Summary
Does anyone ever really get what they want? What they need? A threesome, of sorts. Loki/Nuala/Nuada.
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Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
William Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act IV, Scene I.
Chapter 1: The God of Mischief
It had started out as a joke - an act to avenge a slight, if he was honest - but Loki wasn't laughing, and the truth was not as malleable as he had thought. How had it all gone so wrong? His own trick turned back on him. The jester become the jest. The butt of his own joke. He had no one to blame but himself. Oh, and the oh so noble, honourable – tragic! – royal twins of Bethmoora. They too owned a decent share of the blame.
He'd thought it a prank ripe for playing, a bad turn well-deserved. He should have been laughing. Instead, he was heartsick, drowning in a sea of self-pity. The Jötunheimr frost giant sat down and looked in the mirror. He shuddered with distaste; he didn't like any part of what he saw.
Maybe this time it will be different, whispered his naïve, ever-hopeful heart. Maybe this time he will want you.
With a low curse, the son of Odin – the adopted son of Odin – picked up the hairbrush on the dressing table and attacked his flowing locks. He wouldn't want to look anything other than his best for his lover. After all, Prince Nuada was so exacting in his requirements.
Despite his sour mood, a frisson of excitement ran through Loki at the thought of the tall, proud warrior. His hand slowed and his blood quickened. "Nuada," he whispered, watching himself in the mirror, savouring the name on his tongue. His eyes slid to the reflection of the bed behind him and lingered on the smooth, silken sheets, on the memories of the pleasures he had known there and would know again tonight. The flesh between his legs began to throb and he gave up on his hair altogether. Pressing the hard, silver curve of the brush to his centre, he closed his eyes and moved against it, seeking to soothe the ache, if only for a moment, but it wasn't enough. His eyes flew open and his lips twisted in a mirthless smile as he took in his own reflection. The elven warrior had insisted on shifting the dressing table – and mirror – to the wall facing the foot of the bed. Nuada liked to see everything; Loki only wanted to watch Nuada.
He slammed the brush down on the dressing table. By Fenrir, but he wanted to throw it at the accursed mirror! "Seven years bad luck," he said, in mocking imitation of the mighty Thor. He could have told his brother – his adopted brother - that you didn't need any broken mirrors to have bad luck rain down on you. Casting his mind back six months, before he had caught the capricious eye of the Norns, he tried to remember what it had felt like to be – well, if not exactly lucky then at least not unlucky…
… … …
He was sitting at a bench in a small, dark tavern in the Troll Market under the Brooklyn Bridge, feeling rather pleased with himself. It had been an inspired choice of place to lay low. No one here knew him so there would be no tattletales to run back to his meddlesome father and brother. And the ale wasn't bad either, although it couldn't hold a candle to Heiðrún's brew. As he gazed down into his half-empty tankard, idly wondering how long he'd have to keep out of sight, the low murmur around him stopped dead. He looked up to see what cat had got the tongues of the other patrons.
A tall, commanding figure stood in the centre of the room: pale skin, marble-white; hard features, chiselled, like a statue; dark lips, dark eyes, whorls and lines on his face; a fall of white-blonde hair, gilt-tipped at the ends; broad shoulders, powerful arms and thighs; strong, capable-looking hands with long, elegant fingers; erect carriage – proud, unbending.
An elf, Loki realised; Bethmooran, if he didn't miss his guess. And a warrior too, going by the silver sword and spear strapped to the stranger's back, and the dagger tucked into the folds of his crimson sash. Loki admired how the broad, flowing piece of material emphasised the stranger's lean waist.
His eyes drifted back to the elf's face and he found himself pinned by a pair of flame-gold eyes. The trickster felt an unfamiliar twinge of discomfort at being caught staring. His reaction was instinctive. His thin lips curled in a half-sneer, half-smile. He had just started to raise his tankard in insolent acknowledgment of the other's regard when the elf turned his attention to the bar, dismissing the Asgardian demi-god without so much as a second glance. A spurt of rage flared in Loki's breast; it was a gesture he knew only too well – a gesture he'd endured often enough from Odin. Thor too. Puny, insignificant. At the very worst, a nuisance. Nothing worth bothering about.
Loki leaned back against the wall with a frown on his face, and regarded the elven warrior.
"Who is he?" he asked a troll sitting at the bench next to him.
The troll, who had been enjoying his own drink, stopped mid-sip, and turned to face Loki. Everyone in the Market knew who the tall, pale elf was. "You're not from here then," he remarked, the suspicion clear in his voice.
"No, not from here," Loki replied, the impatience clear in his. He tamped down his irritation at the dim-witted creature. "And not wanting to run into any trouble either," he added. At least, not just yet. He gave a brief nod towards the elf. "He looks like one to avoid."
"He is," agreed the troll. "Stay here long enough and you'll soon learn not to cross Prince Nuada."
"Balor's son? I thought he was dead. Or in exile or something."
"He is. And he's not." The troll turned away from the inquisitive stranger.
Loki scowled at the great, lumbering creature's back. If he didn't have bigger fish to fry…
He looked at the proud prince once more, trying to recall all that he had heard about the Bethmooran royal family. The flotsam and jetsam of memory floated to the surface, and before too many more minutes had passed, a nasty smile twisted the God of Mischief's lips.
Did he but know it, the arrogant elf's fate had just been sealed.
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AN: A big thank you to LadyOfTheSouthernIsles a.k.a. TheDreamsOfTheAges, who beta'd this for me, made a heap of great suggestions, and encouraged me to pick it up again after a VERY long hiatus! Love ya sis!