Hello. One little caveat – brace for a very long author's note, mainly due to the overwhelming love all of you have for a certain blonde-haired blue-eyed Asgardian prince. So, speaking of Thor, I rewatched the movie of the same name on a whim because it was showing on HBO. And just saying, I had forgotten how much less…gelled hair tips Hiddles was in that movie. Wow that movie is good. Wow Loki is brilliant. "God of Misunderstood Pain" indeed!
Reviews:
TheFreedomSock: Why, thank you! Yes, I was a bit evil, but the fun is in the evil, isn't it? A green-eyed dapper Asgardian would certainly agree. As to Thor's condition, well, read on and you shall see :)
johncorn: Short and to the point, as always! :D Thank you so much for reviewing!
BabyOreo: Great screen name, and thank you so much! I'm really glad that you like it, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.
Robyn: Updates on the clock, to make up for it :P Thanks, and I hope you like this chappie!
PenNameless1994: So do I, so do I! Sass is a byword for him :)
Child of Hermes: Here is the long awaited chapter, and I hope you enjoy!
LiesmithLoki: The boys needed to do something sacrificial for one another. I enjoyed writing it far too much for my own good :) Thanks!
The Pearl Maiden: Your review made me laugh out loud, thank you! Are you okay? You sounded like you were going through stages of heart failure XD In all seriousness though, thank you so much!
Altamiya: Mind control! Nice one…quite possible, Muahahaha. Oh, and about Thor, *evil laugh* whether he shall be fine you will find out. Thanks for the review!
ninjaloki: Love Loki :D And you did everything possible to show your support for this fic, thank you! *hugs*
Right. Don't own the Avengers, do own OCs. Now let's get on with the chapter!
Night arrives swiftly, nearly stepping on the coattails of hastily departing Day. As Day walks out of the arched doorway of heaven, he seems to pause, and look over his shoulder, face shining with crimson glory, turning his bright eyes on the world of men. Night dips her head serenely, stars shining like diamonds in her sable hair, aloof to the pain and sufferings of those at their feet, so miniscule and insignificant they are.
And so it is in the glare of the setting sun that Loki sits, harrowed to the core, the light bathing his hands in red, as if saying – there lies your brother's blood – darkness adorning the back of his head, beckoning him towards the heedless world of sleep, death, whatever it may be to rouse him from this nightmare dream.
No. No no no no…
In the moment directly after the attack, when soldier and king are frozen in a sort of electrified shock, Loki reaches out with a trembling hand towards his brother's shoulder, terrified of what he may see if he turns him over to expose that kind, gentle face.
His fingers are but a hairsbreadth away from Thor's arm when gauntleted, rough hands grasp his shoulders firmly and tear him away from his brother, dragging him none too gently to a small distance away. Loki offers no resistance, as his heart hammers a slow, heavy beat of fear and shame. Others, including Odin, rush forward as one to Thor's side, the king ripping off his helm and falling to his knees next to his son. A physician down the street detaches himself from the doorstep of his house and sprints forward, medicine chest rattling.
Loki attempts to return to Thor from where he was just deposited, willing his hand, then his foot to move. But a restraining hand stops him, and he raises his eyes to see the physician's apprentice methodically checking his wounds, working without a word partly because of nervousness and partly because of the extent of his injuries.
The apprentice is rattling off a long list of things he requires to the soldiers, including cloth rags for binding and hot water from one of the houses. One or two of the guards slip away to get what is needed. The apprentice continues examining Loki, whose eyes remain fixed on the indistinct heap that is his brother, and his father, guards, and physician crowding around, making a jumbled wave of confused noise. He notices that Odin is gripping Thor's hand tightly.
The apprentice eyes flick to Loki's wrist, and without asking permission – for he is intelligent enough to see that the prince is beyond formalities – he extends a hand, holding Loki's up to the light to better ascertain the laceration and bruising.
Only now does Loki turn away from the happenings, drawing a surprised choke of air at the apprentice's touch. "It's…it's okay," stammers the boy, voice not yet completely broken, "But if you ever want to throw a dagger again, you have to let me see…my lord." The last two words are tagged on as an afterthought.
At that moment, Loki's sharp ears hear the physician tending to Thor say as clear as day, "He's still alive. " Odin bends closer to whisper something to him. "The dagger did not penetrate far," the physician replies, "but it was poisoned. I – I do not know…" The physician shakes his head violently, face pale and slick with sweat as he desperately tries to figure out a cure.
Loki suddenly tries to get on his feet, saying nothing in an attempt to conserve his strength. But he is foiled yet again by the apprentice, this time aided by two guards when the apprentice says, "Restrain him! He is in no condition to move." Loki turns toward the apprentice, and says in a low, controlled voice, "Tell your master the poison is Azariel. Tell him!"
The boy gapes for a moment, and then runs to his master, chattering quickly. Odin bends further over Thor, as if being closer to his son would somehow physically keep the effects of the poison at bay. The doctor shudders at the news. "Azariel?" he exclaims. He gives Loki a wary glance across the square. "Is there an antidote?" Odin asks quickly, hand stroking Thor's brow. "Yes, my lord," he says, and Odin looks up at this. But as the doctor rifles in his medicine bag for the necessary ingredients, the apprentice methodically taking out pieces of glassware for the mixing process, Thor suddenly gives a rigid cry, breaking his silence.
Odin sobs in tandem at the sound of his son's pain, leaving all pretenses of kingly calm behind. The doctor begins to decant and mix different liquids and powders from his bag, hands shaking slightly from the stress. But even as he begins to swirl the ingredients together, Thor's moans intensify. Odin clenches his teeth and murmurs, "Hurry."
The doctor throws up his hands in despair. "There is not any time, sire! The poison must be a quick-acting variety. There is nothing I can do if the antidote solution has no time to settle! I need five minutes. The prince…he has but three, by the looks of it." At Odin's anguished look, the doctor adds, "I am sorry, sire." The antidote bubbles quietly behind him.
Odin whispers brokenly, "But my son…" He is trembling now, weighed down with sorrow and loss. The guards look away, as if the sight of their proud king reduced as so is something private and embarrassing.
Thor's breaths are sporadic now. Loki can only barely hear them from across the square. He is looking at the scene before him with a strange expression on his face. It is a curious mix of fear, confusion, pain, and…guilt, for he knows that Thor is dying because he tried to save him. The younger brother who had betrayed them all, tried to destroy a world and lied about their father's condition. Yet Thor had willingly done what had to be done.
Thor's last look of care and relief at his brother's safety at his own expense is seared as if with burning irons into Loki's mind.
What do I want?
The question that he had asked himself what seemed like an eternity ago, when he faced The Other and considered killing his father reverberates within him.
Loki's face is an impenetrable mask as he gathers the last of his strength and orders the guards, "Release me. Now." Uncertain, the soldiers let go, as Loki hobbles to his feet. He walks in a dreamlike state towards his brother and father, and for an instant it is as if he was not injured, and he treads with graceful steps.
His bloodied hands push the outlying guards out of the way, and he kneels on the ground next to Odin and Thor, wounds hitching his movement. Thor is pale green, eyes shuttered and fluttering against the poison. Odin raises his tear-stained face – the first time Loki has ever seen his father cry – and whispers, "Loki, Loki, have you come to say goodbye?" There is no more anger in those eyes of stormy grey. There is no room for that anymore.
Loki does not answer, but only smiles and nods, taking Thor's other hand in his own. Odin lowers his head again, thinking that his son's last moments are here.
But then Loki closes his eyes, and some infinitesimal spark of magic within him latches onto the poison in Thor's blood. Loki twitches and judders as the satin beads of black travel into his fingertips, appearing as little spots of darkness worming up his fingernails.
Odin realises something is amiss, and says in alarm, "My son, what are you doing?"
Loki takes all he can – he estimates about half of the poison – and then allows Thor's hand to drop onto the stone. He laughs, a slightly unhinged sound, and crumples onto his father's shoulder, lips turning blue. A bit of colour returns to Thor's skin, although he remains unconscious.
"Doctor," Loki says, eyes glimmering, "Now you have twice the time. Hurry, if you please."
Odin's aged voice says in denial, "No." His grief-stricken face is deepened with even more pain. "Both of you! No!" he cries, seeming weary and grey, an old man where all his worldly treasures lie in his legacy, his two beloved sons. One in danger and dying is torture enough. With what Loki had just done, now both are suffering, and all of Odin's life, for his life is in both his sons, is now slipping out of his grasp.
Odin is between Thor, whose hand he holds tightly, and Loki, who he supports with an arm. He looks from one to the other, torn between the two, feeling like his heart is being roughly ripped apart.
He is ironically reminded of the days from millennia ago, when Thor and Loki would demand a nighttime story, and their father would rumble a laugh and sit between them. Thor would lie staring at the ceiling, only to bounce up in excitement when the stories reached the most dangerous part, as if Odin's words spun whirling figures and clashing swords in the still air. Loki, darker and quieter, would say much less than his brother, but would sit right next to his father, dark eyes gleaming. And Odin would know that in their own separate ways, each loved the story and the father who told it.
Loki would always fall asleep on his father's shoulder.
And now, Loki is so, so pale. Odin wishes with all his soul that those eyes would never close. And Thor, lying so still on the ground, is not going to chatter and sit up at his father's word. It is as if fate is mocking the king, arranging his sons' end with a taunting nostalgia.
Loki feels the poison black inside him, seeping into his blood. Strangely, it does not pain him, possibly because of his strong magic. It just makes him numb, and tired. Tired enough to want to stop breathing, because even that is too difficult. He has to keep reminding himself to bring air into his lungs, but his mind is turning into a peaceful, fuzzy nothingness. His father's tears are dripping into his limp hand, and he wonders at the clear liquid pooled in his palm.
"Nearly, nearly," mutters the physician, glancing upwards through his half-moon glasses, twirling the antidote mixture between his instruments.
But Loki knows it is not enough. They have seconds left. Thor makes no sound now, and could be mistaken for dead if not for the faint, stuttering pulse in his wrist. Loki coughs up a sudden burst of blood, and he marvels at the colour when everything else is turning an odd shade of black and white.
He looks into Odin's agonized face, and he worries, not for himself, but for his father's wellbeing. He dimly considers whether Odin will survive the loss. And a tiny residual tendril of his magic sparks in fear between his fingers, fingers that suddenly regain some feeling.
He knows what he must do.
"Forgive me, father." The words slip out, barely audible. Odin has no time to answer, before Loki lunges across, slaps a hand onto Thor's forehead, and drags the violet Azariel left in his brother's system into himself, leaving his brother's aura clean, and his own gold and white tainted with inky black.
Thor breathes deep, eyes flickering open in a daze.
Odin shouts, reaching out too late to stop his youngest son.
Loki throws himself away from his father and brother, rolling to a stop in the middle of a patch of stone.
He delves into the core of his magic and finds what has always been there, the glorious power that was once hidden but was activated by Mjolnir's power that day on the citadel outer wall.
The youngest prince of Asgard shines with an unbearable light as electricity dances in a wildfire, stone cracking with the strain, a sound like charged air but yet musical in timbre resounding through the space surrounding him, singing of what power is yet to come. Odin shields Thor, covering his eyes against the glare.
The magic forms a crackling dome of deadly sapphire, as lightning resonates in great arcs from Loki, ranging from blinding flashes of power to minuscule vines that pop and snap.
Loki's mind is burning, burning. The light is sanctifying to the touch, but it is so devastatingly, magnificently white that he is not quite sure he can withstand its strength. The Azariel recoils, tearing a path through him away from his magic, screaming.
Loki wills his magic to flood his very being, and the Azariel is forced down his left arm, turning his forearm black with concentrated poison.
The power intensifies, and so does the lightning, until every last drop of Azariel resides in the little finger of his left hand. Loki tries to push the poison out, but no matter how brilliant the magic glows, and how dark his fingernail turns, not a drop of Azariel drips out of him.
Loki is finding it hard to breathe for the ozone now. The crackle of energy begins to fade. Moments later, his magic would die, and so would he, as the poison would flow again into his blood. And somehow, Loki looks up at this second, and thinks he sees a vision of his father standing impossibly next to him, Gungir held uplifted.
He smiles like he once did long ago, when listening to his father tell a story.
And Loki's mind fades to dark dreams.
(~~~)
Damian is currently in a peculiar sort of exasperation mixed with a sprinkle of gratitude. A soldier had found him lying in the middle of the street and dragged him back to the citadel on a very uncomfortable horse ride, considering that he was incapable of sitting up and had to be draped over the saddle with the tough stitching digging into his gut, feeling like he was going to puke with the rhythm of the hoof beats.
Afterwards, he had been helped by the soldier to the healing ward, half-dazed. The head nurse had turned to him with a squeal of criticism, eyebrows slanted in a fierce V of disapproval. He groaned inwardly, and the soldier left – why, he didn't even know his name, how would he thank him later? – but then the nurse had merely clicked her tongue, and a dozen healers had swamped him and dumped him on a hospital bed, covering the white sheets with dust and dirt.
One of the younger ones had been ordered to force-feed him orange juice, while the head physician was summoned immediately. Meanwhile, all the other nurses had given him glances of admiration, and little twitters of conversation where words like "so brave!" and "hero!" drift unwelcomingly to Damian's ears.
By the time the head physician had arrived and ordered them all back to their posts, Damian had descended into a miniature cesspool of mild annoyance. The physician is a kindly man with sable hair shot through with streaks of grey tied back from his face, blue eyes sparkling with wisdom and wit.
But as he approaches Damian's bedside and the girl with the orange juice bows and takes her leave, he looks about as severe as Damian has ever seen him.
"Damian, dear fellow, what in heaven's name have you been doing to yourself?" he does not raise his voice, but that tone has caused many a hardened soldier to cringe before. "Avarin," Damian croaks, "how…nice to see you again." Physician Avarin clips tightly, "Yes. Two trips to the hospital ward in two days." Damian laughs past the pain spiking in his injuries, and returns, "Serving my king. Didn't really have a proper choice."
"Nevertheless," Avarin says, beginning to check over Damian's injuries, "I do not heal just to allow buffoons to go out and do themselves harm all over again." But there is a hidden twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
Damian lies still and tries not to bite his tongue off as the master physician pokes the day-old cut on his leg. He releases a pent-up breath as Avarin finishes. Avarin gestures, a nurse runs forward with water, and he washes his hands clean. As he does this, he says, "Well, master tracker, you have of course ripped out all my delicate stitching," and here the patient winces, "but it is not infected, which is a miracle considering what you look like you have been doing – what, rolling in dust after a overuse of magic?" He raises an eyebrow.
Damian coughs self-consciously. "Um…more or less," he says. Avarin dries off his hands, and says in a tone of steel, "There is no need for any more healing sessions. I prescribe, as I said before, rest." Damian opens his mouth, but is cut off by the physician, "And when I say rest, I mean not moving. You are confined to this ward for the next two days. The head nurse will have to sew that cut up. And then you will go to sleep." It is an order, not a question.
The patient nods meekly, and the head nurse approaches with a needle and specially designed medical thread.
The nurse has just finished, and Damian is dozing off when the muffled sound of the double doors slamming down the corridor outside jerks him awake. He is about to grumble loudly when Avarin and the rest of the senior healing staff snap their heads up in alarm. Damian knows the look on their faces – their minds have been contacted. Whatever it is, it must be deadly important for this to be done. He has an aching suspicion that it has to do with the king and his sons.
A jumbled mix of emotions flit across Avarin's face.
As one, the medical staff suck in a surprised breath, eyes wide.
Avarin drops everything in his hands and bolts for the door, crying out breathlessly for his senior healing team to follow. Two nurses run to hold the ward doors open.
Ringing footsteps resound down the corridor, and every patient in the medical ward strain their necks in an attempt to see. Damian tenses at the last second, for he fears what is to come.
A twirl of red cloth appears from the corner – Thor, leaning heavily on the captain of the Guard, face unhealthily pale and Mjolnir nearly slipping from his grasp. The head nurse guides them quickly into the adjoining private ward. Damian sighs in relief, for from what he sees, Thor is not mortally wounded. The presence of the captain of the Guard indicates that Aidan reached the citadel in time to warn the Guard. But then he realises that Odin and Loki are nowhere to be seen. Considering Thor's condition, at least the king should be hovering close.
There is something amiss, Damian thinks. He has no time to wonder what it is, for Avarin strides in, hands drenched in scarlet.
And behind him is Odin, helm gone, brow creased, face streaked with half-dried tears, and in his arms is his younger son, Loki.
Damian stifles a gasp. His eyes follow father and son as they hurry towards the ward. Loki's head hangs limp and unresponsive, his clothes black with dust, and both his hands are bound tightly with many layers of cloth bandages, clearly hastily managed by a physician on the street. They are stained a brilliant crimson, and measured drips of red trace the path by which the king came.
It may be a trick of the light, but Damian almost thinks the prince's skin is so deathly white so as to appear a milky blue.
Odin's devastated face shows his concern and suffering for his son. Damian sits halfway up to better see Loki's condition, but the king as if sensing this walks even faster, shielding his son protectively from view.
Avarin waits until they have entered the private ward, and then shuts the door firmly. Only the senior staff has been allowed in, about four or five people.
The rest of the ward gazes dumbstruck at the gilded door.
Damian drops back, knowing that for all his attempts to keep to his job of protecting Loki, he has failed miserably.
(~~~)
As the gold-rimmed door swings shut, Odin gently lies Loki down, and turns to Avarin. "It was Azariel," Odin communicates, words rushing out so quickly that they overlap with each other, "but he somehow purged it out with his magic." Avarin sweeps his all-encompassing gaze across both brothers. He easily realises what is awry, saying, "But if both were poisoned, and both are now clean, why – "
Odin slams a hand down on the table. "Yes. He will not wake." He sits down heavily next to Loki, and repeats as if to himself, "He will not wake."
Avarin has an extraordinary expression on his face, for by now Loki's skin is unmistakably a deep shade of blue, the exact hue of a –
"Frost giant," Avarin whispers. Blue eyes meet grey, as he adds, "Is this his…natural state?"
Odin, already emotionally unstable, flies into a rage. "Yes! My son is a frost giant! What does it matter? Will you, master physician, do your duty and save my son?" He is hopelessly quiet by the end, anger subsiding as quickly as it began. He holds his son's hand in his own, fingers turning white from the freezing cold of Loki's skin.
All but Avarin in the room take an unconscious step back at the king's reaction. Avarin knows this unexpected burst of emotion reflects how dearly Loki matters to the king, and holds up both hands placatingly. "You misunderstand me, sire," he says, "What I meant was, does he repress this form naturally? Is it usually a unconscious reflex for the prince to appear Asgardian?"
Odin nods, and says almost inaudibly, "Yes. Since the day I first held him in my hands at the temple in Jotenheim." He looks Avarin straight in the eye. "What, then, does this – " he gestures at Loki, " – signify?"
Avarin reaches for his instruments. "I am not sure yet, sire." He reaches to feel the prince's pulse, but Odin, gripping Loki's hand, is in the way. Avarin clears his throat slightly. "May I?" he asks. The question seems to jerk Odin out of a daze, and the physician checks Loki's heartbeat and shines a light in his eyes. Avarin has to physically stop himself from recoiling in shock at the sudden red of Loki's irises.
Odin looks inexpressibly weary, despite his attempt to compose himself. When Avarin seems to finish, he merely says, "Well, master?" Avarin holds up a hand, a bold move indeed, cutting off the king. "Has anyone checked his magical core?" he asks sharply.
A tired voice sounds from the corner. "No. No one." Thor, though unable to rise, fixes his gaze unwaveringly on his brother.
"Right. Excuse me, sire, but this is necessary." Avarin knows that it is an extreme breach of etiquette to touch another's magical core, but it seems unlikely that the king would object in such a situation as this. Avarin strides forward and places the tips of his fingers on Loki's forehead. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and plunges his mind into the current that should be Loki's magic –
– no, not a current. Barely a trickle of melted gold, little eddies of white, and the core, what should be a glowing sphere of beautiful light, is but a dying circle pulsing to Loki's slow heartbeat. Avarin's magic is emerald green, and he walks through the flow of power, seeing how the threads of Loki's magic wilt and fade toward the core. Acting purely instinctively, Avarin casts out whips of his magic, supporting and feeding energy to those threads that are failing.
The drain on his energy is abrupt and immense. Loki's core absorbs energy like a child about to drown, gasping for air. Avarin goes rigid, teeth clenched. Odin springs halfway out of his seat, but is wisely held back by the captain of the Guard.
Loki's hand suddenly returns his father's grip, and although he does not open his eyes, the colour of his skin shifts and flickers, growing paler. Odin scrambles to peer at his son's face, looking earnestly for any sign. Meanwhile, the medical room is in uproar as Avarin blanches and the healers scuttle back and forth, waving their hands in confusion.
In their shared minds, Avarin tries desperately to pull his magic back from Loki's, not just because of the huge energy strain. Loki's consciousness is crying out in pain and despair, a dense core of untold sorrow. Avarin fears that if he remains in it any longer, he will be washed away into oblivion. But he cannot. He is an extremely strong magician by any count, famed in Asgard, but at this moment he knows that he is nothing but a speck of dust in the whirlwind of power that is Loki's magic. Loki is pulling his very soul into the magic, slipping away, and he cannot break the link.
The captain of the Guard leaps across the room and wrenches Avarin's hand from Loki's temple. Avarin gasps, stumbling back from the hospital bed and falling to the ground. He holds his head in his hands, and he trembles unwillingly. Loki makes a tiny noise, something like a whimper, and the blue shade once again flows over his skin.
Odin cries, "No! Come back!" He turns back to look at Avarin, and the physician stands unsteadily, opening his eyes. Something catches in Odin's throat, for Avarin's eyes are a brilliant leafy green – Loki's eyes.
But then Avarin shakes his head and wipes the sweat off his face with his sleeve, and when his eyes are visible again, they are ice blue as normal.
A heavy silence settles over the ward, broken only by Avarin's heavy breathing.
Between gasping breaths, Avarin, who is using the wall as a means of support, says to Odin, "Your son's magic is beyond anything I have ever encountered or will encounter. I suspect that is why he could manipulate the Azariel at all."
Odin says shortly, "Will he live?" His voice is imploring.
Avarin breaks out in a fit of coughing, and when it passes, he says, "I do not know. His magic is almost completely gone. It must have taken a terrible amount of power to cleanse himself of Azariel. He does not even have the reserves left to take the appearance he usually has…"
"And that is why he is in Jotenheim form." Odin finishes the sentence for him. "Can we supply the needed energy?" The king is practical; he has jumped to the easiest solution almost immediately.
Avarin's smile is wan. "Yes and no," he says carefully, "I myself was supplying the magic barely a moment ago. If allowed to continue, I would not be standing before you now. But if you order it, sire…"
Odin swivels slowly to face the master physician. He seems to contemplate this for a second, his care for his son seeming to clash and rage with his duty to his subjects. Avarin swallows.
"No," Odin whispers softly, "I do not order it."
The medical room at large seems to relax.
Avarin hurries forward. "Then we will care for his physical injuries, and give him the best care that can be afforded," and here he pauses, "If he will wake, he will wake." He looks to Odin for an affirmation.
Odin nods once, tiredly.
As the medical team rush to tend to Loki's cloth-bound hands, Avarin takes the chance to lean closer to the king and say in a soft undertone, "Thank you, sire."
Odin can make no reply. He only smoothes Loki's hair off his forehead, half-thinking that the icy cold beneath his hand reflects that his son is lying dead and cold before him. He shivers once, in strange foreboding.
He leans close to Loki, and says to himself, "My son, my son, what dreams do you walk in?"
(~~~)
Strange dreams indeed, that run tripping through Loki's consciousness. Some are dark and cold, some blazing white, and still others defy description, flying on the fault lines of thought and no-thought.
At first, merely on the edge of unconsciousness, Loki knows that strong arms carry him, the world around him flickers with the firelight that penetrates his eyelids, and what seems like the mindless chatter of surrounding people that barely register in his mind. He feels safe, for some reason, and somehow his injuries no longer pain him. So easy to drift to sleep…should he fall asleep? If he did, would he wake?
The thought does not trouble him as it ought to.
Suddenly, a presence is there in his mind, glowing with life and energy so bright and vivid that he only then realises how dark and weak his own is by comparison. Curious, Loki reaches out and pokes the emerald light with his mind, just to see what it is. The energy revives something that was dying within him, and, interest piqued, Loki continues to prod and jab the green power, his senses sharpening.
Someone is holding his hand. He wonders who.
As his mind grows clear, so does a strange feeling of danger, creeping into his thoughts. By and by, this fear intensifies, and he somehow knows that this ethereal green light is his way out of this terror. He must not be separated from it, must not –
And with a small pop, the green presence disappears. Crying out in his mind, he delves into the gap that it left, extraordinary colours drifting across his mind, until his vision clears, and for a single instant, he has a dream of a room, where a king cries over somebody lying still and motionless, and there are healers standing behind.
But then he is sucked back, and once more is trapped in darkness.
Gone is that feeling of security. Loki opens his eyes to find himself in a dark, bitterly cold chamber, a weak light drifting in from a hewn window in solid ice and stone. He is dressed warmly in his usual winter clothes, but yet he is still terribly cold, shivering when he should not need to. His breath comes out in little puffs of air.
Where am I?
Convinced that he is in some sort of dreamlike reality, Loki begins to pace in order to keep warm. A flight of stone steps to his right. He ignores that for the moment. Better to take a good look around first.
A murmur of noise drifts up from the stairwell, and Loki snaps his head around, crouched. He scans the room for a place to conceal himself, finding none. Sighing, he turns to face the stair, knowing that it is futile to try to hide. His sharp ears discern the clink of metal and weaponry, voices raised high in tension.
Half a minute later, a dozen men and women clad in armour rush through the doorway into the room. Loki has barely time to register that they are frost giants, before their leader strides to the centre of the room, passing through him as if he is an insubstantial wraith. Loki lets out a cry of surprise, but when he looks down at himself, he is perfectly solid. Not one of the soldiers make any reaction to the noise he just emitted. Obviously, they cannot hear nor see him.
Head buzzing with this revelatory piece of information, Loki swivels on the spot to face the frost giants' leader. He freezes in place, unable to move out of shock.
Laufey, king of the frost giants, Loki's birth father, stands tall and regal in front of him.
Loki knows Laufey must be dead. Why, he killed him with his own hand. But that does not change the fact that he stands before him now.
Laufey seems angry and distracted, lending his already cruel visage a feral shade. His followers are gasping for breath, tired from their flight. "That filthy Asgardian! How many reinforcements do we have left?" This is addressed to his second in command, who merely shakes his head, crimson eyes dead. "Not enough, sire," he says, "What do we do?" It dawns on Loki that he is seeing an image from the past – the great war between the frost giants and Asgard. Odin must have scored an almost certain victory by now, if Laufey is forced to run to an abandoned temple such as this.
Laufey snarls at the question, grinding the butt of his axe into the ice. He seems to waver, and his last few remaining followers wait respectfully in silence for his word.
A child's tiny cry breaks the stillness, weak from the cold. It comes from a bundle in one of the women soldier's arms.
Laufey breaks into a tirade, pushed over the edge by his perilous situation and the child both. "That blasted child!" he roars. The woman holding the baby backs away. Laufey straightens, and takes a sweeping look at his men. "We go," he says, "now." His harsh voice is commanding.
Loki looks on, unseen and unheard.
As Laufey turns to go, the baby gives one, last, complaining wail. Laufey's footsteps stop. Without turning his head, he orders, "Leave the child." The woman says wonderingly, "Leave your son, my lord?"
Laufey turns his scarlet gaze on her, and she withdraws, head bowed low in submission. As the others file out, she goes to a corner, and places the tiny child in a depression on the stone ground. Then she too goes, sparing a glance for him.
And as Loki looks at the carvings of the frost giant temple, and at the helpless baby shivering, left to die.
No, not a dream.
This is more a forgotten memory.
*Cocks head* What do you think? Loki's going to witness his past! Long chapter, this was. Wow – speaking like Yoda for no reason, I am. Hahahaha, Loki's true identity is revealed…. Anyway, reviews are greatly appreciated, and see all of you in 8 or 9 days!