Notes: So sorry for the long wait! This chapter didn't want to be translated decently and I had to take a break from it, then life happened. Back on track now, I hope. The next one will be longer, though, so I can't promise anything ;)
Hope you like it! And please don't be too hard on Thor.
Written using the prompt 'Avengers, Loki, Jötnar and ritual body painting' piscina di prompt. Shameless autofill.
Brief glossary:
- as you surely know already, bera and geta are terms often used in Thor fics to mean "mother" and "father" among the Jötnar
- kýn = kin (family, people)
The Golden Line I invented myself, though it was distantly inspired by Avatar's body painting.
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Decisions
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I
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Since Asgard is the kingdom of eternal spring, waking up with shivers leaves Thor disoriented.
He's lying on his bed, above the covers; he's got an arm across the torso and the other limbs eagle-spread, the posture of his deep sleeps. The vaults of the royal bedchamber arch above him.
Distracted, he notices that somebody took away his canopy's cover, to wash it perhaps. It doesn't look bad at all, without it: the last lantern alive creates a beautiful play of lights on the inlay works of the ceiling. He blinks. His thoughts focus.
He has no memory of going to sleep.
He thinks back to the previous evening, and gets impressions of a smile, of suggestive verbal sparrings. Járnsaxa's advances, explicit in all but word. He remembers taking papers from his studio to decline with a rightful pretext, matters pending for days... He must have been reading in bed rather than at his desk.
Yes, it went like that. Few things are as soporific.
Járnsaxa is impatient; he wants him and is used to be open about his own desires – like everyone in Álfheim, where there is no shame in open sensuality. Soon his perspicacity will get the better of his infatuation. He'll confront Thor, and Thor is not ready to do him the wrong of that refusal. The good days spent together are a stab to his conscience; the past of another life whispers promises to him.
He's got gooseflesh. Where is the cold entering from?
With a grunt, he sits up. A waterfall of screeds falls from his chest, gliding here and there.
He sighs, then rubs his face and looks around. Furrows his brow. He was wrong before, there are no lamps lit: the reflections he observed on the ceiling have no visible source. They move gently, like a moon's light. And that cold...
He opens a hand and Gungnir is with him.
Could it be an ambush set with magic?
It's then that, beyond the arch leading to the antechamber, he sees that the glass doors of the terrace are open and calls himself stupid for not checking before. The draught comes from outside, as absurd as it seems. It's true that, since his father left the reign, the ancient magics with which he'd built the defenses have weakened, and Loki reinforces those crystallizing the seasons in a long late spring ever less; but Asgard is still the world of tepid days. Frosts shouldn't happen, except on the mountains.
Reaching the vestibule, he catches a strange glimmer.
He continues, climbs the steps leading outdoors, extends an arm and pushes the glass door completely open. While a blast of biting air hits him, his eyes rise to an unexpected sight.
Aurora, he thinks.
He exits with his head thrown back.
Aurora borealis. Vivid and brilliant and high on Asgard's entire sky, like those he saw on Midgard in his youth – even more. There they are caused by Sól's power. But here... here they doesn't exist. Shouldn't exists.
Jötunheim has something similar, a phenomenon that manifests when seiðr storms meet the ice crystals suspended in its atmosphere. Many consider it a sign of good fortune, or of imminent change. Could it be...?
Oh, he'd be capable of that.
Thor steps toward the centre of the terrace, relaxing the arm bearing Gungnir. On the deep blue of the sky, streaked with silver, dance festoons of lights: they are born, faint, on the marine horizon and they wind above the ripples up to the city, where they open out in full radiance, projecting colours on every palace, canal and garden. The most beautiful, a crown worth of the kingdom's greatness, blazes upon the Válaskjálf. Thor arches his neck to admire its entire width, while his breath rises toward the firmament in an ephemeral puff.
The glory of that aurora turns from green to turquoise, to aquamarine, to glow with gold and copper near the mountains.
It's a breathtaking sight. A message come from the cold, together with the cold.
Thor inhales deeply and feels himself smile.
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II
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He's ready, but he's not.
He wants and wants not. It's his old, extenuating paradox.
Angantýr is right in more ways than he thinks; Loki must take the initiative, to the benefit of his own body, his throne, his mental sanity, but especially of his eternal happiness, for which it's essential to get Thor back and put an end to this useless torture.
(Oh, what got into him? Why did he start worrying about marriage politics?)
Showing up with the right cards will be sufficient. It's the reason why he left that manuscript behind: so that, in the moment of truth, Thor will know to what extent Loki is serious and will welcome him with open arms. Thor still loves him. Will always love him.
He has sworn to.
But... but. The Golden Line would be much more than a symbol, if closed now – Loki knows that the head healer tells the truth. His body will conceive.
That is no joking matter.
Loki observes his reflection on the solid ice of the walls and finds himself haggard. He's terrified. He's not ready to have a child, he'll never be, and that fear is complicated by an inextricable tangle of old perceptions, preconceptions and traditions. What his old enemies will say. (Argr. Ergi.) What would happen if the life shown to him by the Sleep of the Norns reached him through time and incarnations. (Mother of monsters.) What his child will say someday, when Loki disappoints them too many times...
He cannot engender anyone now. Probably he has no right to, even.
And he's a man, he's never really stopped seeing himself as one–
But then, what to do with Thor, how to convince him without using the Line? Unless...
He lifts his head, moving his gaze on the spaces and scant furniture of the old study while he thinks frantically.
Thor doesn't know anything of the situation. He doesn't even know the ceremony's whole ritual, because there was but a mention of it in the volume. Only he knows about it, because he alone safeguards codexes thought lost.
Loki feels his spirits lift. He can temporize. He will show Thor the Line, he'll be joined with him before the entire universe but avoid being taken like a woman until doing so will be safe. Using magic as prevention could be insufficient and he's taking no risks.
He'll need quite the force of will, considering the state he's in, but he has done much more difficult things and he will succeed this time as well, because like this he'll win. No more Járnsaxa around, a yearned-for union and no children. Thor won't suspect anythimg.
It's the perfect plan.
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III
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Járnsaxa sees the book and, at sunset, the sky is streaked with ethereal lights.
It would be the perfect moment to go find Thor, he thinks. With the ideal mood, intimate and romantic. But time passes fast while he looks out the balcony, filled with a strange sense of foreboding.
The second night, his resolve is stronger. He ignores the strangeness of the auroras and decides to go, because fortune favours the bold. He slips away on the roofs and tracks down by memory the architecture of the royal apartments, climbing the ledges and smooth spires of the Válaskjálf (anyone who learns to scale Jötunheim's glaciers never forgets how to climb without falling). It's not a long journey, anyway. And when he arrives he even has a welcome delegation of reception.
Thor heard him approach. He's standing under the central arch of the terrace, Gungnir in a fist and an astounded expression on his face. He watches Járnsaxa jump down on the floor, then props the spear against the wall and moves forward, opening his mouth.
Járnsaxa kisses him before Thor can scold him. And before anything can interrupt them he pushes him iback nside the chamber, clumsily down the steps. It's the fourth day since Loki-King saw them through the mirror: if they're still alive, they might as well make the most of it.
He lifts his arms and encircles Thor's neck, elbows on his formidable shoulders, chest against his chest to push him against one of the little columns supporting the inner arch. For a few moments, the kiss is reciprocated. His body comes to life.
Then Thor gently pushes him away.
When Járnsaxa open his eyes, he is looking outside, beyond the terrace. Járnsaxa follows his gaze and holds his breath, because the auroras are multiplying; they blaze with almost blinding an intensity. There are torches on the streets and shapes leaning out of the city's windows.
The cold, too, has intensified, enough to be perceptible on his Jötun skin. Thor's breath is visible.
"Is it you?", Járnsaxa asks.
'Luck or change. Joy or dismay', said his geta when they saw auroras, and in a way or another he was always right.
Thor shakes his head.
"What is happening, then? I thought that Ýmir's Manes didn't exist in Asgard."
"Indeed" Thor says, brow furrowed. "It's very unusual. Very."
He takes a deep breath, and when he goes on his tone is the resolute one of someone who has made a decision.
"Járnsaxa", he looks at him, laying a hand on his shoulder, "would you go and find my mother, please? I will go to the palace seiðrmaðr. We need their counsel."
Now?, he almost answers, disappointed.
But Thor seems worried. Járnsaxa slowly lowers his arms, letting him go.
"Where do you want me to bring her? Here?"
"The old observatory. I showed it to you, do you remember the way?"
"Yes."
It's the prototype of Heimdall's observatory, a tower opened thousands of years ago to all directions at the Válaskjálf's summit. Luckily they're not far from it.
"I thank you."
Járnsaxa peers at him for a moment, body struggling to calm under the simple copper-coloured tunic; then he nods and gets going, this time exiting – proudly – from the main door.
Something isn't right, and it's not just Asgard's sky.
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IV
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It's the second night of auroras, and it's much colder outside. The galaxies are hidden from view.
To Thor's senses, the atmosphere feels peaceful, but if he tries and take control of it to disperse the auroras, it doesn't answer and reveals... a buzz of energy. A potential. For what? Waiting for which spark?
He's watching the phenomenon with rising worry from the threshold to the terrace when he hears a noise and, an instant later, Járnsaxa enter in his line of vision, jumping from ledge to legde of the palace with an equilibrist's agility.
Thor frees himself of Gungnir and barely has the time to open his mouth, alarmed. Járnsaxa reaches him in a rush, grabs his face between his own two hands and kisses him, using that impetus to push him backwards, inside the antechamber. They stumble on the steps. Distracted, Thor gives all his attention to keeping them both on their feet and it takes him a while before he realizes that he's reciprocating the kiss with some enthusiasm, Járnsaxa dangling from his neck despite the considerable height he possesses.
No.
He has to make an effort not to brusquely push him away.
If Loki knew. If Loki saw – he, who has eyes everywhere...
And his gaze strays again towards the sky.
"Járnsaxa..."
When Járnsaxa has gone looking for his mother, Thor rubs his face, tired. He hopes there are no bad news. He hopes it's just a passing atmospheric phenomenon, born from a benign mistake of Yggdrasil's rotations. And he hopes with all, all his heart that Loki comes back to him soon.
His mind has always been an invaluable help, and his company a comfort he misses.
He's just finished thinking it that a rustle of paper sounds across the room. There, on the shelf of the escritoire. A small roll or parchment is curling upon the ebony wood, coils of magic estinguishing themselves on its edges with blue flares. Thor approaches, recognizing the spell. It should be unusable, with Asgard's barriers active... unless there is a breach or, more probably, Loki has found a loophole. But why contact him this way when they have the mirrors?
Touching the parchment is enough to know it doesn't come from him. This magic has another identity.
Forehead creased, he opens the message; just a few words.
Allfather, my king and lord must know spring. Use this information with wisdom, when you talk with him. A.
Thor does not even linger on the signature.
'To know spring'. It's an old expression of the nomadic Jötunheim, indicating the calving of the herds. If it weren't for the whole meaning of the sentence Thor would burst out laughing, because it's anacronistic and absolutely ridiculous, considering whom it's referring to. But its implications...
'Must', it says, not 'can'. Thor leans his lower back against the drawers of the escritoire and reflects, making his way through confusion and tiredness.
Must. He thinks about what he knows of the Jötnar, of their nature and their traditions. In their land, fertility is a gift covered in sacred tones. It's also a sort of compulsion, sometimes... mostly at thaw, if the rumors about the oriental tribes' celebrations are true. They say that not giving in to the need to procreate is a torture for the body. They say.
Thor heard way too many vulgar jokes when he was a recruit in the barracks, but the Jötnar are reserved about these topics and, for the love of diplomacy, he certainly didn't investigate. And he never had the impression that Loki... unless up until now he didn't–
He shakes his head, disconcerted. Loki isn't a boy, has been a man for a very long time; it can't be the first time.
But he's an ívidja too, his deductive side replies, different. And he spent centuries in another form.
Moreover, that 'must' might allude to the necessity of solidifying the alliance between Aesir and Jötnar once and for all. What better token than a common progeny?
He puts the message down. If it was really sent by Angantýr, Utgarð's chief healer, it's truthful. A quick if not easy spell clears his doubts. And for a moment his blood flares with jealousy at the thought of Loki in that state among great warriors, the very same who would gladly remove Thor from Jötunheim's future. Then, he tries to calm down and think. How should he use the information he was given? To negotiate? To put Loki in a tight corner?
(As if he weren't ready to fly to him and mark his territory at any price.)
The parchment crumples between his fingers. Thor is surprised that Angantýr has managed to send it at a worlds' distance, but he's surely grateful for it. It's precious knowledge.
An omen of revolution among rough seas.
The message burns against his palm, curling until it disappears. Thor has no more time to wonder. He knows he's not alone even before the noise coming from the external world becomes muffled, deadened by magic. He turns, letting the cinders fall to the floor.
The room is all aglow with auroras and lanterns. His heart beats faster.
"Show yourself."
Loki emerges from the shadows flanking the axes' armoire. He's wearing his cloak of black feathers, closed from throat to feet, and has his Jötun looks, his face... marked?
They look at each other without a word. Then Loki lifts his chin and, with a haughty gesture, throws the cloak open behind his shoulders.
In the flare of the lanterns, his body lights up.
He's almost naked: a kjálta of silvery fur wraps his pelvis under the belly, he's got jewels on every finger and every little spot of his body is painted with silver. The coronation as king of Jötunheim had showed off his kýn lines, the signs with which the Jötnar identify themselves and which they pass down to their progeny, to glorify his right to the throne. These, instead, are the lines of Life. They follow the cardinal forces and flows of the body, and only a seiðrmadr is capable of tracing them. Thor wonders who had the honour of assisting Loki. Perhaps he traced them himself.
His bust catches the glow fully and Thor sees it. It starts from the center of the forehead, under a ruby pendant, descends between the eyes encircled by symbols, along the nose and over the mouth to the throat, and then down still, on the chest, where it broadens. Its pure trace ends at the center of Loki's belly, flanked by silver bands, to branch out into thin cirri all over his pelvis.
Thor knows those marks. He has already seen them illuminated.
It's the Golden Line of the kings.
"Valorous warrior and king" Loki says, voice low and ardent eyes. "Thor, son of Odin and Frigga, we greet you."
He advances slowly. Thor holds his breath.
"We, Loki-King, are here to do you great honour. We offer you the priviledge of being a companion to us, the duty of being our support, and the right of giving us heirs in the future... without competition." Ritual lines. Loki inhales, the only sign of his nerves. "This we have said, to this we await and demand an answer."
There will be no fights, no public ceremony. Only the accomplished fact: the king appearing before his subjects in full panoply of royal coupling, already happened, lines distorted on his body.
In that very moment, Thor wants. He wants Loki and wants a child. It was a nameless desire before, far in the future, until he deciphered that message and saw with his own eyes the Golden Line – the line that his hands will ruin while encircling his consort's hips. It's within reach. He can have everything: he just has to accept.
He can't help a surge of affection at the thought that Loki will never stop breaking the rules. Jötunheim's assembly of elders will have a stroke for the surprise. Thor's council won't be happy either, since they take state matrimony very seriously, especially the interplanetary ones, especially the king of Asgard's. Especially if they're with the king of Jötunheim.
Thor meets Loki's gaze, but something holds him back. Through the mists of desire, he has enough lucidity left to understand that Loki was planning this little sortie for a few days. It was he who left that illuminated codex on his desk... three days after Járnsaxa arrived in Asgard, the day after they saw each other in the mirrors. Angantýr must have known, that's why he sent the message.
The Golden Line is quite the step, an incredible step, so Thor looks under the glitter of gold.
The tactical move is easy to spot. Loki is making the strongest move when Járnsaxa's threat is higher. Thor has to admit that he chose a shocking one, in his best style. It's impossible, however, that he went from their political separation to the most total and lasting celebration of their union.
On one side, Thor is happy to have brought him to accept their wedding; on the other, he has to fight rising irritation.
"Are you really giving me everything?" he asks.
Loki's hesitation is infinitesimal. "Yes." And then, cutting. "Is it enough?"
Thor smiles. "It's all I ever desired. And you'll receive likewise from me..." He stretches an arm out. "Come here."
Slowly, almost incredulous, Loki approaches.
"And give us a child."
It's as if Loki turned to stone. His right hand remains in mid-air over Thor's, fingers strained, while his face becomes a mask.
Thor closed a fist over his.
"It's the moment, isn't it? Now it will be easy. Your body is ready."
He won't settle for a symbol. If Loki is offering everything, he'll have to give everything. He lays eyes on Loki's belly and his heart beats madly in his chest.
Loki pales under a layer of frost. "How do you know?"
It's true, all true.
"Does is matter? What is important is that I won't accept any less... for your health, too."
"You conceited bastard" Loki hisses, livid, all seduction disappeared. "What do you think you know?"
"Either this or nothing" Thor repeats, gentler, trying to draw him near. "I'm serious. It's time we belong to each other as we should: completely. Is that such a terrible notion?"
After a long, silent war of stares, Loki whispers: "You're cruel."
And perhaps he's right, but Thor has never know but victory in battle. This one – especially this one – will be his, because in reality it will be theirs.
"You cannot ask me this. I'm not ready."
Maybe I'll never be, is what he doesn't say.
"Seeing me capitulate on the marriage isn't enough?" he shouts.
"Six centuries on Jötunheim's throne and you haven't reconciled yourself with the Jötnar's nature?"
"It's not just that – though I'd like to see you spawn whelps" Loki snaps. "The truth is that I haven't been a good brother, even less a good son, and if we want to talk about good examples – I haven't had those, either!"
"You're talking about my father." His answer is a bitter sneer Thor hadn't seen in a long time. "But you forget that neither of us is him." He tries to pull him closer. "And I will be at your side every day, to prevent you from making mistakes, to have you preventing me from making mistakes."
"As if we had the power to avoid them all!"
"Then we'll remedy."
But Loki moves backwards, looking at him with the air of a cornered stag.
"Don't ask me to. Not now."
Thor hesitates.
"You don't feel worthy of it" he says. It's a revelation he should have had a lot sooner, after all. He shakes his head. "Why? My father's shortcomings don't reflect on you, Loki, and all you had to resolve you resolved a long time ago."
Loki looks at him with a contorted visage.
"What if I fail? If I ruin your child?" he asks. "If I bear a monster? Have you already forgotten what I was in that old life, the children I had?"
"It won't happen again" Thor says, and the self-assurance in his voice is so strong that, in another situation, Loki would surely be convinced.
"Wanting something doesn't make it true."
"It won't happen again."
Loki stares at him, eyes dilated, chest expanding and contracting with difficulty. The fists he's clenched against his hips are trembling and Thor is sure they will fight with ferocity, here, right now, destroying everything like in the old times.
But even though a cry of pure frustration erupts from Loki's throat, it's on himself that he moves. He spins around brusquely and returns inside the shadowed line of the room.
"Loki–!"
Too late. He's already vanished, swallowed by darkness.
Thor lets his arm fall and sighs. Then he brushes a hand through his hair, pulling.
Damn it. Damn it. They were so close.
Outside, the aurora borealis dances over Asgard until dawn.
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V
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How does Thor know–who betrayed the secret–
In front of Loki, a torch pierces the bronzed darkness of the corridor. He remembers Thor's room. He sees again his loving, implacable face, the proffered hand.
Why did it end like this?
He stops, and the combative ire abandons him together with a sigh. Only the shock of having been caught by surprise remains, with its cutting sensation of vulnerability. He detests it. He constantly thinks himself immune to it and, invariably, someone or something takes him back to earth, mocking his arrogance.
Thor's aim was not to mock you, says a voice in the recesses of his mind. He offered you a future...
On his terms, he thinks, growling. Ever and only on his terms–
And didn't you try and do the same? On such an important matter, no less...
It was a carefully considered decision.
But which of the two choices is the most sensible?
Another growl climbs up his throat.
In that moment he doesn't want to be robbed of his anger; it's his only defense, in this body that quivers for the touch and semen of–
He turns towards the wall and cuts the air with an arm movement, opening a passage in Asgard's very fabric. He'll go back to Jötunheim, vent and, when he's tired, maybe he'll be able to reflect on everything dispassionately, at last. But his plans are short-lived. He slips inside the interdimensional breach with a sure foot – and slams his face into a barrier.
He staggers backwards, keeping a hand over his nose. His back hits the bronzed wall of the corridor.
"Ugh."
What's that? A barrier? There?
He has been checking Asgard's protections with Thor for centuries; they recognize him and cannot rebel against him. And if... it were that imbecile trying to hold him here? But he never had any finesse in controlling barriers and such.
He opens his eyes, still massaging his nose. The tears left on his eyelashes refract the torches' light, obfuscating the point where he opened the breach. He tries again farther, then changes plan, then exits the Válaskjálf. Nothing. Passing through is impossible: the access is barred.
What is happening?
A thought occurs to him: maybe it's his fault; maybe his magic has gone crazy to gift him with a last humiliation to this madness. Surely Asgard isn't isolated – Heimdall would have noticed it.
Maybe he should go to the Observatory, depart from there and put an end to it all. But there is a strange disturbance in Asgard's magical weave. A familiar disturbance, which fills his mouth with a bitter taste even though he's not able to give it a name. What is it? How could he not feel it sooner?
Then his eyes finally see. He looks around, searches for the horizon.
A sky burning with green and purple looms over him.
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