Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel, Elder Scrolls, Mass Effect, Dragon Age, Final Fantasy, Harry Potter, or anything else that finds its way into these pages. No disrespect intended, only homage, no profit made, only entertainment intended. If you're a fan, read it, if you don't like it, stop reading. Simple as pie.
Rating: M for Mature.
Spoilers: Few but possible throughout the comics and the entire MCU, although I don't know yet whether the MCU will even come into play here. Currently we are long, long before any of that takes place.
Chapter Eight: Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap
If you got a lady and you want her gone,
But you ain't got the guts,
She keeps nagging at you night and day.
Enough to drive you nuts.
Pick up the phone. Leave her alone.
It's time you made a stand.
For a fee, I'm happy to be
Your back-door man.
- "Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap)" by AC/DC
When Loki went to bed that night he looked upon it as an unwanted challenge. The forced nap earlier in the day showed him that the bed now held unpleasant connotations, or at least the bedding did, and he did not want to spend an entire night there, and in fact he had no plans to, but if he did not at least start out that way there would be questions. So he girded his courage and climbed into bed just in time as Frigga came to tuck him in. Strangely, this time she came lugging something large and apparently fairly heavy, a large picture in an ornate frame.
"Hello, my dear," she said. "I've brought you something. It's a bit superstitious of me, perhaps, but… after what happened today… I know your father has extra protection for the both of you boys now, but I thought I might put up an old family portrait in your room, one of my ancestors, to sort of, I don't know, watch over you at night while you sleep. It's silly, I know, but it will comfort me."
"I don't think it's silly, Mama," Loki said. "Who is it?"
She smiled and held up the portrait with both hands. It was an old-fashioned portrait probably twenty thousand Asgardian years old or better depicting a warrior in silverite armor, carrying a shield with two yellow wyverns rampant upon it. He had a narrow, hatchet-carved face and black hair, and two very pale blue eyes. Despite the eyes and his age he looked more like Loki than either his father or his mother.
"This was my Great-Grandfather, my boy. Your Great-Great Grandfather. His name was Loghain Mac Tir. He was born a peasant in a time and a place where being a peasant was a very hard thing to be, but he fought and he fought and he fought so hard that he rose to become the trusted right-hand man of the King of an entire realm, and one of the most powerful nobles in it. And his daughter married the son of that King, and became Royal. So you see, if you only strive hard enough, anything in this life is possible."
Loki regarded the stern face in the portrait. "Was he a good man, Mother?"
Frigga hesitated. "He always did what he thought was right, my boy, no matter how hard it was to do it. Right for the Realm, right for the People. Sometimes he made mistakes, as anyone may, but he stood up for them and did his best to make them right again. That is what I want you to be, Loki. I do not want you to ever have to live as hard a life or make as hard of decisions as Loghain did, but if you do, I want you to stand up straight and tall, and make those choices with a good heart. And if you do make a mistake, own it, and try to make it right."
"I understand."
"So. Should I put him up? I understand if you don't want it. He has been described as something of a gargoyle."
Loki nodded. "I think I'd like to have him watching over me, Mama."
"Excellent," Frigga said, leaning over the top of the portrait and clasping Loki's blanketed knee. She stood and crossed to the opposite wall, took down the picture of the sunset behind the palace that hung there, and hung the portrait of the old warrior in its place.
"I'll have someone find another place for this," she said, setting the sunset landscape aside. She came back and carefully tucked Loki into bed. "Goodnight, dear. I wish you only pleasant dreams."
Loki had his own thoughts about that, but he kept his silence. He murmured goodnight and allowed his mother to kiss the top of his head, and then she left with a swish of skirts, turning out the lights as she went. It was quite dark in Loki's room, despite the large bow windows, thanks to the heavy curtains that some servant or other drew for the night. Loki didn't care. He could see quite well in the darkness, not as well as a cat or a Khajiit but extremely well for a Nord, and a few moments staring into the darkest corner allowed his eyes to adjust to the point where he could pick out the familiar shapes of his furniture and largest toys. He was uncomfortable, but it was not as bad as he expected, perhaps because he had a plan, and he lay in wait as the palace settled down for the night.
He wasn't quite certain how he knew when or even where to go, but in a few hours he suddenly got up and cloaked himself in an illusion of invisibility and walked straight out of the palace to a part of the city he never went before. Most of the city slept but this area was still wide awake, as it was populated almost solely by Dark people – not dark skinned but Dark-living. Dark Dwarves and Dark Elves, preferring nocturnal lives to diurnal, went about their business in this quarter while the rest of the city slept, and slept while the rest of the city went about its business. The Dark Elves, their race all but extinct since the destruction of their home realm aeons ago, ran restaurants and mercantile stores, but the Dark Dwarves were, as most Dwarves, smithies. Loki went straight up to one and slammed the heavy bag of Earth Tyrant reward coin down on his trade counter.
"I would like to place a very special rush order," he said. "I'm willing to pay dearly."
"Hmph. That's as may be, little Nordling, but what are you willing to pay dearly for?" the smithy said.
"My friend has a horrible condition, lost all her hair. She's absolutely traumatized by it and won't leave her bed. I've heard Dark Dwarven smiths can make literally anything, so I've come to you asking to make her new hair. Magic hair, that will bond to her scalp without pain, and never come undone. Hair that can't be cut or shaved. Hair as black as midnight – like her old hair. Hair that will grow to fit her as she grows older."
"That's quite an order. How soon do you need this?"
"Before the night is through."
"Hmm, a challenge. I couldn't do this for less than two hundred gold, little Nordling. Have you got anything other than silver in that pouch?"
Loki actually didn't know. With some trepidation in his heart, he picked the bag up and opened it. In the light cast from the open forge he saw the comforting glimmer of gold. He counted out two hundred large gold coins and planted them one by one in stacks on the table in front of the smith. The smith picked one up and bit it to test if it was real.
"Well, then," the smith said, gathering up his gold. "I'll get started. Come back in a few hours and I should have something to show you. The enchantments are going to take longer though – have to get my nephew to handle that, and he's lazy. Best enchanter in the business though, you bet."
"Thank you."
Loki left and headed for one of the nearby merchantile stores and made a purchase, then again, moving without knowing exactly where his feet were taking him, headed to Migelo's Sundries and quietly picked the lock on the back door. He slipped into the warehouse, quiet as a mouse, and found the sleeping form nestled on some empty grain sacks therein and lay what he had bought next to them, then crept out again, relocking the back door behind him. Then he went back to the smithy and waited around for his order to be done. When it was ready, the smithy showed it off with pardonable pride.
"Light as a feather, strong as steel!" he said. "I call it, 'Strands of Nothing!'"
It truly did look like nothing by the darkness of night, fine strands of hair blacker than Loki's own. The wig was perfect, and enchanted to become exactly as real – it would never come off by any means, and it would grow from the size of a girl's head to that of a woman grown, exactly as ordered. Loki took it with thanks, and again following his feet to he knew not where, found himself outside a stately manor house that probably housed the kind of noble family for which he was looking.
"Well, this instinct, or whatever it is, hasn't been wrong yet tonight," he said, and deftly picked the lock on the door. He didn't know where he learned to do that, either. He crept through the halls straight to the room he needed. He found her asleep in bed, and suddenly, through mysterious means, a razor was in his hand. He knew just what to do with it.
It was quick and easy but hardly clean. He was disgusted with himself by the time it was through. He almost couldn't go through with it, but he'd come this far. He placed the Strands of Nothing where they belonged and fled, out of the house and back to the palace, straight to his bed and under the covers.
He stayed under only a few minutes before he pulled his head back out, and that's when he saw it, there, in front of his Great-Great-Grandfather's portrait. A figure, white and ephemeral, but quite visible. It… did not look like the man in the portrait. It wore different armor, not fine silverite but an old-fashioned variety of midweight Grey Warden armor. Wardens were a painful necessity of Vanaheim, and Loki saw Warden armor in the Royal Museum, so he recognized it by the Gryphon head on the chest. The figure's hair was cut short and his eyes were more deeply sunken into hollow sockets, the face thinner and even more hatchet-carved.
Though such an ancient land, steeped in ancient magics, Asgard did not have many ghosts. Summoners regularly performed ceremonies to send any lingering spirits onward to the proper afterlife realm and hauntings were extremely uncommon. So seeing a ghostly apparition was especially frightening, particularly after all that talk about how Loki attracted demons. He set himself to scream, but when he opened his mouth no sound emerged. The ghostly figure raised a finger to its lips, as if to shush him.
"A-a-are you here to hurt me?" Loki at last managed to say.
"No," the ghost said.
"Are you my Grandfather?"
"Yes."
"Are you… here to protect me?"
"Yes."
"Do I need it?"
In response, the ghostly apparition just gave him a long hard look from those deep-set eyes so pale and cold, like two chips of dry ice set in dark shadow. Loki realized the ghost was making a point about what he did that night, sneaking out, making… mischief, if you wanted to categorize it that way.
"I guess I already have my answer. Are you… going to… watch me while I sleep?"
The ghost just folded its arms over its chest and seemed to lean against the post of the four-poster bed.
"I guess… I have my answer. Well… good night, then."
Loki closed his eyes and tried to relax. When he sneaked a peek a few moments later, he couldn't see the apparition any longer, but he knew it was still there. The normally perfectly temperature-controlled room was still oddly chilled, as it was from the moment the spirit appeared.
He closed his eyes again, but not for long, as the door to his room opened and his mother slipped inside. She crept to his bedside and knelt down.
"Oh my, did I wake you?" she said, when she saw his eyes were open.
"No, Mama, I was awake."
"My fault. I didn't tell you any stories to tire your restless mind. It's probably more restless than ever tonight."
"It's all right, Mama. Is that why you came back? To tell me stories?"
"I came back to check on you because I couldn't sleep myself, but if you want stories, I've got them."
"You know I love your stories, Mama."
She smiled. "Excellent. What shall I tell you tonight, eh? Tales of Ancient Kings, courageous Battlemaidens, or trickster gods?"
"Actually, Mama, I'd like to hear what you know about the Grey Wardens."
"Where did you ever learn of the Grey Wardens?" Frigga asked in surprise.
"I've seen displays in the Royal Museum. Did we ever have any relatives that became Grey Wardens?"
"Well… yes… actually. Your Great-Great Grandfather Loghain became a Warden at the end of his life, in a time of great need, to account for his actions that cost the realm most of its Wardens at the start of a Blight."
"What is a Blight?" Loki asked.
Frigga frowned. "I don't think nighttime is the right time to discuss such matters."
"Please? I'll never sleep if I'm wondering."
Frigga sighed. "A Blight is when vile creatures known as Darkspawn boil up out of the Deep Roads, where Vanaheim's Dwarves used to live, and come to the surface to kill, led by a corrupted dragon known as an Archdemon. The Darkspawn come to the surface at times in small parties for raids but a Blight is a serious, all-out attack that leaves the earth scorched and twisted by their very presence."
"What are Darkspawn, exactly?"
"Wicked creatures that kill for no apparent reason, and spread a horrible pestilence called Blight Sickness that kills those who are lucky."
"What does it do to those who are unlucky?" Loki asked.
Frigga shook her head, her lips tightly compressed. "No. You don't need to know that. /spanspan style="font-size: small;"Come, let us speak of happier things. Pick another topic."
"Has anyone heard of Braska?" Loki asked.
Frigga closed her eyes. A tear leaked out from under her lashes.
"Braska's Pilgrimage went well. He received all the Aeons from all the temples, and he made it to Zanarkand, where he received the Final Aeon. He met Sin in battle over the Calm Lands, and prevailed. He brought us the Calm."
"So he'll be back soon?" Loki said, sitting up.
"No, Loki. I'm afraid not. The Summoner who defeats Sin and becomes High Summoner pays for it… with his life. Braska is dead."
"Dead? But… but what about Juna?"
"Braska made arrangements for her before he left. She will be fine. And so will you. You have a thousand years to have a peaceful, Sinless childhood. That is the best gift Braska could ever have given you."
Loki flopped back on the bed and closed his eyes tight. He wanted to cry, but tears didn't come. He was beyond tears, at least for the time being. Frigga reached out and smoothed back his hair.
"I'm sorry, my dear. I know what Braska meant to you. /spanspan style="font-size: small;"Just… try to take comfort in knowing that his soul surely made it to Sovengard, and Tsun surely allowed him entrance past the Whalebone Bridge and into the Valhalla."
"I know," Loki said, in a gravelly voice that wasn't normal for him. "It's just… hard to be happy about it."
"Well, because of his sacrifice, no one else will die because of Sin's ravages for another thousand years or so," Frigga said. "That's a wonderful thing, and very worth dying for. I think Braska died happy, and proud."
Frigga gave him a few minutes to think about it, then got to her feet. "I'm sorry you had to find out tonight of all nights, but I couldn't bear to lie to you. I hope you manage to sleep, my boy. You need your sleep. This is a night I fear my words have been no aid to you on that front at all."
She left, and Loki lay in the darkness until the first light of morning lightened his room through the heavy curtains. He got up before a servant could come and start setting up for the day. He pulled his curtains back, set out his clothes, and bathed swiftly, then dressed himself in a similar hurry. He left the room and headed down to the family dining room for breakfast before the servant even arrived. He sat in his chair and waited.
Breakfast was delayed by a guard who came in to retrieve Loki and take him to the Throne Room. Loki rather had expected this, so he went without question. The noble parents of Sif stood there, distraught, before Odin on his throne. Her mother was almost in hysterics. Loki hadn't expected such a reaction.
"All right, my son is present. Now tell me what is going on," Odin said.
"Your little miscreant," the father said, pointing at Loki, "broke into our house last night and… and… and SHAVED OUR DAUGHTER'S HEAD!"
Odin's beard twitched, but no one could swear if he might have smiled a bit. "Is that all?"
"Is that all? Is that all?!"
"It is only hair, is it not? Your daughter is unharmed."
"Unharmed? He didn't only shave her hair. He also replaced it with some sort of magic wig – strong as steel it is, and firmly attached! We can't get it off by any means! We even took her to a mage! Imagine the reaction of a little girl who wakes up one morning in a pile of her own shorn locks, wearing an ugly mass of jet black hair of which she can't be rid!"
Now Odin's beard moved again, but this time it was obvious that he was frowning. "My son's hair is jet black. Do you call him ugly?"
The father's eyes grew very wide. "N-no, My King. Of course not."
"Did your daughter… perchance… call him ugly?"
"Oh, she would never!"
"She tripped me in the street, pushed me down with her foot, called me a Vanir dog, and said even my mother couldn't bear to touch me," Loki said./
Odin looked from Loki back to the father with brow raised over his good eye. "Your daughter accosted a Prince of Asgard. Since the designated punishment for such an offense is death by beheading, I believe she got off rather easy, don't you think?"
"But… but..."
"Take your wife home, Iggvar Ivarson. Black hair is no great punishment for a girl foolhardy enough to insult a Prince of the realm. Perhaps dealing with some of the prejudice Vanir have to face will make her more sympathetic towards the races of Asgard."
The nobles bowed their way out of Odin's presence, knowing they had nothing left to argue. Loki was surprised to get off so easily but he still expected some punishment for taking matters into his own hands. Odin looked at him and he braced himself. Sent to bed without breakfast? Perhaps something worse this time.
"Well, I feel our breakfast has been delayed by nonsense long enough," Odin said. "Come along, my boy. I'm quite hungry, aren't you?"