Trials of the Trickster King
LCR
Disclaimer/AN: All roads lead to Latveria eventually. Even the dead end down the street. Even the Bifrost. If I owned it NO roads would lead to Latveria because they would all just sort of magically go around it and its Doom and his Doombots. But since all roads lead to Latveria it's safe to say I have nothing to do with it.
Story is best read on 1/2 or 3/4 width with a larger font size, though that may just be my eyes.
Chapter 4
-/-
"Well well, is de second son of Odin. 'e graces us wid 'is presence," trolls have voices that sound like the cackling of crows. Their accents are varying kinds of atrocious depending on what realm they hail from- they are very much equal-opportunity freeloaders and land-hogs. Their tunnels are deep and moldy, the air cloying with the scents of things long dead and arcane herbs that only those well-versed in the witchcraft of the dead and sickly would ever use. The troll's hooked green nose flared as he leaned towards the younger son of Odin, and Loki gave it a withering look coupled with the faintest of sneers.
"It ain't of de boy's own choice," a second troll chimed in. This one's green skin was mottled a near shade of blue, its hair a shocking red that rivaled that of Volstagg's. One wiry hand went to the creature's bony chin, and it mocked the young prince with feigned deep pondering. "But den dat leave de question of whose choice it was, don' it?"
It had very much been Heimdall's choice.
Backed by the infinite blackness and stars of the universe, framed by the entrance to the Bifrost, the solitary golden guardian of Asgard had cut a rather imposing figure. He had not spoken a word as Loki approached, and continued his silence for a while longer. On the very edge of the realm, where only the sounds of light and water were to be heard, that silence had tugged at Loki's cunning mind. Armorless, though, the young prince had felt very much vulnerable to the piercing orange gaze of Heimdall.
"You're going to fix what you have done," the words had not been a question. They had been spoken firmly, resolutely, as though the golden giant of an Asgardian had known already that they would come to pass. He had been still as he had spoken, and he had continued to be so as he started once again. "I would also that you apologize and beg forgiveness for your petty revenge upon my half-sister, but a scorpion will not change its nature for a frog."
"You would think me so low as to be incapable of apology?" Loki had foregone the thought of excuses before he had even left his chambers- he had known well that his silver tongue would not help him when Heimdall had seen every cruel snip and slice he had inflicted upon the Lady Sif's golden tresses.
"No. I think you incapable of remorse when you perceive yourself to have been wronged," again Heimdall had been resolute in his speech, his words frank. "As of now, the only two people in Asgard that know of your deed are you and I. Repair the damage you have done within a day and the Allfather will not hear of it."
"Are you-" Loki had begun, before he had broken off into chuckles. "Do you presume-"
"Make no mistake, Loki Odinson. I am angered far beyond what you perceive. I would like nothing more than to take your punishment into my own hands- but I will not. Punishing you for your trickery and mischief would be akin to punishing your brother for learning to command the thunder, or the Elves of Alfheim for their prowess with a bow. It's pointless, for lies and tricks are your very nature," Heimdall's tone had grown progressively darker and graver as he had spoken, and Loki had found himself feeling as though he had been lectured like a child. He'd also found himself growing angry at that feeling, and he had fisted his hands and broken the eye contact he had held with the golden-armored guardian.
"Fine! Fine. I'll fix it," the black-haired prince had spat. With a dismissive wave he had turned, the movement blending into smoke as he had magicked himself back into his chambers.
So yes, blackmail. Lovely stuff. Well, that is until you're on the wrong end of it.
Heimdall may have been forcing Loki to put right what he had done, but the young Æsir had every intention of doing so on his own terms.
Hence the trolls.
"Why I came to be here is irrelevant," Loki began. He gave the first troll- the sarcastic, sniffing one- a look full of disdain as it circled behind him and snuffled once again with its long hooked beak of a nose. "I imagine that would be much easier if you took that bone out of your nose," the prince offered. The troll twitched his nose and said bone wiggled back and forth, something inside it rattling like a child's toy.
"'elps me smell de truth," the troll cackled. "But I can't smell you. Yo' shroud be powerful, second son. But we know de reason why you here," the green troll stepped back, his white hair falling about his bony moss-colored face as he turned to a bubbling cauldron and the scorching heat of the flame beneath it. "De Norn Queen ain't de only one dat scrys you for amusement, you know."
Loki repressed a shudder of revulsion at the idea of Karnilla watching him for her amusement, and made a rather pressing mental note to always shroud himself from Sight and scry before bathing from then on.
"You know why I come to you, then," the young prince said. The turquoise and red troll, his posture skulking and bent as he walked around the edge of the underground room, laughed. The sound was like the cackling of the dead in Helheim, and it did nothing to put the Æsir at ease.
"We saw what you do to de Lady Sif's hair, you wan' us to fix de damage," the troll chuckled again, though now it seemed darker and less shrill. "Explain to me, den, why you don' do dis yo'self. You de only boy ever gone to de school of witchcraft, you do spells in yo sleep de women of Asgard don' attempt while awake. De only one in Asgard wit' magic stronger den yo's be de Allfather, an' dat's 'cause he know de Rune magic of de Odinforce. Why, den, can't you do something as simple as dis?"
"Despite my magical prowess, being the best in all of Asgard is no difficult feat when faced with gossiping women and soothsayers as competition," Loki clasped his hands behind his back, and advanced towards the cauldron and the fire in the underground chamber. He looked every inch businesslike, shrewd and calculating, and the firelight cast deep shadows onto his angular features. "I am loathe to admit that I do not know enough cosmetic magic to do something even so simple as craft a wig."
The two trolls looked at each other across the bubbling cauldron, brows rising in a near-unison that bordered on the absurd.
"…we don' know how to make wigs either," the first troll turned and addressed the Mischief God. "We be trolls, not old women."
Well shit. Loki's eyes widened a fraction at their admittance.
"We know de magic to make 'er a new 'ead of hair, though," the second troll chimed in. "She jus' gotta put it on an' de spells make it real," his bony fingers once again went to his chin, and he rubbed it in genuine thought. His beaky nose twitched as he pondered. "De easiest way is to use de hair you took from 'er 'ead."
No sooner had the troll said so did Loki call the braid forth from the magical subspace he had stored it in once again, producing it seemingly from thin air with a flourish of his hand. He reached out and picked up the end of it, holding the large plait in both hands. It shone a sallow orange in the firelight, lit with pale and sickly gold between the reflections. No longer was the hair lustrous and seemingly made of liquid gold, and the change was enough for the young trickster to wonder if the Lady Sif's hair didn't have magical properties. With both hands he presented the braid to the troll, and the large turquoise creature took it in one careful hand.
"Shake yo' legs, Krukkel. We got a spell to weave," the troll called out. The green one, Krukkel, shook one of his legs at the other troll and began pulling things from where they had been hung on the walls. The second troll produced a small knife and cut the leather ties on Sif's liberated braid, the long hair quickly falling loose in his turquoise hand. Loki stepped back to watch the proceedings from what he deigned to be a safe distance, his mind whirring as he watched the two trolls work. Despite the very arcane and messy look of the magic the two made it look like some grotesque artform, the loose hair in the second troll's hand quickly lifting into the air above the bubbling cauldron and assembling itself into something that looked very much like a full head of well-styled blond hair.
"I imagine you'll want to be compensated for your… efforts," the haughty expression Loki wore at his light mocking of the troll's magic was made almost demonic by the flickering firelight's shadows. The orange flickers cast a deep darkness under his brows and lit up his eyes.
"Don' mock us, second Odinson- unless you be wantin' me to sew dose lips of yo's shut," the green troll's voice was very much a laughing cackle, but the threat was still there. "No, we want a little bit of Royal blood."
The second prince of Asgard couldn't stifle the snort that escaped him.
The turquoise troll snapped his long bony fingers and the head of hair floating above the cauldron suddenly turned a deep black color that matched the prince's own.
"Fine," Loki snapped. The troll made a simple gesture and the color faded like ink spreading in reverse, the hair once again becoming a dull and lifeless golden blond. A few cursory waves of what looked like a branch of mistletoe over the cauldron beneath the magically-imbued hair by Krukkel finished up their spellcasting, and the green troll plucked the finished hair from where it hung. Loki held out a hand to accept the magical item, and faster than a wink the troll had produced a dagger from somewhere on his mossy green person and slashed his palm with it.
Loki drew his affronted hand back quickly, holding it close as he surveyed the damage. The cut was deep, blood flowing from it freely in bright red rivulets that ran from his pale skin to drip upon the dirt floor. The bloodied blade disappeared as quickly as it had been produced, and the young prince conjured up a handkerchief to staunch the bleeding. His makeshift bandage tied (though slowly becoming soaked with red) the Mischief God accepted the magical head of hair from the green troll. With a flick of his wrist it was safely hidden away in a magical subspace.
"You have your blood, I have what I ventured here for. All debts are paid- speak of this to no one," Loki commanded. The two trolls nodded, looking very solemn despite the nearly comical proportions of their noses and bony chins.
"Of course," the turquoise one intoned, and Loki turned away from the two warlocks in a motion that blended into a cloud of green smoke.
It was only after he returned to his chambers from a visit to the Healing Rooms, where he had had his hand stitched up by a very angry nurse in a sleeping cap and nightgown, that the trickster allowed himself to start swearing up a storm at the pain.
-/-
I think it may have come to my attention at some point between this chapter and the last that I do not know actual Norse mythology in the slightest. I just know Marvel Norse stuff. This isn't so bad because olololololol this is kind of Marvel Norse stuff we're working with here, but don't rag on me because you know the actual myths and I know the comic book versions.
I think I might have been about to say something else here but I don't remember what it was.
Reviews, as always, are love.
-Richie