A/N: If Virginia Woolf wrote crossover fanfiction using Ann Radcliffe's prose, it would be this story. We don't go much of anywhere very quickly, but by the time we do, you're intimately familiar with the motivations, goals, and errant thoughts of any given POV character. Or at least that's the way I feel about it sometimes. But if you've made it this far, you probably don't mind, so thank you for reading!

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Fifty-Three-

Degeneracy Pressure (Part II)

There was no clever response to be made to Hermione's admission. The geas wouldn't allow him to lie and soothe and otherwise play at it with a niceness he didn't feel, for all that his own hands were hardly clean.

He'd killed his blood-father and nearly destroyed a Realm in an attempt to prove, mostly to himself, that he belonged among the shining Æsir rather than the savage Jotnar. His longstanding habit was to deal with his enemies through trickery rather than the brawling preferred by Thor, which to some of the more persnickety among his compatriots was something akin to murder. And he'd attempted to kill Thor a time or two, though that hardly counted.

But no matter what he had done, it did nothing to stifle the mingled horror and envy he felt in the face of her magic. If the magic his mother had taught him had resembled that of Harry and Hermione, there would have been none who called it a thing unfit for battle. But that was a smaller feeling, compared to the soul-deep aversion to the knowledge that there was someone sitting not ten feet from him capable of the same sort of horrors that Thanos had visited on him. The fact that she would be doing so blindly without being able to crawl about in his memories did little to ameliorate the desire to be far, far away.

It was one thing to manipulate someone with words and illusions, another entirely to creep into their mind and poison where there was no defense. Loki had possessed something like it by way of the Tesseract-imbued staff given to him as both a symbol of authority and a chain, but he'd never been allowed to forget that it was only something borrowed. And that if he attempted to keep it, he would be swiftly reminded that it was only a fraction of a much greater whole.

It had been breathtaking at first, a kind of heady ecstasy like one's first taste of calvados made from Idunn's golden apples. Liquid immortality was what the apples offered and the Tesseract had teased with a promise of freedom and power, the things he'd desired most after Thanos's tender care. But even if the power was real, the freedom had been an illusion. It had taken pain and defeat to teach him that. Even if the Tesseract had been his in truth, he would have lived in chains of his own making.

He'd thought his family lost to him for something he could not help and had been so desperate to regain them that he'd thought any destruction an acceptable means to his end. He could not imagine doing to Frigga and Odin what Hermione had done to her parents. He'd safeguarded Odin in his Odinsleep and if his mother had found herself powerless through circumstance, he would have...

But no. That was a lie. He'd sent Kurse up the stairs that would lead him past the bulk of the guards. For a time, he'd thought himself responsible by association for Frigga's death. And he hadn't always regretted that, hadn't preserved Odin's life because he loved him, but because he wanted him alive to prove to him how wrong he had been to favor Thor over his clever son.

Because what he loved was no longer "his", he would have destroyed them all. And with them, the memory of the Loki who'd been so gullible as to believe them despite all evidence offered to the contrary that he was their son by blood. But, despite everything, he felt that Loki had been far happier than a Loki who held the whole of the Nine in his hands could ever be.

"Loki?"

He realized that this wasn't the first time Hermione had repeated his name.

"I...," he fumbled for words. She'd drawn close while he was lost in his thoughts and one hand was cautiously outstretched, almost resting on his arm. Black talons poised above like an eagle about to strike. "Don't touch me!" he snarled, twisting away from her.

Insult, pain, and confusion flashed across her face. She closed her hand into a fist and sat back on her heels. "Sorry," she said curtly. "You just looked...odd."

Panicked, desperate perhaps. Odd was something said to spare his feelings. He wasn't her enemy at the moment, so she had room to be kind. But she was placing him in an untenable position. He'd thought himself well beyond this sort of mind-numbing regret and confusion, but here it was stealing up his throat and curling up on his tongue, threatening to spill out like pus from an inflamed wound.

Because he could do nothing else, he laughed, a choked, awful sound that was almost like a sob. "It looks like there are only monsters in the dark of Svartalfheim, you and I and that accursed wolf, while the heroes live in the sunlight of distant Realms."

Hermione regarded him for a long moment. "I'm not excusing your behavior. My personal opinion is that you acted all out of proportion to the weight of the discovery, but I've always been more analytical than emotional with the major exception of about a year and a half in my teens, my only excuse for which was delayed and intensive puberty," she said dryly. "And you're far too old to use that as an excuse."

She told a deep breath and tilted her head to one side. "You're Judas. Harry's already broken oath on the Statute of Secrecy, so I doubt it will do any harm to tell you this." Hermione muttered something that he thought might have been 'absit invidia'.

"Pardon?"

"You're the catalyst. If you hadn't stopped Thor's coronation, have you considered what might have happened instead?"

"And what point would there be in that?" he asked tiredly.

"You're the direct cause of Thor being banished, but the indirect cause is that the Thor who'd never known mortality was a warmongering hothead. If Odin entered the Odinsleep and Thor ruled with nothing more to rein him in but his mother-we're assuming, at this point, that you're keeping silent entirely-it would only be a matter of time before he incited some sort of conflict. He's a warrior and braggart in an age when all the great wars are finished. There are only two paths from there. He becomes a petty dictator satiating himself with bloodshed for sport in Asgard or he begins another war. Perhaps even with the ancient enemy of Asgard, the only ones they haven't fully hamstrung, the Jotnar. And this war isn't some small conflict, no, this is one last war that will break their spirit entirely, because that's the kind of scale suitable for the mighty Thor, whose only diplomacy is the enemy dead beneath his hammer."

"The war rages on. Asgard hasn't been concerned with Midgard for many years and only Odin knows where they secured the Aether, so no one suspects when it begins to eat through the boundary between the Realms. Thor has never met Jane Foster, so perhaps it isn't her that discovers it. Maybe it was one of the children playing at the site of the anomaly, a homeless man looking for a place out of the rain, another researcher entirely. It doesn't matter, really. They're only a vessel. Malekith awakes and secures the Aether before Asgard has time to turn from their war. Or maybe they do notice. Heimdall sees and tells Thor that something must be done. Perhaps Thor goes to save the day, but he has no allies on Midgard, because he's never been banished. He's never learned to temper his ego, so even if other superheroes want to collaborate and save the world, he'll think that they'll only hinder him. So he goes alone and Malekith wins and the Aether rejoices as all the worlds return to formless, chaotic energy. That's how the story ends, if you'd never let the Jotnar into the treasure house. Just like there'd be no crucifixion and resurrection if Jesus was never betrayed."

Loki was certain he was almost gaping at her, but she didn't seem to notice. Her gaze was fixed like she was reading something he couldn't see, but eventually she wrenched her eyes from it to look at him.

"It's called a probability tree," she said. "Any arithmancer worth the name learns how to think them through without using blood and ink and belief to make it prophecy. When you're first learning, it's always done with past events so you can refine your accuracy. Given the right data, the event of highest probability should be the one that actually occurred. If it isn't, you've either worked the equations wrong or the situation is written off using the phrase 'Fate triumphs over reason'. Those generally involve prior prophecy that weren't taken into the equation. Every action causes a ripple in the chain. One witch spent her entire apprenticeship tracing out the impact of what the 13th century wizard Gillarde Champard had for breakfast before his duel with Saoirse of the Black Hand."

"And something came of this?" his voice quavered when he spoke, but they both pretended not to notice.

"She felt she could confidently assert that if he hadn't eaten breakfast that morning, he would have been killed by Saoirse fifteen days later and all of history after that would have been dramatically changed. It's primarily a thought exercise though, of interest only to academics. Still, that isn't the point I was trying to make. You were the necessary evil, even if that wasn't your intention. A lesser evil for the greater good." A sneer crept into her voice on the last two words, making them hard, sharp, and something altogether unpleasant.

"It could have been much, much worse. The damage was fairly limited, only a tiny percentage of the human population was directly affected. And you saved far more of them in defeating Malekith than if you'd led twenty of your Chitauri invasions. If there are cosmic karmic scales somewhere, you've probably brought yourself into balance on them. Which means that from here forward, it is your decision whether you accept that your family loves you regardless of the color of your skin and the source of your blood or if you decide that attempting to become master of the known universe is more to your taste."

"Could you-," his throat seized and he had to try again, "If I wished for it, could you make me forget? Make them all forget?"

"That you're a jotun? Or that you invaded New York?"

"All of it."

"Don't be ridiculous. No. I'm not a demon even if I could do it, to be bargained with for foolish wishes, because with all the pain you'll erase, you'll go back to the beginning of that probability tree. You'll still resent Thor, Thor will revert to the being he was before mortality taught him some humility, Odin will be the paradox he always is, and you'll forget just how much your mother loves you." She laughs and it is her turn for what is usually an expression of mirth to sound like something far different. "Though I wish I could make you forget about the memories without taking away the moral. It's a dirty magic," she said. Her carmine-tinged eyes dropped to her clawed hands. "A dirty magic," she repeated.

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

A thought wormed itself into Loki's brain as he tried to push away the feelings inspired by confronting the depth of his fall. He who'd been known as the Liesmith had never suspected that she might harbor a secret like this. What else might lurk beneath that self-righteous surface? What else might she have so justified to herself that no reflection of it appeared in her manner? He glanced at her and then away.

He wanted desperately a weakness that he could cling to, something he could knowingly take advantage of if it came to that end. Even if he never used it, it represented safety. He remembered a time when that had been so paramount in his life, but it was a distant, faded memory from before his fall.

No, he reminded himself, hearing the echo of his mother's voice, before you let go.

He shoved it away, searching his memory for weaknesses, but Hermione wore her competency like armor. Her one clear fear was that of failure and that obvious only in conditions so extreme he would be hard-pressed to create such an impasse on demand.

Loki thought about the reaction he'd garnered from Harry with his female form and considered the implications, but his anger wasn't a good indication for Hermione's reaction to revealing it. Perhaps it would remind her of someone she loved, but tears wouldn't prevent her from acting against him, not if she could do what she did to her parents. Perhaps if she was a deeply adored lover, but Hermione hadn't displayed even a twinge of the awkwardness that accompanied repressed or unacknowledged sexual desire at any of Asgard's feasts, where alcohol flowed and beautiful women were plentiful.

Though she did seem to like her men slightly effeminate gilded peacocks, but he thought that might be a symptom of that almost pathological need for praise. In her mind, Fandral's markers of success with women probably made him the one whose praise was the most valuable. It made him curious about this husband of hers that she spoke of so rarely but with such perplexing fondness considering what few stories she'd shared.

No, the woman represented something else and he tucked the thought away for future use despite the temptation to test it now. Unlike most of Asgard, Loki didn't feel a hint of guilt at utilizing the element of surprise as it was supposed to be used.

He discarded his thoughts like pouring water from a bowl when he realized that Hermione was watching him again. "Perhaps," he suggested, feeling suddenly as empty and exhausted as he'd felt in years, "we could sleep."

She took his suggestion, which was relieving, but the next day lifted his spirits extraordinarily. While they fended off what seemed to be a flutter of flesh-eating butterflies Loki had an opportunity presented by the temporary separation of witch and wolf, an opportunity seized immediately as each had their companion replaced by one of his solid illusions and the hall, to Skoll's sight, continued into the fissure. A word applied at just the right instance convinced Hermione to seal the passage using her magic.

It almost was enough to make him recall the pleasure of the well-turned tricks of his youth, especially as he recalled his illusion before Skoll could take note of the substitution, sink his fangs into the doppelganger and thereby do harm to Loki.

It was the first time in a long time he'd felt that his pleasure wasn't overshadowed by something else and he took that as a good omen for things to come.

-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-

Hermione was beginning to distrust how Loki made her feel. This wasn't at all like teaching Grawp, it was lecturing a basilisk. At any moment, the confusion in those celadon eyes could turn to desperate cruelty, but it fed that sense of superiority she'd enjoyed when riding hippogriffs and wolves, the sense of mastery over something far stronger than her. It wasn't a happy thing, but it was a true one.

That she occasionally desired to hug him tightly and stroke his hair after raking him over the coals wasn't a good sign either. Hermione had a compulsion to fix broken things and Loki was so damaged that she might puzzle at putting him back together for the rest of her life. That was a complication she didn't need, no more than Loki seemed open to the idea of being coddled like the child he often acted like.

There was also the little complication that she did not trust Loki as she trusted Harry and the moment his arms shifted to return the hug she might well have her brain shut down in panic and her magic and body lash out, which would do wonders for any progress she achieved. She'd had a few scares with Thor in the past, where she thought his booming and genial personality might lead to some chiropractically inadvisable embraces. She might trust Thor more than she trusted Loki, but he also towered over her and his thickly muscled arms might well have been bands of steel when reason was overridden by that old trauma. It was ridiculous how it had followed her through her life, even beyond her world and she was very grateful in that moment that she believed in Hell of a very different sort than the cold, chill world ruled by the strange woman-child.

"Loki, what's Jormungandr like?"

Loki looked startled for a moment at being addressed, perhaps especially so because of the topic. But her encounter with the Midgard-Serpent had been gnawing at her.

"It's a monster," Loki said flatly when he'd recovered his composure.

"He," Hermione corrected automatically.

"It's a monster," Loki repeated. "One of the stories of relative accuracy told on Midgard. An enormous sea-serpent, so large that he can envelop all the world in his coils. Of course, I suppose I should be impressed by how much is true of Midgard's myths. The mortals were hardly apt recorders and most of the stories were shared by a Njord deep in his cups."

"Really?" Hermione asked curiously. "Then Jormundandr isn't your offspring?"

"It is. Or at least that is the tale his mother told and all magic ever devised to test paternity says it is so. Isn't it fitting? One monster sires another, just as you might well birth heroes."

"I won't," Hermione answered. She wasn't certain why she continued, but Loki had so cannily avoided that inquiry until this point and it looked as if it pained him. For now her pity still outweighs the irritation that is beginning to develop because she felt that labeling himself a monster was another way to shift the blame rather than accepting his mistakes and moving onward. But she knew he didn't believe that there was no such thing as a born monster. Not among higher Beings, at least, though there were things in her former world that magic had distorted so deeply that she would believe that they were born to do nothing but act according to the dark natures they'd been given.

So she flowed around the topic instead of turning it into another argument about the nature of monstrosity or revealing that the sea-serpent whose venom was supposed to kill Thor had told her that she called him Jorry.

"No mud from this muddy spring shall flow," she said with a quirk of her lips. She didn't much enjoy the memory from whence that phrase had sprung, but she'd learned to enjoy it for the irony of phrase she'd first read in Muggle poetry being used in one of the few commendations of her decision not add to the already vast Weasley line. That it had been used in hate was irrelevant. "I don't like infants very well. But I don't mind older children, so I might raise heroes one day. Or perhaps monsters. Parents are no guarantee of what children become, though I like to think that back in my world I was raising an entire generation of children with a different social awareness than their parents. But, Njord?" she prompted.

"Truly. It's why the myths trace all the way to Ragnarok. Some of the stories haven't yet happened, but for Njord time is not a linear path. When he was being born, it's said he say the birth and death of the universe and all the ages in between. Or so I have been told by other Vanir, whose powers are weaker and are thereby far more comprehensible to us who are more limited in our perception of the world."

"So your entire existence is written out in prophecy?" Hermione asked, unable to help the disdain that coated her voice.

"Not quite. Njord knows the truth of it, but he lies almost as often as he shares those fragments of knowledge that you've encountered firsthand."

Hermione remembered him clearly and his oddly offhand comment about a crow-and-crown sigil she'd adopt, but she didn't like this idea of so much of one's future being bandied about, prepared to entrap those who believed in it. But their conversation was cut short when Bleiki's ears pricked at the same moment Loki came alert next to her.

Hermione felt it as it approached, like the instant before a tornado forms and the whole world seems to hold its breath before the deafening roar heralds the arrival of a force awesome almost beyond what magic could create.

Hooves struck so lightly against stone that they made a sound like chimes, purer and sweeter than the tones of iron or steel. Some part of her knew this creature was never born, just as Hel was created by hands that fused artistry with magic to such a degree that it would have inspired decades long debates on her world.

She'd avoided the thought of how they'd provided Hel with a soul, which all the Wizarding world agreed was the source of self and free action. Muggles left no ghosts and therefore didn't have one according to the most hard-hearted of purebloods, creatures transfigured from inanimate objects could experience pain only as a sort of mechanical function according to most scholarly authorities, and Wizards trapped as inanimate objects continued to be aware and suffer during the experience was the consensus of most of those who had the leisure to hold such debates. Creating souls was something impossible with mere magic and yet she'd had no sense of Hel as anything less than a being in her own right.

But this was fairer by far than Hel, his coat night spun into satin and made flesh, flexing over muscles that had all the grace of nature coupled with the tireless power of a machine. The dark night of the stallion's body was made to seem even darker by the winter-white of his mane and tail, which were caught in a breeze that didn't reach them where they stood.

As he stalked towards them, Svartalfheim seemed to come to life in his wake, his presence seeming to turn back the ravages of time like her magic had done to the domed room with the crystal tree.

Hermione's eyes caught on the proud arch of his neck, the elegant curve of his back and haunches, the intelligent set of his ears. But all that become irrelevant when he spoke.

His voice in her mind was all sharp, dark edges, capable of bearing displeasure in a way she still forever-and-only applied to Professor Snape. I grow tired of Death skulking about in my halls. The situation is as it has ever been. If you are quick enough to catch me, then you may take my soul. Until that time, I am free from your clutches. He stepped closer, stamping a hoof as he re-settled. Though you are a new incarnation. I knew that reality in my halls had degraded so that things beyond the Nine were seeping in, but I did not think that you would encroach in a domain beyond your own.

Hermione was bemused and therefore briefly silent as her brain sorted through the information, catching at the implication that the fissures were opening in places beyond the Nine Realms before circling back to the challenge at the beginning, but Loki was quicker to speak. "Catch you?" he asked dubiously. "You would wager your soul on the outcome of a race?"

The stallion snorted, an act somehow made more disdainful by his horse-shape than it would have been had he worn a humanoid one. And who are you, whelp?

Loki stiffened, unconsciously straightening. He announced himself with the same fierce dignity she'd seen in the videos of his time in Germany. "I am Prince Loki of Asgard."

Hermione noted the distinct lack of any surname, but her attention was more focused on the being across from them.

Ah, look at it preen. Is a title worth so much? I thought you older, but I see that you're greener than that color on your clothes. A race? I have outrun death since the time Bor sat on your throne. My hands shaped the child who now reigns in Helheim. Titles are empty things, but I am Ivaldi Deathless, first king to sit on the Throne of the First Darkness, father of the Svartalfur. When age gnawed at my bones, I shed that body for this one, swift and tireless enough to outlive even the world.

His great head swings toward Hermione. But it seems that I am not wholly forgotten. And doubtless you have a name as well. Go on then, I shall hear it.

The tone had shades of Snape all over it and she'd grown so accustomed to Odin being so dignified and kingly this snarling cynicism was faintly shocking. "Hermione Granger. Your Majesty," she added belatedly.

There hasn't been so much as a whisper from Bleiki during all this, which hadn't been so unusual when they were traveling with Loki, as her thrall seemed to dislike the man to the point of lapsing into a more wolflike than usual mien. But Bleiki had keener ears than either of them. He should have heard Ivaldi's approach far before either her or Loki.

But with Ivaldi before them, she didn't think confronting Loki on what exactly he'd done to her thrall was precisely wise.

Still, she considered it. Bleiki had been a far more loyal companion than Loki.

Ivaldi spoke again before she could mull over the wisdom of using Legilimancy to acquire an honest answer without the argument.

So? Ivaldi challenged her. Shall we begin the chase?

"It would seem you have the advantage of both form and terrain," Hermione demurred.

It isn't a footrace and you seem well enough mounted. As for the other accusation, I shall agree not to restore these halls to their glory. I haven't seen the wreckage time has made of them and I shall give you a memory of these palaces so that you shall know the route as well as I. His hooves rang against the floor impatiently.

So many concessions only served to reinforce his confidence, but if she'd been successfully outracing Death since the birth of the universe, she supposed she might be confident as well. And she'd thought the sharing of memories rarer on this thread, but now she knew the likely source of Hel's power to do so.

Hermione shifted her gaze to glare at Loki, who, sensing her stare, turned on her a look of earnest confusion. "Should I trust this race to the one who couldn't even outrun Svadilfari?" she hissed between her teeth, uncaring for the moment of his feelings. She knew the animosity went both ways and Loki had no moral qualms about disposing of monsters. If he'd done something irreparable to Bleiki, she would do something far more terrible to him than prick his feelings. A wave of heat and reassurance washed over her from the back of her skull as the Heart pulsed in time to the thought.

Rage flashed white-hot in celadon eyes and subsided as quickly as it had come, though the red lingered along the curve of his ears. Bleiki's form faded then vanished beside her. "I assure you, Mistress Granger," he twisted her name so that it was an insult, "that I shall give you a ride incomparable."

He began to shift into something like the great dark eagle that had bore her aloft against Malekith, but Ivaldi stamped his hooves so hard that sparks flew from his hooves. No. On the strength of your limbs, whelp, not your wings.

Loki grimaced as he returned to his humanoid form, then turned to her. "It seems I made a mistake in ridding us of the wolf."

"Who you will return when this race is over," Hermione told him firmly.

"No chance of that," Loki murmured. "I haven't the faintest idea which Realm we sealed him in."

As Hermione stared at him aghast, his form flowed an shifted, until a horse stood before her. Not a mare this time, but a stallion with the coloring pattern that seemed indicative of all his forms. His hooves shone like burnished gold, matching almost exactly the saddle on his back, which had been patterned after his armor. His breastcollar was worked with more gold against dark leather, the embroidered pad beneath his saddle the deep green he favored. His coat was as sleek and dark as an otter's pelt, his legs well-formed and well-muscled.

Hermione regarded him with asperity. "I don't get reins?"

Loki gave her a speaking look, but shook his head, reins and bridle forming with the movement. He'd even gone so far as to add a bit to the ensemble, which she hadn't been expecting. He make a show of tossing his head up and down, mouth working around the bit, then looked at her again. This time the message was clear, even if he lacked Bleiki's ability to speak in an animal form. Satisfied?

Both of them looked over at the sound of Ivaldi's hooves and Hermione stumbled back in Loki's chest as Ivaldi pressed a shining length of horn that hadn't previously existed against her sternum. This was the unicorn of medieval manuscripts, a fierce, powerful beast that could gore an armored knight through. It felt like someone was pressing a sharp of chilled metal into her chest and she gasped before thoughts flowed into her own.

Memories of a vast underground world awhirl with light, color, and life swept like a typhoon across her own remembrances of that same world, faded and crumbled.

Her mouth was still working soundlessly as Ivaldi danced backward, the horn evaporating like fog. What an odd thing your mind is, Ivaldi commented. But enough. Mount and let us be done with this.

Her hand absently smoothed down Loki's forelock as she turned, hand trailing across his near shoulder as she mounted. Loki shifted as he accustomed himself to her weight and she felt minute changes in the structure of the saddle and length of the stirrups as he found what fit them both best. This was no heavy war saddle, nor was it shaped like the one she'd ridden Freki with, meant for comfort on extended journeys for both man and beast. It was little more than a frame of leather and light padding from which the stirrups could hang.

Hermione removed her cloak, which had almost become as much an extension of herself as her robes and tucked it away, because she was going to be riding high and forward. Wind catching at her cloak was the last thing she needed, no matter how many spells were woven into the weave. Her ankles itched and burned as the metal embedded in her skin writhed and shifted, but the Spurs eventually quieted.

They'd agreed upon no signal, but she felt Loki's muscles tense in readiness. As some unseen, unspoken command that they both felt as clearly as a ringing bell, twin streaks of dark lightning took to something that was almost flight but for the moment silvered hooves and gold struck against an immense mosaic of topaz and ivory.