Chapter 26:
Alfheim's mid-afternoon sun beats heavy down upon the crowded marketplace, the press of bodies in around him worsening the already oppressive heat, the jostling and jockeying for position at the several, open-faced booths causing in Loki a kind of mild panic.
He's long since lost sight of Ofia, after she'd had her attention pulled in by one of the vendors, and he'd finally lost his own patience with standing at her side and listening to the man prattle on about something entirely uninteresting to him.
He'd told Ofia he was off to explore what others sorts of goods were on display. She'd nodded in reply without looking at him, and he still isn't sure if she'd really heard him or not.
It's no matter, really though, as he knows she'll simply go back to her home, trusting him to do the same once he's had his fill. It's an old and familiar routine between them.
As it is, Loki is beginning to think he's had his fill now, his jaw clenching tight and frame tensing as he's bumped into, again.
He's never been fond of crowds.
He always imagines something setting them off into a stampede, and him, caught in the middle, being crushed beneath their blind and wild mania.
Though, he knows, with his magic restored to him, he need only imagine himself away, and he could now easily rescue himself from such a gruesome fate. It's a ridiculous fear to harbor, he knows.
Still, there it remains in his breast, and the sudden desire to be away from the crowd is powerful within him.
And in any event, he's not finding anything of particular interest for sale today.
He looks out across the tops of the heads about him, thanking the Norns for gifting him with height, at least, finding where the masses begin to thin, and heads purposefully in that direction.
He's given up at this point on being careful. If these elves are going to elbow him out of the way, then he'll happily return the favor, and though among the Aesir, he may not be considered particularly endowed of strength, amongst the light elves, he enjoys a considerable advantage in the department, and he cannot help his slight smile at how easily he's able to move them aside.
Still, it is a relief when finally he reaches the crowds outer edges, and he cannot help but breathe in such when he's at last able to step clear of their gathered forms.
He swallows thickly, pushing a hand back through his hair, and finds it coming away damp. He frowns, staring at his open palm a moment, realizing an instant later he is sweating rather profusely.
His frown deepens, nose wrinkling in slight disgust.
Unbidden, and unwanted, memories flood his mind, of being a child, and how, then, the overbearing heat of Asgard's warmer seasons had always, always affected him badly. How, at the time, he hadn't understood why. Had thought it merely a product of his unusually frail constitution. He had so often fallen sick, after all. Was so often committed to the healing rooms. Sequestered there, even. It did not seem so strange then, that the heat would send him there also.
It is easy to say now, in retrospect, that he should have gleaned something amiss.
But he had been as much a fool as a boy as he was as a man.
He shakes his head, trying to clear it of such dreary, spiraling thoughts.
The day thus far has been something approaching pleasant, and he has grown weary of his own gloom and constant paranoia coloring every moment so darkly. He wishes to be free of it, if even only for a little while.
He knows not why he has allowed such depressive leanings to take his mood while here on Alfheim, when these past several days, he has been so openly welcomed and free of hostility.
It is the failure in him, he supposes, that even when he is given every reason to be grateful, every reason to hope, he still manages, somehow, to wallow in his own, wretched self-pity and cynicism.
It has always been his one, great fault.
This self-obsession. This inability to just… be.
Yet another quality of his brother's he grew to be viciously jealous of.
So resentful of the way Thor could move so easily through life without the burden of self-doubt. Without ever caring, ever letting it hinder him, the opinions of others.
The way he so simply believed in himself, and could thusly will any endeavor of his to success.
Loki had always, always envied him that, even when he had been a tiny boy, following at Thor's heels like a shadow, and thought him the most magnificent being to ever grace existence.
How easily everything came to Thor, when for Loki he had never had anything without the hardship and struggle of no less than a tooth and nail fight.
Again he shakes his head, a low growl pushing up from his throat.
He was doing it again!
Gods, but what a pathetic fool he could be.
Enough of it, he thinks.
He'll go back to the hut, get out of the heat, rest for a while, and re-gather himself, think on how best to spend the remainder of his day.
Things need not be so very fatalistic all the time, he tries to tell himself.
Tries to remember days when he felt sadness so deep, he was sure he would suffocate under it's weight, and then Mother would find him, and she would say some words, he cannot even recall them specifically, just something she would say, and somehow she managed, always managed, to pull him back from sinking into his own despair.
Mother, he thinks, would not wish to see him like this.
He would make her so upset, if she knew how completely he had allowed himself to wallow in his own misery these last, long months.
For her then, if not for himself, he would try harder for optimism.
He knew not how he would fair. But he would try.
For Mother.
It is with these thoughts he starts back towards the hut, curving and navigating his way through the less occupied parts of the market, until he is on the very outskirts, closer to the road leading out of the square.
He senses the man approaching before he sees him, feeling his frame tense already with inexplicable unease.
And his eyes catch him immediately as he steps from the shadows of an alleyway nestled between two, low standing mud structures, approaching him directly.
Loki halts his own motion, somewhat taken aback by the aggression in the way the man, obviously not of Alfheim, more likely of Aesir or Vanir decent, so suddenly crowds his space, stepping directly in front of and to him, cutting off his path very deliberately.
Loki feels his unease grow as the man grins at him, and there is nothing but ill intent in that smile.
"Prince Loki," he says, and Loki feels his eyes widen, if only just.
No one since he has arrived here has addressed him by name or title. No one has yet recognized him.
His frame coils tight, his right foot sliding back through the dirt, instinctively falling into a ready fighting stance as the man moves suddenly.
But it is only to open his long coat, revealing an array of long daggers and throwing knives, displayed along the lining of his garment.
"Can I interest you in a blade?" He asks.
Loki blinks, taken off guard by the question.
He doesn't know why, he'd been expecting something else. Been sure the man was about to…
He straightens, relaxing his stance, eyeing the man closely still, never taking his gaze from his face.
There is something not to be trusted here, despite what the man presents himself as.
Loki lifts his chin, so that he is staring down at the man.
"No," he says. "but thank you."
He steps forward and around then, very much intending to move past and continue on his way.
Only suddenly he feels his arm taken hold of in a strong grip, feels himself being tugged backwards.
Indignation rises abruptly within his chest, seething into anger, and in an instant, he's whirled on the man, breaking his hold and shoving him back hard.
"Insolent fool!" He practically snarls. "Keep your hands from me!"
But the man only continues to grin back at him, widening to show all his teeth.
And in the flash of a moment, he suddenly has a blade in his hand, and is lunging at Loki, weapon upraised.
"NOW!" He screams, even as Loki moves, sidestepping the attack by mere inches and using the man's momentum against him, taking quick hold his wrist and squeezing down on the nerves.
A second later, the man's fingers go limp, the blade dropping from them, and Loki is there to catch it, in the same instant jerking his attacker towards him, right into a well aimed elbow, drilled into his temple.
The man is knocked unconscious, but Loki knows already he has little time to savor the victory.
He reaches within the man's coat, lifting another dagger even as he lets the body drop to collapse in the dirt, and turns to see a stream of other men, pouring out of the surrounding buildings, forming a semi-circle about him.
He recognizes them immediately, dressed in their polished, golden armor, bearing in their hands equally well kept broad swords.
Einherjar. Ten of them, by Loki's quick count. Members of Odin's private guard, charged specifically with the task of protecting the royal family.
The irony of the present situation is not lost on him then. But he is given hardly a moment to recognize it, as abruptly, they surge forward, coming at him as one.
Centuries of hard won conditioning and instinct kick in, and as the first man comes upon him, swinging his sword down in a lethal arc aimed for between his neck and collarbone, Loki's hands raise, daggers crossed one over the other. He catches the other's blade between them, shoving upward, throwing the guard off balance, and Loki does not hesitate then.
He is not the weak, cowering and clumsy boy of his youth.
Not anymore.
He spins, ducking under another blade swinging for his head, and as he comes up, he slices his own dagger between the joint of the first man's knee, felling him quickly and slamming the heel of his boot into his head for good measure, knocking him, too, unconscious, before turning to face the second attacker.
Loki disposes of him with much the same efficiency, rather driving his blade to the hilt through the man's shoulder, before slamming with all his strength his hard boned shin directly into the man's crotch, ripping his weapon free as the guard goes down.
He barely avoids another's blade as he turns again, leaning back out of its range, only his quick feet saving him from going off balance himself, and he drops low, spinning again and letting one of his daggers fly as he comes back around, the knife aiming true as it buries deep just above the third attackers right knee, and he too goes down.
Three out of ten, then.
But still, there are seven remaining, and Loki cannot avoid the next blow, a blunt strike to the side of his head, throwing him hard off balance and causing his vision to swim a moment.
They are stronger than him, each, Loki knows as dizzily he tries to regain his bearings.
It is the price he is paying now, for letting himself waste away to practically nothing these last, several months. For failing to train or practice at all.
Though, he thinks bitterly, even had he been taking better care of himself, they likely would be stronger than him still.
He has always been the weakest of any group.
It has always been speed and agility and cleverness he's relied upon to win him the day.
He's lost a blade now, but still he manages to parry the next strike off his dagger, kicking the guard away by planting a boot straight into his solar plexus.
It just isn't enough.
Red hot fire rips up his right leg as he feels the bite of a blade, slicing through the back of his knee, deep and vicious, a strangled cry ripping from his throat, and it is enough to drop him.
They are like moth to a flame then, descending on him without hesitation, raining blows down upon his head, brutal and quick.
Each hit sends Loki's head to spinning, bright, white spots exploding behind his eyes, momentarily blinding him.
Panic starts to set in, ratcheting higher when he feels someone take hold his left arm, wrenching it hard behind his back, and feels the cool of enchanted metal touching his wrist. As he realizes their intent to capture.
No…
No!
He will not be this again.
He will not!
And like a wave crashing through him, he feels it. The surge of his power rushing forward.
He is tired of this.
Fury churning in his chest.
He will no longer allow himself to be treated thusly!
"ENOUGH!" He screams.
The force of his magic explodes outward in unchecked rage, and like insects against a strong current, the Einherjar are blown backwards from him, lifted from the ground as easily as if they were weightless, thrown back several hundred feet to land hard against the unforgiving ground.
Loki waits not.
He pushes himself to his feet, teeth gritting through the pain, even as his magic already begins to knit the broken skin and sinew back together.
His eyes glow, the black of his pupils swallowed by the burning green, bright and luminescent with the call of his strength, and his gaze falls to each of the groaning, disoriented men with utter disdain.
No, he will not abide this any longer.
He will not let his mistreatment stand!
He is Odin's son!
He is brother to Thor the Thunderer!
And he will not let this stand!
By law, he knows through his flaming rage, he has every right to defend himself against his attackers, by whatever means necessary.
Any thought to spare their lives is gone from him now.
They have brought this on themselves, through their arrogance. Through their daring to attack the most gifted sorcerer Asgard has ever known, whose power is second only to that of the All-Father's himself!
"Fools." Loki spits in a snarl, face twisted in fury as he wipes the back of his hand across his bloodied mouth, sparing only a moment to glance at the smear of red against his pale skin before lifting his eyes back to the men still on their backs.
"You will die for this, all of you." He tells them.
And that is all the warning they receive.
He goes through each of them, eyes falling over them one by one. And with each man he sets his focus upon, he gestures them up, lifting them into the air and casting spells upon them.
The first's insides he turns to liquid, and the man hasn't even the time to scream before he is dead, dropping back to the ground, blood leaking like small rivers from out each his orifices.
And the others begin to panic.
Loki gives them no time to run.
The second's throat he closes to air, and lets the man suffocate to death.
The third's intestines he turns to venomous snakes, and the fourth's blood he turns to boiling.
The fifth he simply blows a hole through with a blast of concentrated magic, the sixth's veins he fills with pure water, and the seventh he does so to his lungs, letting him drown.
Within the span of less than a minute, they are, all of them, dead.
Loki's chest is heaving, his head spinning with the letting of power, so much more than he's expended in longer than he can recall. Sweat pours in thick rivulets down his back and chest, soaking his tunic through, down his temples and forehead, into his eyes.
He is shaking, he realizes, near uncontrollably.
And a kind of awful, consuming grief takes him, as he looks upon what he's done.
Eyes falling upon the blood soaked and lifeless forms of the men, burning already in the beat of the hot, afternoon sun.
And he thinks "monster, monster, monster".
He is that.
For what else could a creature who does this be?
His power retreats, sinking back into him, quiet and heavy, and his eyes sting with sudden tears.
The cacophony of rage and hate and fear crashing through his head, filling his ears, begins at last to die.
And with it returns the sound of the world around him.
By then, it is too late.
He hears the rush of steps from behind, too close.
Still, he turns.
And he sees nothing but the patterned grain of wood. The thick end of a club, coming directly for his face.
Too close, too close, too close…
There is pain then, an explosion of it through his skull and face and jaw, ratcheting down in a blistering hot agony to his neck.
An eruption of colors swims across his vision, blue and white and red and green.
He thinks he feels himself falling.
Into nothing.
Into darkness beyond the absence of light.
Into the void.
There is terror through him.
The strangled scream of denial in his head.
Not again, he thinks desperately. Not again, not again, not again, please, please, please…
The black comes rushing in.
Father, he thinks.
Brother…
Mother…
Please, please save me… help me…
And then nothing.
Darkness comes complete.
/
AN: As always everyone, a massive, massive thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed and followed this story. Your continued support means so much, and I hope you continue to enjoy this story.
On Loki's display of power here, I'm a proponent of Loki actually BEING as powerful as he's supposed to be. He's got all kind of wicked power in the comics, and I feel like, just because we don't see much of it in the films, doesn't mean it isn't there. We get brief glimpses even which suggest it is. So, yeah, I'm going with that.
As always, thanks so much again, and if you have a chance, please let me know your thoughts! Your reviews help inspire me so much!