When Silence Falls
By: The Hatter Theory
Eight: So This Is What You Meant?
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to characters or concepts created and owned by Marvel
AN: I LIIIIIIIIIIIIVE. Anywho.
Im sorry if this chapter is episodic. I tried to avoid it, but it really didn't want to be written. Just didn't, for whatever reason. But it gets the story moving along. So.
For those of you following BtC, the mystery woman was not Hel, although she shows up later (much...much later). So chew for thought or just ignore it until the later comes when mystery lady #1 pops up here.
And to all of the reviews and comments here and at tumblr I haven't gotten to, I've seen them, and you all are awesome and far more patient than should be. Thanks.
When he woke up Asgard was still dark, or as dark as it ever got, in the stages of early morning. Ignoring the balcony and the windows that looked out onto the city, he got dressed, missing the simplicity of jeans and band shirts. After pulling on his boots he walked through his rooms, seeing that the armor had been removed while he was either gone or asleep. Good riddance, and pity for the poor sucker that got bullied into wearing it.
Majhild was walking towards him, a platter in hand.
"Stark, your breakfast-"
"Just making a trip to the library, feel free to drop it on the table," He told her, offering a smile. "I'll eat when I get back."
"This is for the Prince, but I'll bring yours up in a moment. You spend an inordinate amount of time reading for a warrior."
"Knowledge is power," He winked, passing her and ignoring the feeling of her gaze boring into his back. He was hungry though, that he wouldn't bother denying, and he knew at least this morning he wouldn't skip breakfast. Compared to how Thor ate however, and apparently every other Æsir, he knew he didn't eat much. Whether it was from the pseudo stasis he'd been in, barely exerting any energy except to think, or because he was 'different', he wasn't sure yet. A few more days on Svartálfaheimr and he'd probably have a better answer.
The library was deserted, giving him a small sense of freedom as he perused the titles, pulling down anything that hinted at the dwarves or Svartálfaheimr. There was surprisingly little, given that the race apparently fabricated all of their armor and a good deal of their weaponry. They weren't slaves, at least Tony didn't think so considering Thor had mentioned negotiations with them, but they didn't seem to be far from it, unless the Æsir just didn't think other races were worth writing about, which was equally possible.
By the time he finished, he had just over a dozen books in hand, most of them thick and heavy. Arms none worse for the wear after a day working a bellows, the weight wasn't bad, but it was awkward trying to carry them all and open the door at the same time. Just so, he made it out of the library and walked the halls, ignoring the odd servant here and there that quickly moved out of his way, almost hugging the walls as he passed.
Back in his rooms, a platter covered with food was already waiting, steam rising up from the meat on the plate. Dropping the books on the table, he organized them into two neat stacks and sat, opening one and grabbing his fork. The book was stilted, bad even for a history book (if that's even what it was) and the wording drove Tony a little crazy as he ate absentmindedly.
But it did cover quite a bit about Svartálfaheimr as a planet and the succession of dwarven kings. Not much up to date, so far as he could tell, but the origins of the truce between the Æsir and the dwarves was in there, a battle that raged on for years before exhaustion took it's toll on both sides. The dwarves seemed to have gotten the raw end of the deal though, since their king at the time had agreed to craft armor for the warriors of Asgard as a gesture of trust and goodwill. What the dwarves had gotten out of it, Tony couldn't really tell, aside from the possession of a relic.
The word relic rubbed him the wrong way even as he was curious to find out what that meant. What relic would be worth centuries of virtual enslavement to Odin?
Devouring the too stilted description of the agreement of the truce, Tony tried to find any nuances that might give something away. But between the archaic language and the unfamiliar terms, he couldn't read anything between the lines. Taking a bite of something that tasted almost like an orange with a bit of apple thrown in, Tony flipped past several pages and paused when he came to a new chapter.
Sharing the realm were apparently elves and trolls. He decided Asgard lost the title of Tolkien Land to Svartálfaheimr. Elves. And trolls. And dwarves. Apparently not all of the realm was a barren rock tundra, although a decent portion of it was. There were also forested areas that the book said were in direct opposition to the mountain chain that ringed the planet like an equator. It probably was, Tony reflected, eyes on a diagram that showed different perspectives of the sphere. The more he read, putting one book aside and picking through another, and another, the more he was quietly impressed.
The forge was not unique, as he had initially thought, being one of a dozen scattered throughout the mountain ranges. The dwarves were also not just blacksmiths and miners, but a greater majority of them traders or warriors. The most brilliant were blacksmiths though, something Tony chuckled at until he remembered what he had seen the day before. Whatever Splitlip had been doing, he had been convinced it was magic. But from what he had gathered, the dwarves didn't have many magicians or sorcerers. Magic just wasn't natural to them, not like it was to other races. That the best and brightest went into the forges was something of a surprise until, once again, he thought about the way the staff had come into being.
If there was no magic involved, then there was skill and a natural mind for mathematics, like a Pollock painting in several dimensions. Far more impressive than 'looking pretty', that meant there was some sort of assumed functionality. But that's where his thoughts came to an abrupt wall, because he couldn't figure out what that functionality was. The suits he'd created had all been designed to work within various parameters, each detail meant to enhance or cater to a certain need. Streamlined minimalism, smooth functionality with a little bit of color because that's just who he was. But the paint job didn't detract from the suit's overall function. The curves and spirals of the staff were intentional, precise, he was sure of it. He was sure they were made for something more than shock and awe factor. But what?
His thought process was completely derailed when a knock sounded on his door, the vague image of the fractal in his mind shattering into so much dust as he got up and opened the door.
Majhild was standing there, a basket full of clothes in hand.
"You needed new clothing for your time in the forge," She told him, voice prim when he only stared at the basket dumbly.
"Oh, awesome. Thank you," He said, taking the basket from her. "Not to knock the clothes or anything, but no one seems to know what dressing for work is," Tony joked, doing his damnedest not to slam the door in her face and begin exploring the contents of the basket. He couldn't see one tiny flash of red, and that was more than enough to recommend it to him.
"You ruined your other clothing, can't take the heat of a forge. That's not fit for royals-"
"Which is good, since I am most definitely not a royal, or even particularly noble," He promised. She gave him a look that reminded him very much of an unimpressed Pepper, inciting a wave of homesickness that was just barely held back by relief. At least someone in Asgard wasn't a kowtowing brownnoser.
"It's plain, but it'll do. Tell me when it falls apart."
"Yes ma'am," He said, unable to resist the urge to salute. It earned him a sideways glance but nothing more before she turned on her heel, not even a good bye or a good day to allude to politeness. Tony decided then and there that he definitely liked her, if only because she wasn't a mindless little robot for Odin. Closing the door, he turned around and dropped the basket on the table, digging through folds of what felt like rough cotton, the sort of handmade stuff he would have expected of a viking society. Everything was cloth, no leather to be seen. There weren't any boots, but the ones he had would fit over the new pants easily. Black clothing mostly, a few white shirts thrown in. Everything still had long sleeves, but it was all lighter than what he had been wearing. That none of it had any decoration or embellishment to be seen was the best part of all.
None of Thor's colors, nothing to mark him as the champion, or even exceptional. He could probably walk through the city without being noticed at all, which had a plethora of positive implications.
Ignoring the books and the last of his breakfast, he took the basket to his room and dropped it on top of the chest holding his other clothes and changed, tossing his discarded clothing haphazardly on his bed. As he tugged everything on, he immediately noticed that while it didn't feel as soft as the clothes he'd been wearing, it didn't feel as heavy either. Like a ten year old that had just gotten his christmas list dropped in his lap, he felt more awake than he had before, energetic and ready to stop sitting.
It was still early when he walked outside, but definitely morning, any darkness gone as he bypassed the stables completely and opted to walk down the path and towards the gates. People passed him without a second glance for the first time since he had woken up, and the anonymity was the third greatest thing he'd ever felt. Once past the gates, there were more obvious signs of life, people moving to and fro. Unlike the day before, no one looked at him, no one pointed or whispered. No one cared. Whistling tunelessly, he took in more of the city from a considerably shorter angle. Keeping his eyes on the ground, it wasn't entirely bad. There were kids, which he should have expected, but hadn't thought of. Apparently the Æsir were born and grew, not created in Odin's magic cave and hatched in adult form.
Through the main road through the city, he noticed things he hadn't the day before, some of it recognizable, some of it not. Mostly it looked like merchants opening shops for the day, too busy to notice a stranger walking past. There was the oddball warrior that was armed, either patrolling or on some small mission of their own. Almost bucolic in it's peace, Tony wondered how Asgard was a nation of warriors when it didn't appear much different than any medieval European city. At least it had decent sanitation, the smell he associated with war torn and third world countries he'd visited noticeably absent.
Where the city ended, the bridge began at the simple, almost plain gate. Upon closer inspection it inspired little faith, translucent like crystal and hinting at rainbows. The fact that it had supported him, Thor, and their horses the day before didn't resolve any of the anxiety as he stepped onto what he had considered Jane's little fascination. Briefly he wished he was more of an astrophysicist because the equations she'd spouted at the drop of a hat had always sounded more theoretical, and he wasn't comfortable walking on 'theoretical'.
But he did, surprised that it felt more like smooth stone than the slippery ice it reminded him of. Smooth but not slick, every step was steady, the structure beneath him solid. Growing more assured with each step that didn't crumble beneath him, he watched the colors flashing beneath his feet. It really did remind him of light running through a crystal, maybe if he'd taken some acid to enhance the flashes of color. Thor had mentioned it being broken before, by Mjölnir. Briefly he considered asking about pieces, because there had to have been pieces if it was broken. Maybe something to take back to Jane when he left. But Thor would want to know why he wanted it, and there was no equipment present to test it. He didn't know enough about the equipment he would require to create it either, so saying he wanted to examine a piece would be a bad idea. Something else to think on, file away as he considered the composition.
A disturbance at the end of the bridge drew his attention away from the bridge itself. The observatory was spinning, glowing like a small, contained star that grew brighter with every rotation. The bridge itself remained solid, steady, as if the observatory's movements didn't disturb it in the least. Looking away when the light grew too bright, Tony watched the colors along the bridge grow brighter, moving almost in time to the sound of the observatory turning, like a pulse ran through it in time to the observatory itself. When the colors began to slow he looked back to the end of the bridge and saw that the light had dimmed, the spire coming to a stop at the top.
Unsure of what, or who, to expect, Tony started walking, keeping his head down as he pretended to study whatever lay under the bridge, which was nothing except the waterfall of an ocean that was just sort of there, no rhyme or reason at all to it's existence. The darkness was not entirely unlike the night sky, the patterns of stars in the distance too different from anything he'd seen to place as something from his own galaxy. That the waterfall crashed into space and disappeared wasn't comforting, reminding him too keenly of a dark place filled with a floating belt of dead, broken planets and the chittering of things better left unimagined.
But when the boots came into view, an obvious limp dragging one slightly behind the other, Tony looked up and bit back the initial shock that tried to numb his tongue.
Loki, bruised and looking like he'd lost a fight with a few Hulks, continued walking, still bleeding chin held high.
"Good morning princess," Tony greeted in an overly cheerful voice instead of asking what the hell had happened to the god to make him look like that.
Loki didn't say anything, but the fact that Tony found himself on his back seeing stars in a very cartoon sort of way was more answer than he had really wanted.
"You're still a prick. Good to know some things never change," He called out to the retreating form.
There was no more violence, magical or physical, in retort to his comment, which was just as well because it felt like someone had knocked him in the head with Mjolnir.
After most of the cartoon stars had faded and he was able to see the normal ones that were just barely visible in the daylight, he pushed himself up and ran a hand through his hair, already walking back towards the observatory. Heimdall was waiting, sword tip resting on the bridge and hands resting on the pommel looking for all the world like he was staring through Tony at something much more important. Which he might have been. Or he might have been mentally channel surfing Asgardian porn.
And he could probably read minds, if the gold gaze zeroed in on him like a magnifying glass over an ant meant anything.
"Are you going to tell me you can read minds?" Tony tried.
"No," Heimdall told him, his voice giving nothing away, including an irritation Tony was sure he felt. If even Odin could be pissy with him, then surely Heimdall wasn't immune to feeling at least a little bitchy.
"No, you can't read minds, or no, you won't tell me?"
"Neither."
"I know you can say more than one word at a time."
"I can, Champion, I simply do not wish to. To Svartálfaheimr?"
"Yeah. By the way, how do I get back? Or are you going to be looking for me?"
"Call my name, I will hear it."
"So all hearing too?"
Heimdall didn't deign to reply, walking to the pedestal and pushing the sword into it. The room spun, speeding up, and while it was still bad, it didn't feel as disorienting as the day before. Instead of his brain being a good few yards behind it, it felt like it was coming right along, if maybe spinning like a top inside of his brain pan. Svartálfaheimr was chilly, chillier than it had been the day before, but not bad at all, the cool sinking past the lighter clothing and feeling more refreshing than annoying.
"Wonder if he ever takes a break," Tony questioned aloud as he started walking, seeing the tracks the horses had left the day before. Obviously not a well used path, he supposed there wasn't a lot of reason for anyone to visit the mountain chain itself. From what he had gathered, anything made in the forge was handed off to traders to deal with. Probably another reason the dwarves hadn't been too keen on his presence, they probably didn't deal with other people, or other races, invading often, if ever.
Preparing himself for another day at the bellows, he wasn't terribly disappointed when, after walking what felt like a good mile or so and then following the spiral down to the bottom of the crater, Splitlip only pointed to the bellows without even looking at him. No one else was either. Bracing himself, he ignored the flickering red orange that threatened just beyond the outlines of the smiths and focused on the bellows, attempting to steal glances at Splitlip's work. The dwarf however, seemed to know his intent and blocked his view every time.
"This is bullshit," Tony muttered, stalking across the rainbow bridge and into the city proper. Another day at the bellows, the latest of countless many, had left him feeling surly and ready for a fight. It had been over two months and the dwarves were still ignoring him, Splitlip always pointing to the damned bellows when he walked in every day before blocking any view he could have gotten of what they were making.
Completely oblivious to the statues of giant warriors holding up the arched gold ceiling above him, he didn't even bother making eye contact with those around him as they moved to get out of his way. He felt sweaty and hot, the slight breeze only serving to remind him that he had been sweating and salt was literally crusting his skin. The closer he came to the palace, the fewer people he saw. Sentries watched, for all the world appearing like gilded statues with glass eyes. It still unnerved him, when he bothered to think about them, how easily he could have become one of them. Majhild had explained all of the sentries were einherjar, and the best were relegated to guarding the stronghold at the heart of Asgard.
He was almost to his rooms when he saw the last person he waned to see, but one of the few (only) he needed to speak to.
"Loki," He called out, forcing all of the frustration from his tone.
The prince didn't turn, didn't even acknowledge his presence as he continued walking.
"Loki," He tried again, hurrying to catch up with the god's long legged stride. Was it him, or was Loki walking faster? "Damnit, Loki, hold up."
An exasperated sigh just barely filtered into the air to be heard before the prince stopped and turned, green eyes giving him a barely discernible once over before his lip curled in a sneer of obvious disgust.
"What, Stark?"
"I had a favor to ask," He said, finally closing the distance between them.
"A favor. You? Of me?" The taller áss asked, brow quirking in haughty amusement. "No."
"Just a small one," Tony tried, his smile wide as he turned up the good old Stark charm in an attempt to appear civil. "Tiny, really," He added, holding up his hand and pinching his fingers closely together.
"Any favor for Thor's Champion is too big," Loki sneered before turning on his heel. Determined to speak to the lesser of two evils (and Loki really did seem the lesser when compared to Odin) Tony lunged forward, caught Loki's elbow and held fast. The prince turned, green eyes blazing with cold fury as he glared down at him.
"Do not think to touch me," He snarled, pulling his elbow away and shaking it like Tony's touch was a physical taint he could rid himself of.
"Look, I just need another translating dictionary, for dwarvish. There's nothing in the library for it," Tony tried, hand dropping to his side. "Nothing big."
"I would sooner hang myself with my own intestines."
The visual was enough to make Tony blanch, remembering some of the stories he'd read a little too clearly for his own tastes. It was enough to put him off trying, stomach roiling when he wondered if that had actually happened.
"Sure, thanks," He muttered, turning on his heel and beginning to walk in the opposite direction, not even caring that it was taking him further from his room and the shower that practically had his name written on it.
"Why not ask the king?" Loki said, voice barely raised but carrying well.
"He's a bigger prick than you are."
An amused sound echoed behind him, derisive and hollow. Steps echoed off of the walls, the sound of hard soled boots heading away from him.
So much for that. Pricks, all of them.
Taking the long way around, he didn't attempt speaking to anyone in the halls, not even Frigga when he saw her walking along, eyes distant. Disliking her almost as much as Loki and Odin, he kept to his side of the massive hall and was so intent on ignoring her that he barely noticed she looked completely oblivious to his presence. Chalking it up to the insanity inherent in inbreeding royalty, he gratefully turned the corner and was out of sight. Once back in his rooms, he stripped as he walked, clothes falling to the floor haphazardly as he headed for the shower.
Cold water felt like heaven, or as close as he was ever going to get, apparently. Tony relaxed, increment by increment, as the heat of the forge began to seep out of his bones and muscles. It felt like he always carried it out of the mountain, the oppressive heat that made his blood too hot. The light still bothered him from time to time, less so now than it used to. But the heat never dissipated, not until he was under cold water, savoring the foreign chill before even considering washing away the grit and grime of work. The cold afforded him respite, his eyes closed to block out light. The respite offered him time to think, time to plan without anything nagging at his senses and interfering.
He would have to speak to Odin. Or maybe Frigga. Even if the queen wasn't his favorite person in the world, she was a damn sight better than Odin, who still gave the impression of being an owl, one that was considering whether he was worthy of being a meal or not. Frigga hadn't spoken to him since the night he had been presented to the Æsir, and hopefully two months had been long enough for her to forget that he'd behaved like a dick.
Wondering if Majhild could help him, Tony quickly washed all of the sweat, dust, and grime inherent in even entering a forge and got out, towel drying off and walking back into his bedroom. Before he could get dressed, a neat stack on his desk demanded his attention.
Three dictionaries, massive in size, dominated the workspace. A note stuck out from the pages, written in a language Tony suspected was dwarvish.
"Well, whatever," He muttered, expecting another quip and crumpling the ball up, tossing it to the corner of the desk before getting dressed in loose, baggy clothing. He took the books out to the main room where he could spread them out and sat down, eyes scanning each volume's title. The first two books were set up in the same scattered way as the english-asgardian dictionary had been, and he didn't have anything in dwarvish to compare them against, so that wouldn't happen for him this time. But he was around the dwarves, so at least he would learn to speak the language. And better yet, there was a phrase book, the third volume and the smallest of the three, that would hopefully help him start.
Instinctively knowing he would butcher the language because, shit, the dwarves spoke like they'd spent their childhoods swallowing gravel and and gargling broken glass with the tar from a carton a day, but he would at least be speaking in a language they could understand. It had to count for something.
Settling down with the phrase book, he nodded a quiet thank you to Majhild when she came in with his dinner and mostly ignored the food in favor or reciting the phrases aloud, jumping back and forth so he could quiz himself on meaning. By the time he was actually tired, he felt he had a decent grasp of the language.
Tony walked to the forge feeling better than he had in some time. Hoping for something besides the monotony of enforced silence, he walked past Splitlip, not even bothering to see where he pointed as he waved and said hello. Not bothering to see if the dwarf was surprised or pleased, he immediately began work on the bellows, turning the phrases over in his mind. Most of them were standard, the sort of things you would say if you had just met someone, not if you'd been working with them for months in a forge. But if he said something, anything, at least it would prove he was making an attempt at some sort of integration and respect.
Hours passed, the same movements repeated. He worked purely off of muscle memory, mind turned inward as he tried to combine phrases, followed paths and attempted to compensate for the lack of knowledge.
When Splitlip's voice boomed and the others began to pull away from their work, Tony let go of the giant bellows and wiped the sweat from his face, wishing for damn air conditioning and a lab instead of a forge.
Calling a casual farewell, he strode past the others, determined not to make a big deal, to not pander to them.
Until he felt something hit the back of his head, black dots immediately hazing his vision. Turning on his heel, forced smile in place, he saw the dwarves gathered together, looking every bit as pissed as he felt.
Splitlip began snarling angrily, a gnarled finger pointing and waving, movements jerky as he continued on whatever diatribe he was spouting.
"I don't understand," He tried in dwarvish, wondering if he had butchered the language that badly. But that only made things worse, Splitlip's already red face going puce and spittle flying as his voice rose, carrying through the forge. Added to that, the dwarf was walking forward with purposeful strides, coming closer to Tony. Not afraid of the dwarf in the least, he stood his ground, refusing to back up when there was only a couple of feet between them. The shouting continued, harsh, guttural syllables echoing in his head as he looked down at Splitlip, wondering what the fuck he had done wrong.
Something came out of nowhere, a dark blur that was gone in a flash, but Tony felt the strike against the side of his head even as his teeth rattled in his mouth and his brain blanked entirely. Clutching his head, he wasn't ready for the solid blow that connected with his stomach, forcing him to bend and bringing him to eye level with the blacksmith.
Pure, unadulterated fury made eyes set deep in a wrinkled, leathery face shine, and Tony knew that he had royally fucked it up.
Then he was being pushed on his ass, watching as the smith walked away as fast as his short legs would allow. The others were already turning away, walking to the door that led to god only knew where. One by one they filed through, not a one of them turning back to look at him before the door slammed shut.
It didn't take long for the ringing in his ears to fade, and the realization that he'd been had and humiliated by, of course Loki, didn't come long after that. Spitting the name as he pushed himself to his feet and walked back up to the surface, he considered all of the ways the Æsir had punished him and began to make up a few of his own, most of them more creative and precise, at least to his thinking.
By the time he shouted Heimdall's name, he was reengineering the magic muzzle they'd put on him before shipping him off, making it more akin to a shock collar. He was so involved in his own revenge fantasy that he barely noticed the familiar lurch before he was standing in the observatory.
"You seem displeased," The áss said, tone neutral.
"Dandy, as always."
"The prince is fond of pranks."
Tony spun on his heel, pride smarting more than his stomach did.
"What the fuck did I say anyway?"
"You implied that their mothers were employed in a brothel and their fathers were trolls."
"I-"
"The dwarves take lineage very seriously. And they are prone to react violently when their families have been so grievously insulted," Heimdall added, tone apathetic, although Tony would swear the gatekeeper was smiling.
Tony ran a hand through his hair, flinching when he hit a tangle.
"Shit."
Heimdall said nothing, not that Tony was expecting much. Certainly not condolences. Groaning and turning away, he didn't even see the guardian smiling at him, already trying to figure out how to mitigate the damage.
He could blame Loki, but he didn't think that would go over well. It had been his own damn fault for trusting him in the first place. He should have known better. But he had asked Loki, and he had to accept that he had screwed up. He also had to figure out how to apologize without getting brained by whatever it was the dwarf used to hit him. The little fuckers could move fast when they wanted to, and he was actually pretty impressed that with all of his newfound strength, the old blacksmith had put him on his ass so quickly. Surprise counted for something, but still, he had packed a hell of a punch. His stomach still hurt, and if he could bruise, he was pretty sure there would be one when he looked.
"Damage control," He muttered to himself. Except that had always been Pepper's department. He'd rarely made apologies for himself, and somehow, he had to figure out how to do with with people he couldn't even understand.
The first thing he noticed when he entered was that no one looked up at him. The second thing he noticed was that they were not looking at him very carefully, as though it required effort to keep their eyes on their work. Knowing that Splitlip was the leader, and that if he was going to make amends, it would have to be to him first. The others followed the elder's lead, and damned if he was going to waste even more time.
Striding purposefully to the older dwarf, who was working a flat piece of red hot metal, he sat the book in his hands down next to the forge, the note he'd written in the Asgardian language peeking from between the pages of the prank translating dictionary. Not even bothering to wait for a response, he gave a respectful nod the smith probably didn't even see, and walked away.
Even though he kept a calm, collected facade, he was mentally praying to the abstract, maybe-there-most-likely-not christian god (because screw the Æsir, he was not going to pray to Odin) that the apology was accepted. He didn't do humble well, but he'd tried. Damn had he tried. That he was doing it in a letter only made it worse, but he had no other way to explain that he'd been an idiot, which is exactly what he had said. Admitting that he'd allowed himself to be duped by Loki to a bunch of guys that probably thought he was a moron anyway was almost too much for his ego. But the suit, and Earth, and the Avengers, he'd kept all of them in mind. There was no feasible way to get home without access to the forge. And to access the forge, he had to admit to being a moron, something he wasn't used to doing with any degree of seriousness to anyone but himself.
The chill air felt thinner in his lungs as he escaped the tunnel, cold and sharp in his lungs.
"I was pretty shit as a human being," He says, looking up at the sky. "But I wasn't all bad. So maybe, just maybe, you could give me a little help here."
As expected, there was no answer. Also absent was the hope for intervention, the sudden appearance of Splitlip calling out for him and using whatever hand gestures to tell him to get his ass back in the forge. Obviously he had used up his magical movie script moments when he'd died and woken up in fucking Asgard.
"I hate this place," He muttered. At least hell would have had better entertainment.
Tony, arms loaded down with the thick volumes on dwarvish history, passed by Loki on his way back to the library. He was doing a damn good job of ignoring him from the moment he came around the corner, and would have continued doing so had Loki not stopped and smiled at him, the indulgent, mocking sort of smile that Tony remembered from childhood and business meetings. Condescending, his brain finally called it. It was Loki's default expression.
"Quitting so soon?"
"Read all these, need to see if the library has anything useful."
"You could always ask them."
"You know, I could, but Splitlip's not too keen on distractions. Good work ethic and all that," He said, sidestepping the obvious jibe. Loki's eyes narrowed minutely, his smile never faltering even as his gaze grew considering.
"Tell me Stark, how did it feel to be brought low by a dwarf?"
"Dunno, I'm still processing it. But hey, maybe we can form a club. Asses kicked by a lesser species anonymous," He returned cheerfully. Loki's eyes widened, glare frosty as his mouth opened to retort. Ignoring him, Tony barreled on, false bravado and cheer hiding how desperately he wanted tp punch the godling in the face. "Too long, right? But think of it, AkbalsAnon. Or just Akbals. Sounds like we're choking on hairballs, which works, I think. We could drink coffee and tell each other how it was a fluke, and hold hands and assure each other it wasn't our fault, really. The whole thing can conclude with group hugging and a prayer to Odin."
Loki sneered down at him, but said nothing. When he turned and stalked away, his cloak flared impressively behind him.
"Does everybody have a goddamn mood something here?" He muttered, continuing on to the library.
He didn't bother putting the books back in any sort of order, he wouldn't be able to remember where he got them even if he wanted to, and he didn't particularly care. Almost a week of waiting and the dwarves hadn't gotten back to him, which meant reading on them was useless, at least for the time being. Book after book was jammed in to where it could fit until he was too frustrated to stay, remembering Loki and wishing he had something better, anything, that could have made the asshole shut his trap and poof into a cave somewhere to cry. Temper quickly getting the better of him, he gave up trying to fit the books anywhere and stacked them on top of other books, reasoning that there was a librarian somewhere.
Expletives still ringing in his head, he left the library behind him. Maybe he could learn on his own. Books had to be available. He could do the training thing, earn some cash, and hit the market. It would take longer, but it wasn't as if he didn't have time. As long as he pretended to at least play ball, Odin had to stay off of his ass, and with some luck, he'd never have to deal with Frigga again, at least not directly.
"Let me be that lucky," He muttered to no one in particular. The door to his room slammed shut behind him, the only hint to how well and truly pissed off he was.
Faced with nothing constructive to do, he wrote a quick note and left it on the table, Majhild's name prominent at the top so she would see it when she dropped off his food. That done, he began shedding his clothing. A shower was the only thing that seemed mildly comfortable, it was one of the only places he could think anymore, ironic given that he'd let himself fall into smelly funks when his mind had been obsessed with other, more important things.
Cold water almost burned, ice against his skin. Shuddering through a heavy exhale, he gave in to the shivering that wracked his frame, focused on each muscle moving of it's own accord. He had known his body once, had to get used to the feel of a changed heart, skin that felt too tight. He still didn't know this one, not well. The muscles were the same, placed, the same, but the bulk felt different, the weight of them still spastic twitch provided new insight, a distraction from his current problems.
The whirring was gone. He still woke some nights, hand clutching his chest because the sound was gone and he startled into wakefulness sure he was going to die, reliving Obidiah removing the core with a leer changing into Odin or Loki, even to Thor or Frigga. Each had a different smile, a different expression but they still took it, and it crumpled in their hands, a flickering light that died as the alloy bent into a ball, like a beer can in their hands.
Sleeping had always been difficult, but it had been mostly dream free before he'd died. The nightmares did nothing to dispel the notion that he really had landed in hell.
"Fuck." He wasn't paying attention to his body anymore, lost in another trail of thoughts that didn't lead anywhere he wanted to go.
The moment of peace ruined, he got out of the shower and dried off. His legs felt restless, his mind refusing to settle on one specific thing, instead touching on one thread before jumping to a completely different one. Settling on his day being equally ruined, he grabbed some of the clothing Majhild had given him for the forge, pulling it on and finger combing his hair as he walked back into the outer room.
The note on his table was gone. For a moment he wished he hadn't written it. It was a white flag, and the last thing he had wanted to do was give ground, no matter what his intentions were. A strategic retreat was still a retreat, and it wasn't in his nature to give. Mumbling under his breath, he left the room behind him, hoping to get to the market district and watch the people a bit, scope out the shops he'd been ignoring during his so called apprenticeship. Maybe he could find out more about the materials available to him there, or at least find a starting point for his research. Thor had mentioned magic and science being one and the same, so there had to be similarities somewhere.
"Please don't let it be with a cult," He asked no particular deity as he walked the halls. Once out of the inner wings, he ignored the guards, ignored everything, legs aching like he had run for miles but still hadn't run enough.
Ten minutes later he realized he was lost, which was almost funny, except he had no clue where he was, and there weren't any guards stationed in the halls, which seemed prevalent only in the places people inhabited, in turn making him wonder if he'd stumbled into the area where the royal bedrooms with capitals were located. The idea of Odin sharing a bed with anyone was enough to make him want to turn around, but the aching increased, and he feet refused to move the way he wanted.
Magic, fucking magic cast on him.
"You can stop any time now," He snapped impatiently, refusing to move at all.
A door opened at the end of the hall, though no one stepped out to greet him or ask why he was talking to thin air. "Fucking cheap theatrics," Echoed off of the walls as the ache in his legs grew until it felt like they would break. Giving in, he walked towards the door and into the room. The door closed behind him, moving of it's own accord.
Frigga sat on a simple chair with no back, a loom in front of her.
"Hi," Tony muttered, eyes moving over the room so he didn't have to look at one of the last people he had wanted to see.
"Greetings, Stark. I received your note."
"My note?"
"In Thor's absence I oversee the needs of his einherjar," Frigga informed him quietly, fingers still working the loom. She hadn't even tried to look at him.
"Wonderful," He muttered sourly. "So what now? I find Sif and the others?"
"If you wish, although Heimdall recently received a message from Svartálfaheimr, one for the palace. You might wish to read it before making any decisions."
"Intercepting my mail?" He huffed. "Very big brother of you."
"I know many things, Stark. I had no need to read the message to ascertain the contents."
"Then you know Loki duped me into insulting the dwarves."
"My son is known for tricks, Stark. The message is over there," She gestured with her right hand, the left never pausing in it's work. Ignoring her constantly moving hands, Tony walked over to the small table that held rough parchment rolled into a tube. Breaking the seal, he unrolled it and examined the words.
"They said I can come back," He murmured thoughtfully.
"Despite the insult given, perhaps they understand it was a mistake made in the attempt to learn."
Tony was going to retort, a snappy comeback about Loki, but a flash of light caught a thread in the tapestry and forced his attentions.
"The pattern looks like it's changing. Trippy." It was all he could think to say while her hands smoothed and plucked at threads, the shuttle of the loom forgotten as her fingertips explored the fabric. Something about the pattern made it look like it was changing, shifting slightly. It was just enough movement to make his eyes hurt, squinting at it, before he blinked and looked away. A headache was beginning to form behind his temples, the light brighter than he remembered it being before.
"It is ever thus, Stark. You have your message. Make your choice."
"Why are you so interested in this?" Because Frigga was interested, almost, possibly, invested, which assumed implications Tony didn't want to contemplate.
"I am queen Stark. Am I wrong to be interested?"
"Curious would be one thing, but you've been more-" He stopped, unsure of how to say what he meant.
"Present?" Frigga wondered aloud, answering when he foundered. "I suppose I have, Stark. Perhaps it is only that I understand the natures of the warriors that call this place home."
"Even me?"
"Even you. You are not so unique as you think, Stark. Although, perhaps the most stubborn of any Asgardian that ever lived," She added with seriousness that belied the observation. "I think it will do you in good stead to remain so."
"You just want Odin to kick my ass."
Frigga huffed, the first sign of amusement Tony had noticed since entering the room. Her hand smoothed over portion of the tapestry, pausing before she answered.
"One day you and Odin will come to blows. But not for a long time, Stark, a long time even to our race. Be content with that," She told him, voice sober, any trace of amusement gone.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Good day Stark." It was a command more than anything, and Tony knew he wasn't going to get anything else out of her. Rolling his eyes, he left the room, letter clutched in his hand. Any promise of getting in a fight with Odin, however near or far off, was lost to the realization that he wasn't completely screwed as far as the forge was concerned.
He could go back, which was what he had been hoping for. The language was too stilted to read much into it, and he figured it was because the runic languages the Æsir used was a second language to Splitlip, one he didn't use often. If there was something in the tone or between the lines, he didn't know what it was, but he could go back. At worst they would laugh at him, at best shrug it off to his stupidity and let it go.
And maybe, if he was lucky, they would stop forcing him to work at the bellows.
"You seem in good spirits," A voice observed dryly.
"Just got back from your mom's," Tony replied, voice airy and smile firmly in place. He didn't even bother looking behind him, although from the sounds of it, Loki was quickly gaining on him. Damn long legged assholes. "Apparently the dwarves accepted my apology and have welcomed me back."
"My mother spends this day at her loom," Loki snipped, voice dry. "She takes no visitors."
"About that, she used fucking magic. The damn restless leg syndrome spell? Yeah, about that. It sucks. And the loom, yeah. Really psychedelic. She could make a killing on Earth selling at burning man."
"You lie," Loki snapped and Tony paused midstep, head turning to look at the god, smug smirk firmly in place.
"Your job. What, mom never let you into her sewing room?"
The dark expression that pulled itself over Loki's face before disappearing completely was enough to answer the question for him, and Tony, unable to stop himself, widened his smile and shrugged. "Guess she must like me after all."
That he found himself on his ass, again, sporting a headache to rival all headaches, didn't stop him from smiling as he listened to Loki stalking down the hall.
