would surely only lead to disaster. He said the fate of Askival had nothing to do with their previous bargaining, but Loki was renowned for his lies - Anthony still might very well be cursed by his own foolish desperation. To compound one foolhardy deal with taking favors from the same god as before bordered on madness. Who knew what could result from a second bargaining?
And even if the deal of his life was not the cause of the outlaws attacking, what kind of fool would risk dealing with the Sly God a second time?
"That would depend on what you have in mind, Silvertongue," he said, impressed he could still speak so well with a mouth gone dry. "What sort of reprieve might a man of your ilk offer to me on a chilly evening?"
Now the smile did show teeth, but it was far from menacing. "Oh, there are many things I might offer of an evening, my dear smith. Things to charm, delight and most certainly distract one from any unpleasantness which might be weighing too heavily on their mind." As he spoke, Loki allowed his gaze to travel over Anthony, slow and appreciative. In the deepening gloom, he swore he could almost feel that look as a touch.
He shivered, and blamed it on the cold.
"For tonight, however, I simply offer a few hours of respite. An evening of warmth and drink in company that will not judge you or think you ill for the trespasses of others."
Anthony raised his brows at that, at the tone which had lost its teasing lilt, but none of its coaxing purr. An evening of drink and company didn't sound disagreeable on its face, and certainly not dangerous. But it wasn't the evening itself which was the cause of concern.
"And what might a god wish for in return for this favor?"
Loki drew back slightly - when had he begun leaning in? - bringing up a hand to his breast in mock outrage. "Think you I so mercenary, ironmonger, to demand payment for a few hours of company and conversation?"
Despite himself, Anthony had to fight back a smile. "I merely judge by past interactions, Trickster."
"Ah, the smith wishes his reputation to be one of wisdom as well as stubbornness and skill." Loki regarded him a moment, thoughts playing out behind his eyes, his long fingers absently tapping out a rhythm in the air. "Allow me to ask you a question, Smithson. Were I to make you a promise, to give you my word of honor, would you be more inclined to believe me and accept that word - or would you think it merely a lie and mistrust me?"
The answer to that question, the obvious, blatant answer to that question was to mistrust everything that Loki said. Promise or no, words were only air to some, and he was said to be one to whom words of honor meant the least. Words were tools, traps set for fools who put too much faith in them and they who spoke them. Certainly when Anthony looked at Loki and tried to imagine trusting him, every instinct rebelled. Every thought he had regarding the god had to do with trying to pick him apart, to understand what he could want and how he was trying to achieve it. Even as he looked at the man now, Anthony was trying to unravel what he wanted, how his accepting the offer could backfire for him and benefit Loki.
But Anthony hesitated to give that answer, that oh-so-obvious answer. It didn't feel true, even as it rested on his tongue to say. He could tell Loki that he didn't trust him, that nothing he could say would ever make Anthony trust him in the least… but it wasn't quite true. Legend and tale had it that Loki was a liar, but Anthony suspected it was more complex than that. He'd seen for himself on the floor of his forge that Loki was honest enough, making certain Anthony understood the deal he brokered before entering into it.
Loki liked words, liked to tease and twist what he said until the one who listened became lost and took away what they wished to hear rather than what was actually there. Anthony suspected that Loki didn't lie so much as danced, constructing complex puzzles with that clever tongue of his. Loki was honest in his way, but it was also the responsibility of the listener to be certain they knew exactly what was said, not just what they wished to hear.
It was folly, surely. It was mere conjecture, instinct and impression which gave Anthony this picture of Loki. They had interacted only once before this day, hardly enough upon which to draw such detailed conclusions.
Yet it was what Anthony believed. For whatever reason, the picture he had in his mind felt true and right, and he found that the obvious answer would not fit well in his mouth. To his own surprise, he found himself nodding slowly to Loki.
"Yes. I would believe you."
The god's eyes widened slightly, his lips parting as though in shock. It would seem that Anthony's reply took him as unawares as it had Anthony himself. Anthony felt a little bit of perverse pride at the idea, that he had managed to shock a god even a little bit. He probably shouldn't be proud at all - his trust was probably just indicative of a feeble mind.
Loki blinked, his tongue darting out in a quick wetting of his lips. "Well," he said, still sounding a little taken aback. "If that it so, I would give you my word, Smithson. I would give my promise that in return for an evening free of the stresses you find yourself assailed by, I would make no demand of a return. Nor would I have any expectation of payment. However, should you wish to make some gesture in future," his grin was slow, as full of promise as it ever was, "I would not refuse you."
'You,' Anthony thought wryly. Not 'it,' the flirt. He'd never heard much to give the impression that the Trickster God was a flirt, but that certainly seemed to be the case.
But Loki was giving his word, and for some reason against all of his logic, Anthony found himself believing it. There didn't even seem to be any tricks hidden in the wording that would turn on him in the future. A small part of him wondered if there been any such hint of a trap, if he would have refused, or if he still would have accepted?
"Then I take you up on your offer, Loki."
Loki's face was a picture of delight. A single stride brought him to Anthony's side, where he snaked an arm round his waist before Anthony had time to process what was happening. The god pulled him close, upsetting his balance and forcing him to take hold of Loki so they were hip to hip.
"I'm so very glad to hear it." The words were spoken against his ear, a warm breeze which nevertheless made him shiver. "Now I suggest you brace yourself, Anthony."
Before he could form the words to ask what he was bracing himself for, the world around them dissolved into nothing. Anthony was left floating in a void without even the stars to guide him. There was only the warm, solid weight of Loki's arm to tell him he wasn't alone, and wasn't about to drift away into the darkness.
Anthony held on to it, held on to Loki, and hoped he hadn't made a mistake.
…
A/N2: This fic is also being posted on AO3, and it has officially earned itself the tag 'slow burn.' This is because I have written (but not posted yet) over 80k, and… there hasn't been much in the way of lovey dovey stuff. Just as a heads up.
Anthony: Readers who have been here for a while will notice that 'Tony' has become 'Anthony.' This is a 'fix' that's basically just there because of personal tastes. I almost started out writing it like this (4 years ago…) but thought 'Anthony' was too awkward. I've gotten used to it now and 'Tony' sounds odd for the setting. Anyway. It's Anthony now, and we'll be sticking with it.
Völva: Basically a female 'shaman,' or magic user, the name translates out to 'wand carrier,' or 'carrier of the magic staff.' The name is gender specific, and those who happen to be more learned in one specific strain or discipline get different names as well. 'Völva' appears to be fairly generic.
Outlawry: I've been learning a lot about medieval history over the last couple of years, and one of the things I found really interesting was some of the legal systems in place in medieval Iceland. Because I'm a hopeless nerd. This version is the Icelandic way things were done, which I'm putting down as fairly close to wherever we are here, (we're still kinda vague on this point), since those who settled Iceland mostly came from Norway.
Fandral the Dashing: Yep, this was the face Loki was wearing. Kudos to anyone who caught it.
Loki Cult: According to what anyone's been able to find, there's no solid evidence of there ever being an actual 'Loki cult' in the same way there were cults and followings for Odin, Tyr, Freyja and the rest. I have my own opinions on this, but we're going with the idea that there were no official followings of Loki, just the occasional person who invoked his name when they needed help. We're compromising.
What's with Anthony's unease / Why was Loki 'doubling' / How did Anthony see through the illusion?: It's a mystery! This is going to be a long story, everyone, and there's even more mysteries coming before we answer these, so strap in.
I've got the next four chapters written, they just need to be typed up, edited and formatted (and beta'd). They may take a while to pop up, but it will NOT be another three years before the next update.
Thanks for reading, everyone!
