Note: Loki and Jarnsaxa meet for the first time. Thor's caught in the crossfire.
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Chance, feelings and their ramifications
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I
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He's not big, for a Jötun: barely a span taller than him. Thor wonders if he, too, is considered an anomaly among his people (and he's not thinking of Loki, increasingly distant, increasingly contrary Loki). Járnsaxa has beautiful proportions, of course, with fine bones and muscles that are not too pronounced; his chest bears marks so light they seem the most exquisite of niellos.
And Thor must stop thinking about it. Damnit.
"Don't you think so, Allfather?"
He comes back to reality with a start. "What?"
Járnsaxa smiles, half-amused and half-flattered. "It appears this is a blessed day."
He raises his head and looks at the clear, bright sky, beautiful throat arching.
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That night Thor dreams of him, and dreams of holding Magni in his arms.
If only he...
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II
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He's done it. He shouldn't have, but he has: he's extended the diplomatic trip by three days, until the summer solstice. And the reason is everything but politics. What is happening?
(You know what, you know.)
"You seem pensive, Allfather. The sacred heart of our library leaves you unsatisfied?"
Járnsaxa leans over the table and browses the stamped spines of the codices. His eyes are carnation-red, darker than the norm, and when they return on him they're smiling.
"Or maybe they push you into meditation?"
Thor tears his gaze from Járnsaxa's chest. Then he shakes his head and rests against the high-backed chair he's occupying.
"Rather, they make me miss the sun beating upon your beautiful arena" he laughs, because he's incapable of feeling ill at ease for long. Unless Loki is involved in some way. "I'll have tu entrust myself to your experience here, my friend."
If the familiarity bothers Járnsaxa, it's difficult to say.
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III
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It doesn't take long before Loki knows, and even less before he makes an appearance.
Thor is not surprised by the first – his torment has always had eyes and ears everywhere; by the second, however, he is. And he doesn't know if he should either despair of the animosity that separates them, driving him now to surprise, or be heartened by the fact that Loki has come to mark his territory. If this is what he's come to do.
He could be here to find out how infamous Járnsaxa, scholarly jewel of Álfheim is made.
Or to show his scowling, dear, dear face. While he majestically moves toward them, Thor observes him, feeling familiarity and passion rise like a tide of red pain.
Marry me, he's asked him, again and again. Ordered him. Begged him.
And now that he was starting to believe it impossible, obviously, Loki decides to come muddy the waters.
A half-smile finds its way on Thor's mouth, uncaring of his worries.
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IV
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The First Scholar of Ýdalir's Academy is slender and, beyond clothes reminiscent of Jötunheim, possessed of a haughty bearing. In addition to a lot of bare skin.
When Thor – reluctant – introduces them to each other and starts a conversation, Járnsaxa smiles; titles and pleasantries must be only vexations to Freyr's informal court. In that moment, incidentally, Loki notices that Járnsaxa has a whore's mouth as well. Too full and dark, with an inviting smile.
He stares at him.
Thor looks guilty. Something in Loki's chest flares up with anger and pain.
"It's an honour to meet you, Loki-King. I've heard a lot about you."
"Of course you did."
He can guess in what terms. Opposition doesn't die when the claimant wears the crown; if anything, it becomes even more bent on obstructing, plotting, digging – and in his past there are many interesting lodes.
Járnsaxa's face is perfect, it doesn't let anything show. But Loki has seen enough.
You little upstart, he thinks, with Thor's golden presence sliding under his skin. You'll regret ever having being born.
In that moment everything else, all reflections and months' plans vanish into thin air.
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V
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Loki is as rigid and sharp as a glacier. For an instant Thor believes he'll run Járnsaxa through with a hand; he knows that look: they're dancing on the edge of a blade.
For his part Járnsaxa seems calm, but that means little, since he's a seasoned courtier. And, sure enough, right afterwards the situation starts to get out of control.
"I don't think I ever saw you at court, subject" Loki says.
Járnsaxa bows.
"Your Majesty." The lights of the hall gleam on his magnificent back and Thor doesn't believe the move to be accidental even for a second. "That's because I don't belong to Jötunheim's crown anymore. Since my maturity's day, I sit at the table of cultured Freyr."
"Ah, I see. A handmaid of Gerð's."
Járnsaxa's teeth are very white and pointed. "You flatter me, but I'm not so important. Just a humble scholar."
And what a scholar, Thor thinks. He's not afraid of Loki.
(A terrible idea.)
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