Chapter 6 Part 2:
Sigyn had been right, in the least about one thing, Loki thinks as the walls of Thrym's keep come into view for him.
The likelihood of him succeeding in his mission, of him coming back from it at all, is small indeed.
It has taken him three dawns and two dusks to cover the distance from Asgard to here, having assumed the form of a falcon, solely for it's speed, and the hope that in this guise he might go unnoticed, at least for a time. But the air of Jotunheim is bitterly cold. A truth Loki had grown to become only abstractly aware of, after so many centuries spent living in Asgard's more temperate climates. And spending so long a time maintaining a shift in form has left his energy greatly drained, his magic depleted.
Even were he well rested and his strength full, Thrym is himself a powerful sorcerer, and a match against him would not be easily won. As he is now, Loki knows he stands no chance.
He needs to find a place to rest then, until he is recovered. But the storms are blowing thick snow beneath him, the wind's updraft carrying him higher, and landing along the ground in this is nigh impossible.
The only realistic and truly safest option then is to alight upon the high walls surrounding the keep, reaching up past the even the sky's lowest hanging clouds.
It's a risk, he knows, coming so close to Thrym's dwelling, but he has little other choice now.
And so he powers through the gusts of ice chilled wind, towards the looming structure ahead.
The relief he feels with the touch of stone beneath his taloned feet is palpable, and he takes several, long minutes to collect himself, allowing his rapid beating heart to settle, gathering his thoughts, organizing his plan of action.
He's going to first need to discover where it is Thrym is holding Idunn, and from there, map out the best course for retrieving her and escaping away back to Asgard.
So consumed by his thoughts of this, ears filled with the hiss of wind and blowing snow, and senses made sluggish by exhaustion, he does not hear the approach of heavy footfall at his back.
"So,"
His eyes go wide, his heart instantly hammering double time against his feathered breast at the sound of a deep, booming voice at his back. Spinning round, and he sees Thrym, standing perhaps ten yards from him, tall and menacing, his massive, hulking frame reaching what must be twenty feet in height, his shoulders broad as any entryway in Glaðsheimr, arms long and muscled with the strength of ten, regular Aesir men. He is grinning, his teeth long as iron framing nails and sharp as daggers. Even from here, Loki can see the bones of some poor, unfortunate creature poking out from between their spaces, blood smeared fresh against their yellowing color.
"All-Father Odin has sent his favorite pet to retrieve his stolen treasure?" He laughs, the sound seeming to rattle the very foundations of the stone keep, reverberating up through Loki's entire frame. And in that moment, he is only too aware of his tiny size and drained strength. Only too aware of how very precarious his position has suddenly become.
Even in his true form, he is scarcely more than six and a half feet in height. Half Jotun, half Aesir, belonging to neither race. The god's blood running through his veins had done naught to gain forgiveness amongst the giants for his petite stature, still considered so hideously deformed within a world where even the women towered above him by meters.
They had hated him then, as a boy, and cast him out from Utgard, into the wilds, made to fend for himself in a brutally hostile wood, where within he had toiled out his existence for centuries, barely living at all.
Until Odin had come, and found him. Had rescued him from such harshness, and brought him into the warmth and safety of the Realm Eternal. Brought him to the only, real happiness Loki had then ever known.
It mattered not to him that the other gods sneered and spit at him, for such derision was familiar, and could do little to hurt him in the face of the frozen, eternal winters of the Iron Wood. Or the packs of Ice Wolves and Yeti's and Snow Cats which stalked and hunted him without respite, never allowing him more than a few, sparse hours rest before he would be forced to move on to another place.
Nothing compared to the agony of always being alone.
Odin did call him friend, then brother. And Odin, no matter what it was the other gods would say, did always welcome his company and treat him with warmth and kindness. Did treat him as though he was of worth.
It was Odin's generosity which allowed Loki his only other first friend, in his second son, Thor, who did also call Loki uncle. And too Odin's generosity which allowed him is wife. His beautiful Sigyn. And their two, beloved sons.
None of the rest of it mattered then. The others god's plain disgust, even hatred. The impossible and dangerous tasks assigned him by the All-Father. Loki always wishes he could make Sigyn understand the value of what it was Odin had done for him, and so why he pledged to him such unquestioning loyalty. But he knew he never, really could.
He wishes he could make her understand now, for the grim probability that he will never see her again.
He moves then, in the same instant he sees Thrym lunge, beating his wings frantically, trying to lift off, back into the air.
But the wind has shifted suddenly, blowing hard against him, pushing him back, and it's too late, it's too strong. He knows he's finished in that very moment.
It is only affirmation, as he feels the crushing strength of the giant's fist close in around his small form, his hollow, frail bones threatening to crack beneath the pressure as he's yanked so easily back down and held fast, his desperate struggles amounting to naught.
His only hope then it to shift back to his true form, he thinks almost hysterically, but calling on his power to do so, it slips from his grasp as quickly, and he feels it then, Thrym's own seidr, pouring into him, keeping him locked as he is, dispersing his weakened magic like unsettled dust.
And then there is no hope at all.
He's finished, he thinks despairingly, as the giant's hands crush harder, and Loki's vision swims, blackness closing in round the edges, until blackness is all he sees.
And then the empty dark of unconsciousness is all he knows thereafter.
/
When Loki next wakes, it is again to only blackness, and the near debilitating pain of cracked bones and battered skin.
He sits there, breathing harshly and raggedly, the air about him seeming somehow stifled, like that of some fully enclosed space, limited and oppressive.
It takes some long moments more for his head to cease in its spinning, shoving down the awful discomfort pulsating through his ribs and arms and legs, a wretched stiffness he can't yet comprehend, before he becomes aware of, below the surface of all of it, a deep, welling ache, as of something… something missing. Something vital to him that is now gone.
And as his mind begins gradually to clear, he grows more cognizant of it, of something truly, most horribly wrong.
When at last it reveals itself to him what it is, panic is only too swift to follow.
He jerks, blindly and frantically, sitting up too quickly from where he lies, only to have the crown of his head impact hard against some low hanging roof, pain splitting and radiating through his skull, down through his spine.
Too low, he thinks wildly. What roof would be so low as to not even allow him the space to sit up fully?
It only makes his panic to worsen, and he lashes out with arms and legs, and finds himself unable to extend them even halfway before they too impact against a hard, solid surface.
And touching it with his fingers, his fear grows only more, for he recognizes this material. Knows it only too well.
It is Uru metal.
The only known substance in all of the realms able to slice clean through the flesh of a god, and resist to bend or break the strength of their physical form.
He is in a box made from it, he realizes. He is in a box of Uru, held within like a prison, large enough to hold him, yet not so large as to allow him the ability to sit up straight or lie down and stretch out his legs. And suddenly the deep, aching stiffness of his joints makes miserable sense.
He knows without needing to try that he cannot break through the walls to this box, not with his bare hands.
Knows too the ache of emptiness at his center is caused by his magic being drawn off him and away. There is a spell on this tiny prison of his, sucking him dry of his power, and with it, any hope he might have had to escape here under his own strength.
Knowing so does naught to quell his horror, and in his desperation, logic does not find him.
He lashes out again, calling his power to his hands and releasing it in raw waves. Only it whisks away quickly as it reaches his fingers, dispersing into the smothering air like water seeps through a sieve, slipping from his grasp completely.
No, he thinks despairingly. No, no… He pounds his fists against the walls, hard enough to split the skin wide and let his blood rush warm and sticky down his wrists and arms, and he makes no impression at all against the metal.
And as his eyes begin to sting with the full realization of how truly precarious his predicament is, his blows against the immovable walls weakening, there comes suddenly a low rumble of laughter, loud and powerful as thunder, shaking the very ground beneath.
Loki freezes, his heart pounding painfully against his ribs, mouth going dry.
"There is no use, little half-breed." He hears Thrym's heavy voice, echoing strangely back to him through the thick metal walls of his prison. "As I am certain you've gleaned, the box you sit within is made from Uru. Even I, with all my superior strength, could not break through such stuff, and so for you, pained as I am to admit it, there is no hope. Doubtless too, you also have gathered the box is bespelled to drain away your own seidr, and so there too you will find naught but more uselessness."
There is mocking amusement in the giants voice, so thickly smug. And in an instant, Loki feels his terror drain away, replaced suddenly and violently with unchecked fury.
A roar rips past his lips and, unthinking, he throws himself bodily against the walls of the box, and again, ramming it with his shoulder, hardly conscious of the throbbing pain it causes down his arm.
But as when he'd struck the walls with his fists, there comes no yield, and he is met once more with Thrym's loud laughter.
"You are a fool Thrym," he snaps, his anger refusing to dissipate, even in the face of his own, humiliating failure. "if truly you believe Odin All-Father will let this stand. You think Asgard's king to be of so little pride as to let your like thieve from him? He will send others to retrieve me and Idunn both. He will send an army, and to lead them will be your great bane, Thor the Thunderer. And we shall see then how well you laugh, when he does bring the might of Mjolnir down upon your thick skulled head!"
If Loki had been hoping to rile the giant to anger, then he is only met with further disappointment, as Thrym again explodes into earth shattering laughter, his mirth rattling the very teeth in Loki's head.
"I am the fool, am I?" He begins. "HA! So says you! You, who is so well regarded for your clever wit and quick tongue. And yet you cannot even see how little you mean to the god king! Foolish wretch! Odin will not risk one of his own to save the likes of you! You, who are naught to him but a useful tool. He will not risk a single Aesir hide for your skin. No. He will let you rot here for all the rest of eternity, little half-breed, and leave you for dead. The orchard keeper though, now she he will not let so easily go. And when he does realize his plan of subterfuge to have failed, well, I'm willing to wager he'll be more open to negotiation then."
Rage and despair both then mingle in Loki's heart, and again he lets loose a cry of desperate fury, once more throwing himself against the boxes walls, hopeless though it is.
And again, Thrym erupts into amused laughter, knowing too his efforts will amount to naught.
Again and again, Loki bashes himself into the walls of his prison, until he has worn himself completely, and he slumps then, limp and breathing harsh, curled awkwardly and stiffly against the limiting confines, his bones and joints flared with fresh agony.
And still does Thrym laugh.
Loki closes his eyes, only to more darkness, unable to bite back the sting of tears as they slip free and wash warm down his cheeks.
For he knows the giant speaks true. He knows Odin will not send for him. Knows none will come.
Forcefully he does tell himself it is so for the All-Father's faith in him. For his trust in Loki to complete the task set him.
Forcefully too does he disregard the voice which speaks loudly over the other, telling him nay, it is as Thrym claims. That Odin will not send for him because he cares not for Loki.
That for his brother by oath, Odin All-Father has no, true love at all.
