A/N With thanks to MandalorianPirate for the beta. All further mistakes remain my own!
o0o
The journey back to Asgard is not an easy one.
The blade missed vital organs, true, but it didn't inflict a mere graze. The performance he'd put on for Thor had not been entirely fictional; such is the way with the most effective lies. He has lost blood and the pain is not insignificant.
But still, it was an opportunity. One he is relieved he had the presence of mind to act upon.
The way is arduous but not completely beyond his strength. Scaling the ridge proves to be the most taxing endeavour.
He's fortunate this desolate rock holds little combustible material. It had pained Thor to abandon his martyred brother's body to the elements without so much as a funeral pyre to mark his passing, but Loki had counted on that. What he hadn't quite expected was how easy Thor would make this for him. The golden imbecile had departed on foot.
His einherjar form is not necessary just yet, but he dare not dispel the illusion he has conjured. (It had worked. Thank the ancestors, it had worked). Maintaining a glamour costs a fraction of the effort each new change does, and he does not wish to overtax himself. And besides, he must master all the subtleties of his new disguise if it's going to be convincing. He holds the threads of the magic in his mind beside the camouflage that thwarts Heimdall's gaze and focuses his concentration on the task at hand.
Once he's confident his movements won't give him away, he assesses the idling skiff for damage. It is listing slightly to one side and some of its panelling has been shorn off during the journey, but it's a simple matter of clearing the coating of fine black sand that has settled over the vents before it lifts smoothly from the ground. The approaching storm buffets and rocks it as it rises, but it should hold steady with some speed. It will certainly outrun the storm.
He's confident its absence (and that of his body) won't be missed. A search party will undoubtedly be dispatched to locate his brother, and he supposes there's a chance Thor might feel sentimental enough to want to return for what he's left behind, but it's doubtful he'll be confident of the location. Thor always did leave the logistics of their little jaunts to Loki and this time has been no different.
He coaxes the vehicle into proper flight and turns it, heading back the way they came. The shattered remnants of this world pass by like skeletal fingers, the hulls of ships long scuttled exposing the bones of their structures to the indifferent grey air.
The quiet of it gnaws at him and he urges the skiff to fly quicker.
If he's being generous to Thor, he must admit the passageway would be difficult for a layman to locate again. He might struggle himself were it not for the invisible pull of the tear. The disturbance, the wrongness, the otherworldly crackle of it whispers to his senses. He can almost taste the petrichor flavour of it on his tongue, and the nearer he approaches, the sharper it becomes.
He has no one to impress this time and a wound to favour, so he eases through the tear at a more sedate pace than before. It takes slightly more from him than he had hoped to commit to increase his shield against the gaze of the gatekeeper as he passes the threshold, but it is necessary.
The craft coasts over smooth and agitated water alike. As he nears the outskirts of the city, he cloaks both himself and the water the skiff displaces. It is a further strain and his wound protests, but he won't have to maintain it for long.
At the shore he finds a spot not far from the dock to sink the craft beneath the waves. It's a sturdy beast and not predisposed to capsize, but by flooding the vents and overburdening the upward thrust he's able to rend a weakened panel in two. It welcomes the steady progress of water and accepts its fate. When it is fully submerged, he releases its cloaking with a sigh of relief and rests for a moment among the rocks. His wound burns in the saltwater and his limbs begin to feel heavy, so he doesn't linger for long.
He intercepts the search party on their way to the observatory. He does not try to turn them back, but instead suggests silently to them that they will find some of what they seek. There will be no sign of Thor or his woman, no sign either of the weapon. But they will find a body, and circumstances will prevent them from bringing it back. A sandstorm, perhaps; he will leave the details to them. The Allfather will be notified, of course. They needn't trouble themselves with that.
Their minds accept this fiction willingly. They have no great love for their fallen prince and in their hearts they fear Thor may be lost to them. The illusion so closely matches their innermost thoughts that the magic required is little. They continue on their way with barely a pause.
He remains unmolested for the rest of the journey to the palace; an officious aura and purposeful stride is all that's required to pass unnoticed. He will not court discovery, however, and looks to take hidden ways into the palace proper.
The way is long but requires no more than instinct and memory to navigate. He has been a shadow on these paths for centuries, the routes between destinations well-trod over the years. The underground network has been his hideaway, his accomplice and his ally since he was a child, its rooms and chambers never closed to him. He draws that knowledge around himself now as he heads deeper into its embrace.
The scents of the healing hall reach him first; marjoram, fennel and citrus combine in a heady mix of soothing and sharp. These are the scents of his boyhood, of misdeeds and adventure, of safety and comfort. The low murmur of patient voices reaches him next, and he takes a steadying breath before slipping entirely into shadow.
He helps himself to a salve from a shelf of medicinal ointments, jars and pumices. The ingredients he needs for a powder are easy enough to purloin, but he has to employ distraction to spirit away the pestle and mortar he needs. While the healers are still puzzling over the toppled bell jar, he snags a length of wrapping from a neatly folded stack.
He finds an empty alcove at the secluded end of the hall and pulls the privacy drape in place. He's confident he can disguise himself again in time if he's disturbed and finally allows his cloak and glamour to dissolve entirely. He perches on the edge of the bunk and closes his eyes for only a moment.
It's an effort of will to peel his bracing arm from his midsection, and when it comes away his clothing is sticky and damp. There is heat and a rich copper smell that even the saltwater hasn't completely dispelled.
He takes a dagger to his ruined tunic and suppresses a hiss as it comes away from the wound. It bleeds sluggishly but is not as ugly as he'd feared; the edges are clean instead of ragged and no part of the blade remains inside. It will scar, but it will not be too unsightly.
Once he has stripped and bared his torso, he cleans the site of the wound as best he can. The sealing powder he crushes burns when it comes into contact with his exposed flesh and the angle is a little awkward, but he manages. It stems the worst of the bleeding. The salve will ward off the poisons that can take root in a wound of this kind, and the wrappings he winds tightly around his midsection should prevent him from reinjuring himself as he moves.
He finds when he is done that he feels weary. His body longs for rest. The time he has spent languishing in his cell has hardly been conducive to maintaining peak condition, and he supposes even Thor would concede rest for a battle wound like this.
But he cannot rest just yet. There is still one more thing he must do, and the task will be no hardship. If he's truly honest with himself (and he tries to be even when no one else will), this is a duty he relishes.
He finds Odin alone in the throne room, pacing haltingly among the detritus of battle. The Allfather looks worn and weary, the twin hurts of grief and betrayal weighing heavily upon him. Loki feels a confusing surge of anger and pity when he sees this and reminds himself this is all the old man's own doing.
Odin climbs the dais as Loki-as-einherjar approaches, the patriarch's proud shoulders hunched with burden and age. The old man is turned towards his broken throne and looks every bit the elderly dictator coming to the end of his reign.
"Forgive me, my liege," Loki begins, addressing the back of the mighty ruler brought low. "I've returned from the Dark World with news."
The last time he was in this room, a supplicant at the mercy of Asgard's might, he'd had the Allfather's full attention. Swift had been his judgement then. This time he sees he will have to work to coax forth the emotion he craves: not anger but sorrow, or – dare he even hope – even one small scrap of approval.
Odin's head turns just slightly, the promise of hope enough to move him to speak.
"Thor?" he asks, and the longing in it is enough to ignite Loki's ire. He will dash the old fool's hopes with casual dismissal and watch as he stoops even lower.
"There's no sign of Thor or the weapon, but…" He lets the pause stretch and steps closer, the anticipation delicious. Yes, he has Odin's full attention now.
"What?" the Allfather prompts, and is that apprehension Loki can detect in his eye?
"We found a body."
It is almost too perfect a moment to contain, but contain it Loki must. This is it now, what he's waited a lifetime to hear. A declaration of regret, perhaps, or a single tear of loss. Surely a spasm of paternal grief, if only for the tiny foundling he once felt the compassion to deliver into the kindness of his wife's arms. At least some sign of kingly sorrow, even in the presence of such a lowly servant.
Loki bows his head and waits, and the Allfather speaks his name.
He savours the sound. He perhaps fails to hide all of his triumph when he meets Odin's gaze, his silence enough to confirm his king's fear.
The absence of reaction from the Allfather echoes loudly around the chamber, and Loki experiences an exquisite stab of anxiety. He is caught, his mind insists. His glamour has been too weak or he has given himself away. Odin has recognised him and will call for his arrest. He will laugh at him as he sends him away and mock this pathetic attempt to gain favour.
But no. No. It is much worse than that.
Odin turns away from his news-bearer with the dismissive air of the high born. When he speaks, it is with such flat detachment that Loki can barely believe his ears.
"Then justice has been served," Odin decrees, and Loki reels where he stands.
His wound throbs beneath its bindings to make its presence known, and for a moment his glamour flickers before he regains mastery of himself. He takes a hurried step forward as Odin ascends towards his throne. There is a way to salvage this, he is sure. The old fool clearly doesn't understand.
"Forgive me, sire," Loki stammers. "There is more. It would appear as though battle was met. There were many elves slain, a number by the prince's hand."
Odin is unmoved by this and apparently has no comment. Loki flounders for a moment for the right thing to say, for the words that will garner Odin's admiration. He must lead the old man to the correct conclusion without tipping his hand.
"Your son died valiantly in battle," he continues with a worryingly genuine waver of emotion. "His body was laid as if in state, his weapon in his hands."
I died a hero, Loki thinks. Will you not even acknowledge it?
"Clearly my son yet lives," Odin answers with some impatience. If there is any regret for Loki's passing, he hides it well. "You will return with fresh men to seek him out, and you will not stop until he and the aether are found."
So that is all the thought he is to be spared. As only a footnote to his brother's story, a distasteful accident of fate, an embarrassment, a family's shame. He is passed over even at his most glorious hour.
Loki feels stunned. He's too removed from his own emotions to question why he's surprised.
"And what of Prince Loki," he forces himself to ask. "Would you have us arrange funeral rites?"
"The ceremony is not for traitors, even royal ones," the Allfather answers. "Have him interred beyond the city walls, well out of sight of the people."
He is dismissed by a raising of the royal chin, but it takes him a moment to respond.
Confusion and hurt are crashing in, hysteria threatening to burst free. He will not even be granted a commoner's wake, deserving nothing at all for his sacrifice. Were his mother still here perhaps it would be different, but on Odin's part it seems there really was scarce little affection to be had.
More alarming is the power the old tyrant's words still have over him, on a disgraced son already so utterly convinced of his father's disdain. He had not expected this level of cruelty at all, but to have it rip the still beating heart from his chest with such force is to admit to his own lingering weakness.
"As you command, my liege," he manages to choke out, and turns to make his retreat. He is only a few steps in when the anger and hatred rise up to swallow him, and he clings to these old friends like a drowning man to a raft.
"You would disown your own son so readily," he hisses as he turns back, spittle flying in the force of his contempt. Odin reveals no displeasure in the face of this impertinence, and his calm demeanour goads Loki further into fury.
Does he know, Loki thinks. Does he toy with me even now?
He bares his teeth at the man he once called Father and advances once again. His fingers itch for a real weapon.
"There is nothing to be done that pleases you," Loki accuses sweetly, "no deed or gesture that conforms to the Allfather's standards. We are all of us judged before we so much as try, and woe betide those who fail to meet your lofty expectations."
"Be silent!" Odin bellows, his pride finally piqued.
Where once Loki may have quailed in the face of his father's temper, the command only serves to fuel his rage. He will be silent no longer, hold his peace no more. He will have his victory one way or the other and he will bring the Allfather to his knees.
The power he summons is there at his calling without need for conscious thought. Even unplanned, the spell weaves itself with intricate care, and almost before he realises he's doing it, he's casting it at his father with all the seidr he can muster.
The angry tears track unnoticed down his face and his wound flares white hot. He grits his teeth and growls out his agony as he works.
The Allfather counters his efforts with a surge of magic that staggers them both. They battle furiously without landing a single blow, the air around them sharp and acrid with duelling forces.
Weary and aging though he may be, the Allfather's seidr is powerful, and Loki struggles to master his defences. He drops all pretences now, his presence exposed to the sight of Heimdall and Odin alike. Despite the extra edge this gives him, it is not quite enough, and within moments he feels the Allfather's efforts begin to overwhelm him. The tear in his side screams at him, and he has just enough time to rue this attempt while so badly injured.
Oh shit, is all he can think when the spell turns back on itself and slams Loki into perfect darkness.