Winter's Treasures
By Rey

Chapter summary: Denial set in. And regrets came, always too late.

2. Impacts

The dwelling Loki had found himself ensconced in, it resembled more a stone hole than a house. A pretty small hole at that, for the monster – no, no, the being, if not a person yet, not just yet – though not for himself. There was no window there, only one door with ventilation holes above it. The bed platform filled the entirety of the back wall, blocked off from the main area by a huge but empty table, on which sat a huge but empty leather pack and a huge but empty stone bowl. A bundle of old leather lay neatly by one rough-hewn table leg, and, as he peeked in, inside it lay his Asgardian paraphernalia.

"Do not let anybody see those, little one," his helper – taller than him by at least four feet, and he refused to see others of their features – whispered. They were no longer weeping softly, but their voice had not yet recovered. Their Allspeak was stiff, slow and heavily accented, heightening the feelings of surreality and displacement that hit him as soon as this alien grief for an alien being had subsided a little.

"You know… who I am?" he croaked back, his voice soft, even as he held the bundle close to his chest. His eyes were determinately focused on an open stone chest parked by the opposite table leg, containing what seemed like more leather.

"You are a lost child," came the answer, sad and sympathetic. "That is all we need to know. You were here just after half of the land had been torn up. You are a gift for us."

"I am not a thing, nor a child," he hissed, with just a quarter of the heat that usually filled his voice, and none of it in his intention. Echoes of war and monsters came back, now accompanied by a more recent, clearer concept of "war trophy;" and, again, he fled from their sinister caresses.

Literally so, as he scrambled to under the table and tried to peek into the stone chest. He needed clothes, anyway, if he was not allowed to look the least bit Asgardian in this place that he refused to name. He had only been wearing a makeshift-looking loincloth made from some thick, rough fabric all this time, and it made him feel naked – even more naked than the present condition of his mind and emotions suggested.

A weak, tired chuckle came from behind him, as a pair of hands helped him plop into the chest. "I did not say that you are a thing, little one. Gifts are not always items; and in any case, it was your presence that we considered. You have given us hope," they said quietly, with such an amount of sincerity and earnestness that golden hair and blue eyes briefly flashed in his mind. "My grandparent and a few others found you on the snow at the edge of the crater, when they returned from a hunt-and-forage. It was as if you had fallen from the sky, Ymir's way to show that we still… live, that we have a future, even though those stinking pigs tried to kill us without any provocation. No little one was born from the end of the war to about five hundred years after that, at least here, and yet here you are."

Offence and anger warred with shame and bitterness and a smidgen of dark, ironic humour in his mind. He hunched in on himself amidst the sea of neatly folded giant, old leather and cloth paraphernalia, paralysed by his own mind and the lingering scent that he had so briefly but so intensely known quite recently.

`They did not know that the attack was committed by just one Asgardian; the uninvited guest they have been sheltering, in fact.

`A very, very poor substitute for your life, old giant. You should have just abandoned me in the cold, like my birth father did, and let the realm claim me like it should have all those centuries ago.`

The same pair of hands fished his frozen body out, at length. "I apologise, little one," the owner of the hands murmured, still as sincerely as before. "We must not be here overlong. It is dangerous. Scavangers will come soon. We must seek help in Tora; shelter, if possible, if not a permanent place there." Their voice faltered for half a moment, but forged on right after, "Come. The others are waiting outside."

"The others," he parroted dully, from his place seated sprawled and listless on the rough stone floor. `More monsters. – Monsters like me?`

"The others," the… being… agreed. Their voice hitched and shook again, but, again, they forged on, as their equally shaking hands sorted out the clothes and other things that the chest contained. "The elders sacrificed themselves for us, the children, including my grandparent, from whom you and I nursed. We must honour them by living. We cannot continue to live here, however, so we must seek shelter elsewhere. The elders never returned with anything to eat these days, and our runners to the other settlements never came back, either. The wilds are barren. The æsir destroying light scared the animals away, and the storms that came after it buried all the plants in too much snow and ice. It burnt our farms beforehand, so we truly have nothing here, and not even some little hope left." A rattling inhale of breath, then they muttered as if to themself, with grim, unshakeable determination that bordered on mad desperation, "I am the eldest among us, and the most trained. I shall lead all of you to Tora to my best ability, even if I shall perish in the effort. Do not fret, little one; you will live."

Loki felt sick. A memory of a gentle giant's bony frame crowded his mind, pressing against his skin with remembered coolness that was warmth, filling his nose with the scent of cold plantlife and brisk tundra winds.

`"You will live."`

The text and subtext were clear.

`"I may not live, if you do. I have accepted it. It is all right, for me."`

Who was the monster?

There were three sets of clothes in his size buried deep in the stone chest. His helper was startled and aggrieved anew by the sight of those rough old leathers, furs and fabrics, just a little finer than the rest of the garments. "I nearly forgot these," they breathed. "These were from my grandparent's best set of clothes, little one; the attire was their dress uniform from their military days. They cut it up and resized it for you, after sparing one for me. Keep these well. Wear these with pride and honour in Tora, but not on the road. We must avoid tempting desperate adults along the way."

Numbly, Loki put those clothes together with his Asgardian attire in his bundle, then watched as his helper hacked and sewed together a much rougher and much more concealing attire for him from one of the remaining garments. Along the way, three sets of surprisingly soft and light footsteps entered the dark, humble dwelling, so he scrambled up the side of the stone chest and plopped back into it, shaking with trepedation and an unknown emotion that he did not know – refused to know.

The voices of the newcomers were equally light and clear, just like his was, and his helper to a great extent. However, he could not understand what they were saying. What was wrong with the Allspeak? It was still there! He and his helper had been using it all this time! The owner of the gravelly voice had even used it with him before… before….

He gritted his teeth together and clenched his fists, breathing hard, swallowing back his emotions.

The owners of the three new voices were Derek, Đorkyn and Avlar. They stood just a little taller than he was, a foot or two at most. All were blue-skinned, red-eyed, with markings peeking on the little patches of skin that did not manage to be thoroughly concealed in old leathers, rough fabrics and forlorn-looking furs, which were along their black-clawed toes, black-clawed fingers and craggy faces.

Monsters.

But was he, himself, not a monster? A greater monster than they were, even.

Their only fault was most likely just existing.

His fault….

His faults….

They saw it, together, as they filed out of the gravelly voice's dwelling for the last time – which was also the first, for him. Ovrekka, his helper and the self-assigned leader of their little band, had garbed themself similarly to the other three, then helped him put his on: clothes that smothered nearly his entire form, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, that smelled too much like… like that gentle care. A makeshift pack was on his back, smaller and less filled than the others, occupied by his bundle of keepsakes, a makeshift bedroll, and a smaller bundle of scraps and sewing kit.

There was no scrap of food to be had, let alone to bring along with them. And indeed, upon looking around under the gentle silvery light of the two different-coloured moons above, he found that they seemed to be standing in a gost town of snow-covered little stone dwellings, intact but for the lack of living presence anywhere nearby.

He shivered.

Ovrekka tucked him close to their side, even as they gently tugged him forward, following behind Derek – the third tallest, after Ovrekka and Đorkyn. Interpreting his unease correctly, they murmured just for his ears, "Most of the villagers were caught in the destroying light, little one, but it left most of the houses intact. We had been harvesting what we could in preparation for the storm season, and all hands were needed for such task, even little ones like you, so only few of us were spared after the blast."

Their attention seemed to travel to Đorkyn and Avlar, who had drawn far ahead, then to Derek who seemed to drag on their feet yards away in front. Then, in a quieter voice that he could barely hear, Ovrekka continued, "I and those three, along with a number of elders including Gannha, were saved by happenstance only. I was the designated teacher for the younger children, passing down the knowledge my grandparent, parents and nar had given me since I was very little. Those three were punished for roaming far afield in the wilds by their parents, by attending additional lessons with me and Gannha. The other elders who happened to be home were stowing the food that they had harvested from the fields." They let out a shaky sigh, then finished with, "The elders ate the food, and we nursed from them. Some of them tried to do some hunt-and-forage farther away when the supplies got low, but they either never came back, or returned empty-handed. We tried to stay here as long as we could. We hoped for some help from other villages, or even from Tora and the Capital; we sent Avlar's dam and Derek's parents to run messages there. But nobody came." Their voice broke in the last three words, and Loki's heart gave an unexpected squeeze in response.

He swallowed hard, felt so queasy, so disgusted with himself.

And then, near the edge of the ghost town, he witnessed with his own eyes what Ovrekka had told him before.

A crater, indeed: a burnt, jagged deep bowl that seemed to run for at least miles – if not tens of miles – all round, catching not just a few of the little stone dwellings in it, if looking at the remaining stone walls along some of the edges. The sharp, cloying smell of jötun death wafted up from it, a miasma that shook his – no, this body's, just this red-eyed, blue-skinned monstrous body's – instincts up. Snow and ice seemed to shun the place; but, contrarily, remnant tendrals of the Bifrost's energy lingered in and along the edges of the crater, melding seamlessly with the odor, corrupting the land.

He would have relished such a combination, such a destruction.

Once.