Bow down and worship Nobody's Princess y'all. She got me through writer's block to get his published. Theoretically I was not to update until August. (At this point why do I bother? Saying I'm going to update only to do so days later. [Sighs]) So yes, show our fellow Lokane reader some love. Thanks Nobody's Princess.
Good news bad news folks. I passed my exam with adequate colors! Back to more frequent updates. Theoretically. Let's get this show on the road. Cue drama, and...action!
Hawkz
What Might Have Been: Chapter XII
Velvety sleek, coal black and proud as his second son, Slepnir was a mount worthy only of a King. That is why Loki, Second Prince of Asgard bestowed it to his father, King of all the Nine Realms eight centuries ago. Odin knew better. Loki gave him this horse, a truly magnificent horse, because he loved his father and worried for him ever since his previous mount fell in battle nearly taking him to Valhalla. Young as he was, Loki held an intelligence beyond those millenniums older than he, magic unlike other magicians had seen in generations, enough cleverness to outwit a fox or three and a soulful heart known only to kin.
It was the latter that led him to blend magic and the finest stallions to sire a colt of eight legs and black as the gates to Helheim. Loki poured over every scroll on interbreeding magic and life-forces, horse lineage and the histories of the finest mounts, their qualities and characteristics to sire Slepnir. He presented the beast to his father that next season during one of the feasts, one where it was not unusual to give the All-Father gifts and well-wishes for his health. The crowd parted, tittering and whispering rumor and speculation over the grand beast. It snorted and reared in the handler's care, only becoming docile under Loki's cool touch.
No longer a colt; this was a war horse.
Odin stepped down from his throne, his one eye grooming the horse and all it's fine qualities. The horse stared down the king, huffing hot breath at him and dared the Aesir to be a rider worthy of him. The silence dragged on, Odin occupied by examining the stallion, and the crowd's mutterings swelled. Loki's face pinched into dismay and hesitation, his fingers betraying his nerves as they clenched and unclenched in spastic measures. One of Thor's friends from weaponry training, the swordsman, guffawed a callous joke and his son flushed red from anger and embarrassment. Thor's laughter boomed across the room and others joined in the joke.
Gungnir reverberated over the throne room, muzzling their voices and slapping away their unkind smiles; Odin's one eye was fierce and protective.
"This stallion, eight legs tall, black as the gates to Helheim and hot-blooded with the lifeblood of warriors is fit for a King. Tis justifiable that my son, so well versed in magic and savant to subjects outside of battle could create such a majestic beast. This is the greatest honor a son could give a father, that a man could give his King." Odin hugged his boy for all to see. Loki looked more shocked than those in the room but reciprocated Odin's affection when Odin did not immediately release him. Odin clasped him again on the shoulder and went over to stroke the horse's nose. Asking questions and running his hands over the stallions sleek countenance. That night was a feast with most of Asgardian society but that night little existed outside of Odin, father, and Loki, his youngest son.
All-Father, Ruler of the Nine Realms and King to Asgard, sighed as he fed Slepnir another carrot. He had duties today, headache-causing duties involving the Jotunns, and he sought a few moments of peace in the stables. Despite his warlike posture, Slepnir had the pacifying effect of a good cup of mead and friendly company. This horse saved his life more times in the passing centuries than his generals could count. His son saved his life more times than he could count by breeding this stallion. Frigga chided him for throwing out his hip that first time, and Thor, after that one battle, joked he should lead their soldiers into battle from now on. Only Loki, distraught and worried over the sight of his father in the medical wing, used his abilities to better Odin's chances of survival after that one battle.
Loki. His son.
Odin grimaced at the coming diplomats—the Frost Giants.
He should have Loki locked away in his chambers as he ordered with Jane, but he couldn't. He couldn't favor Thor over Loki, not his sweet little boy who loved magic and whom Frigga spoiled with extra kisses and hugs. Loki who was always better at wizardry and words than weaponry and war. His little dark-haired heathen who terrorized the servants with snakes and illusions as he aged—which hasn't really changed—and who was a brother, a true brother to his blood-born son. Loki. Loki who changed over the years, fighting more with his brother, acting a little more cruel and vengeful against attacks, verbal and otherwise, to his person. A little darker. His heart a little harder. The fights that expanded from just Thor to himself and on rare, very rare occasion Frigga, his mother. She he apologized to. Not always to he and Thor. What was once a line in the sand cracked into a rift and from a rift into a chasm.
Who was Loki now?
The king sat down on a stool, absent-mindedly grooming his mount until the coat shined like a black pearl and still the king brushed. Oh, how he felt his age. His children came late into his life. Not unusual for an Aesir. While long-lived they reproduced infrequently. Not like Midgardians who multiply at a confounding speed. It made for large families, children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Frigga looked upon mortals with more affection than he. Perhaps that is why his wife welcomed her adopted brood so readily. She always wanted more children and Odin was glad she stopped at three, the last being that mortal. Odin's hand stilled and he dropped the brush into a bucket. Slepnir's ear flicked toward, inquisitive eyes following when his rider made no other movement. Odin stared at his stallion but his eyes were far, far away.
Was he missing something? Did Frigga bring this child here for a reason? A divinatory reason. Frigga skirted the subject when he asked so Odin took her words at face value. She had wanted a daughter and like her husband, found an abandoned, orphaned hatchling and brought it home to call her own. The girl, Jane, was much older than Loki when Odin brought him and her Midgardian mannerisms, speech, and ideas infested her being.
Dad. Daddy.
Mom. Mommy.
Very informal titles for parents. Intimate though. Those words often had a hug or smile attached to them and he remembered the years when Jane left him presents on his pillows when Loki lied and tricked her into thinking he suffered from nightmares. Sweet gestures. A sweet, short life. That is why none of them should get too attached or close to the mortal, he argued; however, his family was not inclined to listen. His youngest son in particular. He found himself a friend in his adopted sister and Odin waged an internal war to separate them or give into the trespasses of his forefathers and extend Aesir life to Jane.
But is it not that simple! his mind raged. Of course they've given the privilege of Aesir lifespans to mortals before. They have, many, many times, over and over again. Thus, Odin knew its liabilities and weaknesses. People change; mortals change even quicker than Aesir, some may call them mercurial if not for their short lives. Thousands upon thousands of years more to live, generations to see birth and live and die while you hardly age. Of course they've given the golden apples to mortals. Of course they have.
And for it, Aesir and mortal greed for more, always more, they suffered for it. Mortals once pure hearted altering like the ticking hand of a clock. Nigh imperceptibly but there, turn your back and they shift a second farther from their core values. Laughter gone false and crackling. Smiles chipped and hollow. Demons seen and unseen behind every blink. More than one penned its repercussions and a poetic turn of phrase passed Odin's lips:
"Desire of fire
Turns to fire of desire
See your sanity slip
With but touch and quip
What once you did control
Twists to madness, rift, and row."
Not all met such a fate. Some were strong, their cores solid and steadfast—resilient—to whatever devils plague mortal kind yet flexible enough to adapt to their surroundings as Fate dictates. He had a hard enough heart to put such kind and kin out of that misery. He did not believe his sons did. Soft-hearted they were in these matters. They grew more fond of the girl than Odin thought possible when his wife first introduced her at the breakfast table. His sons complained then and now they fawned over her as an uxorious lover. The royal coiffeurs were paying for more broken tables and broken bones that insulted the royal "non-Princess" in Thor's hearing vicinity. Thor reserved his knuckles for his own honor previous to these past two and twenty seasons, which now broke jaws for his sister's honor more than his own. Loki, too, assumed a defensive crouch, fingers dagger ready, for the fool who acted disrespectfully. The image of seeing Loki and Jane in one of their afternoon board games clenched his heart. Laughter, smirks and smiles, clever tricks and usurping licks, new games for new ideas, and Loki. Loki looking every bit the happier child Odin and Frigga and Thor knew him to be centuries past. Before society dictated cruelties for what he is and what he isn't, before changes in Thor and Loki drew them apart, before, before, before everything. Before change and time took Odin's son far away and then change and time and one little mortal brought him back.
But, no. It could not be.
He would speak to Loki after these Jotunns leave and they would mend their rifts, Odin, Loki, and Thor, and they would be strong. His sons would mend their ways—they have been, Odin saw it—and they would learn that Jane, little sweet Jane, was not here to stay. Not forever. Her time would come and they would grieve and they would live on. As always. As before. As it will be, always would be. It was best for his sons, best for the realm, not to indulge another mortal. Besides, Frigga could adopt another if so inclined.
Odin heaved to his feet. He had guests to greet.
Donning his more ceremonial robes, he resembled the idea of a king, the kind woven into tapestries and the kind of king the imagination fabricates with which to dazzle its audience: A cape of stormy grey; scepter in hand as proof of his right to rule; a posture and bearings of nature and nurture no usurping thief could emulate; battle armor shinning dully—proudly—as one with age and tales of victory hammered into its links. For he was not puppet king, no scholastic king. He, Odin, was a gladiatorial sovereign and he shied not at the blood on his hands nor the corses, the many corses of friend and foe, now cold and then carrion to vindicate if not validate his reign. Jotunn opprobriums were the stories to frighten children, not kings. Odin feared not the Jotunn emissaries.
He strode into the throne room, his gait purposeful and determined. His sons inclined in a formal bow. He would always be their father; for now though he was their king. Thor's red cape pulled people into his orbit, servants gravitating to the eldest to offer drink and their respects after the king yet always before his younger brother. On the surface, this was the hierarchy of age, Thor was the eldest and therefore next in line to the throne; below that surface was back room politics and bias. It was easy to love Thor; Odin wished his second son would not make it as difficult for others to love him. He tolerated the mortal; what kept him from expanding his heart as his brother does?
Thor affected an affable stance, open and willing to confrontation. How he still courted the thrill of battle, welcoming the bloodlust, and a mere mortal and one unfortunate series of events did not merit change. Time and kingship would temper him. His youngest son wore a political mask rival to his own but his posture belied the wariness thrumming in his veins. Always the cautious. Loki's mind was capable of layered schemes and layers of deception but also for the greater good of family and the more personal satisfaction that was his mischief. The jade green cape of Loki's threatened to consume his lean frame. He was always using the shadows and the dark to his advantage. Both sons—and they were both his sons—stood ready, defensive in open and subtle ways to defend Asgard, him, their father. Artfully, Loki inched closer and the metal of his daggers caught the light, not far from his quick hands and if not for knowing better, Odin would believe his youngest calm and collected, at ease.
Loki would make a good king. Raising him and seeing all that potential, the sheer intellect boundless in its imagination confirmed Odin's prophecies—Loki would be king, a great king.
Frigga argued otherwise. There would be no throne for Loki outside of Asgard's.
Odin disagreed.
A cordial king on Jotunheim's throne would offer peace between the realms, perhaps bridge the gap between Asgard and Jotunheim.
Displeased, Frigga called him blind. Her love blinded her. He, too, loved Loki. But the possibilities… Odin looked to Loki who kept his gaze on the unopened doors. Thor made a sniggering remark about brutish, barbaric Frost Giants and Loki smirked. Odin kept his politic face in check. Not yet. The time was not right. He would give Frigga more time with her youngest son. And his. His wonderful second son.
He and his second son fought more than usual. Thor was brash and head strong, a warrior in every fiber of his being. Loki was skilled in the martial arts, though he was not naturally gifted so, and his true abilities lied elsewhere. Diplomacy, intellect, cleverness—he was an advisor that would make a good king great and a great king historic. But would Loki accept living perpetually in second place. Did he have ambitions? Did he crave power and a throne? No matter how much they talked, Odin did not know. He knew less and less of his younger son as the seasons went by and as a king, this liability unnerved him. As a father, this distance worried him. Frigga continued to step in where he feared to tread and the bond between his adopted son and wife grew only stronger. With Thor, their relationship was rocky; it had been for almost a millennia, perhaps more than half of one. And then the mortal. Odin waved those thoughts away. She would not be in this realm long and his family would grieve but get over it in time. He still grumbled to Frigga about it and more than once suffered exile from her chambers for their disagreeing perspectives on the mortal. He did not hate Jane. She was lovely and loving for a mortal. But their lives were so ephemeral; what good would come from focusing on them?
Maybe, maybe Loki need not be a king. Advisor to the king. Advisor to Thor. He was no fool. He read the hints Frigga laid before him. Keep Loki here. Mend the bond between brothers and have them rule the Nine Realms together—Thor's might and Loki's diplomacy. Vices and virtues combined they made a fine king. Separately led to trouble. But Thor would be a good king. Just and fair and a warrior king, like his father. Thor, his first born, true born. Aided by his brother, his true brother. But aided as King to King or advisor to the king? So few choices, so many consequences. The choice could be made after the mortal's passing. Things would quiet down by then and his family able to concentrate of Asgard and ruling the realms. Contemplation of his family must be set aside for later. The here and now required the King of Asgard.
Odin struck Gungnir, signaling entry to the visitors and the grand doors edged open as ominously as the giants who waited behind them. Cold tickled his beard and hoarfrost crystalized under their feet, unmelting even as they walked away. The well-disciplined footmen gave no reaction to the emissaries though their eyes stayed alert and watchful. Blue skin jagged with warts and ridges they resembled the inhospitable lands they called their own. Supercilious crimson red eyes mocked the throne room and its inhabitants, toeing the line of disrespect but not crossing it. Thor growled low in his throat, however, a subtle motion from his brother stopped his hand from reaching for the hammer fastened to his hip. One of the giants flexed his shoulder, rolling it at an obtuse angle and muttered something in Jotunn speech about a snakebite and pain and one of his companions muttered something back in that harsh tongue of theirs. The low talking stopped when they were paces away from the throne's stairs.
Odin saw them enter his court but did not rise from his throne. Jotunns received courtesies from Asgard, yet they too courted the grey area between respect and disrespect, never quite bleeding into the latter. Respect would be a long time in coming. One of the diplomats sneered at the backhanded manner but Odin did not move. It would take more than a sneer to goad him into action. Frigga wished to be part of the diplomatic process but her husband, her king, ordered her back to her chambers and the guard doubled. He would not risk his queen for anything, least of all these Frost Giants. Right and left stood his sons, first born Thor and second born Loki. Odin did not let his gaze linger on the latter, not in front of them. He took a risk by having him so close but it would be an offense to have only Thor present and Loki made his opinion known on the matter. Odin took in a slow breath. Was it too late to send Loki to his chambers?
The announcer completed reading the Frost Giants' request and Odin bade him out. Only footmen, the Jotunns and the royal Asgard males remained. Time for business.
"You speak on behalf of Laufey, son of Gauldi?"
Red, red eyes serpented from Asgardian to Asgardian, no hint of emotion showed. The giant nodded. "Aye. I speak for Laufey in his absence." He gave a mock bow, one repeated by his fellow companions. "Greetings, All-Father, Ruler of the Nine Realms and King of Asgard. It is an honor." He spoke only words. None of the Jotunns genuflected.
"You come with intention to foster Jotunheim and Asgrad ties via the presence of Jotunn merchants in Asgard. State your case, son of Gauldi." Odin's words cut across the throne room, commanding and cold and neutral. These were not delegates from Vanaheim. Congeniality would not be reciprocated by either side. Son of Gauldi spoke blunt and factual. Throughout his speech that same Frost Giant would twitch and turn in random intervals, rotating his shoulder or closing his eyes for longer than the standard blink. On rare occasions he muttered, face pinched in a grimace, which is not unusual a face to make when Aesir and Jotunns interacted. Odin kept his focus on the speaker.
Odin leaned back into his throne, the courtesies ready on his lips as a well-rehearsed speech. He did not get to make them.
Screams, low pitched yet they rung fiercely in his ears, disrupting his equilibrium. Thor and Loki were likewise unsteady, holding their ears. Black eyes, not Jotunn red, caged the giant's sense of civility and common sense for it flew into a rage, speaking too fast for even the All-Tongue to decipher and it's voice rose in pitch until it whirled like a rewinding cassette tape. Its companions fought to get their comrade under control, asking what was wrong, to calm down, dammit all, not here, not here, and then they were thrown off in a great show of force. The Frost Giant leapt at the Asgard's king.
Green clouded Odin's vision. A great big cloud of silky, shadowy green. Loki.
"No!" cried the king.
The Frost Giant struck and Thor's bellowing cry of terror echoed worse than the Jotunn's previous scream. He retaliated by launching himself at the Jotunn in his way, fighting to come to his brother's aid. The Jotunn fought back and now it was chaos, footmen springing to action, blasting horns and summoning reserves and putting the castle on lockdown. Odin forced himself to his feet.
His son!
The glamour rippled, showing the blue skin beneath and a flash of red, red eyes looked back at the Frost Giant. The black eyes faded and confused red drifted from his hand to the unharmed Aesir before him. Ice crystals spiked out around the second prince and while no harm was visible on his person, Loki trembled. The Frost Giant made to touch him again and Loki flinched violently back. Odin waved Gungnir to terrible effect, slicing his belly open and spilling his organs out in a black-bloodied mess. He stood protectively in front of his son and called for a staying of arms. Seiðr pressed down on all the beings in the room forcing them to capitulate. Odin's one eye glowed ferociously.
"I open my home to you and this is my repayment. I will not stand for this base violence against my family. Uncourted aggression against Asgard will not go unpunished. Son of Gauldi you shame Jotunheim with your actions and for it I will see just recompense!" Gungnir worked effectively, Odin would not hear their pleas and smoked, charred flesh perfumed the throne room. He ordered the nearest gold adorned soldier to find any remaining Jotunns in the city, potential spies and enemies to the crown, to send the wounded to the medical wing and double the guards in the castle, and be on lock down until his relieving command. Thor was bloodied and covered in blood but suffering from no serious injuries. Odin walked over to his youngest.
Loki continued to tremble, looking at his hands in disbelief and denial. He knew what he saw. He was too smart not to know.
"Loki," Odin spoke but Loki gave no reply. "My son," he tried again and Loki hissed his rejection.
"Am I cursed?" he rasped.
Odin felt the cracks in his son's armor, the crumbling of walls and belief and no small measure of sanity. "Not here Loki. Not here." The boy shied form his outstretched hand and would not look at Thor as he obeyed Odin's command to enter a side room to the throne. Odin shut the door behind him. The room was poorly lit but it would not matter, the glamour was fading fast, dissipating with the rising swell of Loki's anger until ruby red eyes haunted the shadows. Frost Giant eyes see well, very well in the darkness; they had to being on such a dark, cold planet and Loki's red eyes looked down to find his skin—ugly blue and ridged like the monsters in children's books—leering up at him.
"What am I?" But he knew. He always knew the answers.
"You are my son."
Loki's face bordered on hatred. "Do not spoon feed me that lie as you clearly have these past few millennia!" Thorns of ice crunched under his fingernails and Loki jumped at the feel. Powers dormant and unknown responding to his emotions and for a magician well-versed in discipline and illusion Loki had no way to keep the despair and flood of emotions—rage, hate, sorrow and confusion at the forefront but more, too many more washed over him—from revealing all he wished to conceal. He tried nonetheless. "Why—how did you find me? What, who am I?"
"Not here Loki. We will talk after these events have been sorted and—"
Loki would have none of it. "Did you kidnap me? Was I a ransom to be paid, a tribute, blood for blood?" Through it all his voice was controlled, angry but stable. Odin did not wish for this discussion, not now, not here, but he could not put it off any longer.
"You were abandoned," he said at last and his voice mellow, almost afraid. "I found you in one of their temples. Left to die because you were small, sickly, even if you were Laufey's son. Frost Giants treasure strength and weed out the sick through effective, usually violent means."
"So you took me as what? A way to right all the Frost Giants slain by your hand? To get revenge on their king via personal means? It was not enough to take the casket and slay thousands of their kin you needed amusement, a barbaric trinket to seduce with lies and falsehoods of what could never be? To offer me things I may never call my own?"
"No. No, Loki. I did not take you for such reasons." His son was becoming just shy of hysterical, leaning far over the edge yet not quite falling into that abyss.
"No!" he snarled back. "You took me for a purpose. What was it?" Silence met his inquiry. Loki's face, the glamor back and his green eyes stormy and wet struggled on his face to bring his emotions to heel as Odin continued not to reply. "TELL ME!" Odin did not deny him. Not here, not now.
"Through you, there were hopes for a more permanent peace between Jotunheim and Asgard. Through you, a rightful heir to the Jotunheim throne, we had a chance to bridge our realms and go beyond our battle scarred histories." A puppet king, his words all but said. Loki was trembling again, breathing fast through his nose. "But those plans no longer matter."
Loki heard them differently: You, Loki, no longer matter.
Odin talked on. "You are my son; I wished only to protect you."
Loki's laughter was razored with incredulity and hysteria. "Protect me from what? The truth? That I'm, I, I, I am the monster parents use to frighten their children at night? That I never was good enough? Was never truly part of this family? That I am everything hideous and contemptuous, everything that Aesir disdain?"
"You twist my words, Loki." His back slouched and the king felt his age. Felt tired and in need to sleep.
"It all makes sense now," he did not hear his father, his not-father. "Why you favored Thor, why everyone favored Thor, because all your pretty, petty lies could not disguise the truth—a Frost Giant cannot sit upon the Asgardian throne! No matter how much you claimed to love me, falsehoods and fabrications all, you never planned to prove it. You thought you could just speak words, meaningless, groundless words that you would never have to back." Odin straightened out of his slouch.
"We did not raise you out of a black heart's cruelty! You are my son. Frigga's son. Brother to Thor and brother to Jane. Your blood changes nothing." Loki's mouth audibly clicked shut and the born Frost Giant turned Asgardian hunched in on himself. His eyes looked far away, thoughts on things other than Odin. His hands flexed, draining of blood and color when he fisted them, his grip harsh and unforgiving. His inhales and exhales gave oxygen to his brain yet his lungs and throat continued to burn as his rasping breath indicated. Loki fled from the antechamber and ignored Odin's cries that bounded after him. What little light the open door provided was quickly eaten by the darkness.
Alone, the king leaned against the wall, sliding down to the floor. He rubbed his brow and felt the sting of sorrow and tears. What has he done? He was a king before a father. Life did not allow him the luxury to regularly prioritize the latter over the former. Yet he did, didn't he, by adopting a Frost Giant and calling the boy his own? Stitching the babe and then the boy into the fabric of his family until his own blood borne son would view him no differently, nor he or Frigga, truth of birth known or not. Odin did not grant that to any one, certainly not the mortal Jane, winsome as she was.
Loki was, would always be his son.
But, would Odin, from here on out, be Loki's father as according to Loki?
Odin closed his eyes and felt the pull of darkness.