Disclaimer: I do not own Thor.
Blizzard. Howling. Bone-aching cold.
Neither knew how long they had walked, but, eventually, Loki remembered enough to say what they were there for.
"A hole," he yelled to Sven, "Magic."
Searching magic was needed, taught to him a lifetime ago, when Sarai would lose her doll and Darcy would misplace her glasses.
"Start with the heart," Loki always said that. The consistency of the phrase made Sven smile. "And think about what you most want to find. Picture it. Feel it. Smell it. Then channel magic into the image. If the object is close by, it won't take much before you begin to feel a tug in the right direction." He leaned in, "Don't tell your mother, but I used this on her several times—in Asgard—before she was interested in anything to do with me." A smile began to quirk the corner of his mouth. "She never understood why she kept running into me." Sven had grinned back. The memory felt like someone else's memory.
The entrance was very close. He followed the magic thread till it ran out; the snow mound they arrived at looking like every other snow mound at the base of the mountain. Sven dug with his bare hands to uncover the opening. He couldn't feel them anymore. Loki stared at the piles of snow his son was making. The thought couldn't occur to him that if he helped, they would get out of the cold faster.
Sven wiggled through the ragged circle and disappeared. The boy stuck his head out again to call for his dad to follow. After a few heartbeats of pausing, Loki did.
The blinding snow covered the hole almost immediately. Loki sat down in the dark and stared at the wall. Sven looked for wood in the cave to build a fire.
Of course there was none. He began to wonder if the planet even had trees. Instead he heated some rocks—magic, again—but it used too much of his energy. He fell asleep as his clothes dried out. Loki didn't sleep. He didn't have a mind to put to sleep, so he sat with his eyes open and unseeing.
A ball of red magic fell out of Loki's pocket. The tree had made it, and placed it there, though Loki hadn't noticed. The giving of the magic to Sven was the last thing that needed to happen. The yarn wasn't in Sven's hands, but it was out where he could see it. The little part of Loki's subconscious that was still hanging around and slightly processing finally let Loki's body do what it liked. The body laid down and stared at the gray rock ceiling. It closed its eyes. Its breathing became shallow. He-Loki-could sit inside his head now. If he could cry, he would, from the desperation of it all. Every part of him was now fully in his head.
Sven woke up once he started to feel the pain in his hands. He saw his father's gift—the ball of knowledge he paid some steep price for.
Sven put the heat rocks around his father's stretched out body. He didn't say anything when he left.
Sven didn't have any idea how long he followed the translucent red ball. He was only aware that it had been a long time, blood was soaking through his socks and shoes, and his feet were raw. The ball rolled just a little ahead of him, stopping when he stopped, keeping whatever pace he kept. The endeavor was hopeless. Yet, strangely, he never lost hope. It was there. An insufferable ounce that refused to be crushed. Alive solely because of the fact that his father promised, he had promised, everything would be alright.
Something changed, and Sven was left gasping as he was jerked out of his thoughts.
There was music, and it demanded to be heard.
