Disclaimer: I don't own anything except my OCs, and most of them are heavily inspired by mythology.
"So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings."
The Hobbit, J. R. R. Tolkein
This is really, insanely, mind-bogglingly stupid.
The thought plays on repeat in her mind as Loki runs down Hummingbird Road, away from the Stackhouse home and swiftly into the woods that border the cemetery, deftly jumping and twisting to avoid roots and rocks. She has to buy time, she knows, for Sam to get his act together and for Bill to deliver him to Maryann for the final stage of their plan, but she is acutely aware that the maenad will hardly believe that her god has come without a sacrifice – a sacrifice that she screwed up because Loki had overlooked a stupid charm she'd given out some weeks ago.
Which is way she pretends to stumble and allows herself to drop to the ground, giving Maryann ample time to catch up. Like I said, the Æsir mage presses her forehead into the dirt, squeezing her eyes shut in self-admonishment, really fucking stupid.
Time for contemplation ends abruptly when the maenad bares down on her, soft human hands replaced by gnarled claws as she rolls Loki roughly onto her back and comes down to straddle Loki's waist with a twisted, dark smile. 'I caught you.' She sings, tone bloated with satisfaction.
'Yeah,' the black-haired woman breathes out, eyeing the knife Maryann has produced from the bodice of her dress somewhat apprehensively, 'you did.'
She really can't believe she's actually proceeding with her hastily patched together scheme - it's risky, it's dangerous… but it needs to be done, so Loki drops her many barriers, un-weaving layer-upon-layer of magic that has prevented her fragile human form from injury and allows Maryann Forrester to drive the dagger she holds deep into her chest.
The shock of the pain is enough to make her gasp, and only eternal pride stops her from screaming to the night sky. Her power struggles within her, surging to heal but not able to do so without permission – and Loki holds it off fiercely. This is for my friends, she reminds her magic, herself, and the battering of power ebbs just in time for the blade to slide out of her skin in a sickly squelch of blood and flesh that is somehow worse than the penetration. With eyes blurring from the pain, she watches dimly as Maryann dips shaking fingers into the human blood that clings to the blade and sobs in something like ecstasy.
'Oh, yes,' the maenad's voice is reverent as she smears a sticky line of scarlet onto her clavicle, 'you are the vessel. Thank you.'
It is in that moment, bleeding out on the ground of a run-down cemetery, that the Æsir mage is struck by the similarities they share.
Both old; both playing human; both powerful as shit. It is a glimpse into a future where Loki is unconcerned with a conscious, and it chills her to the bone. Loki doesn't believe that anything is black or white – her world is made up of shades of grey that encompass every creature she has ever met, vampires and Æsir and shifter alike. Maryann is "raving" to the core, but Loki imagines if she had spent ten-thousand years on a futile mission trying to find the man she believed to be her husband she would hardly be any better off, and it's a sad realization. So when the sound of Sam's bovine feet echo in the dark, Loki closes her eyes. The maenad has to die – she knows this – but as the ancient woman sobs out cries of love to her "husband", all Loki can feel is pity.
Then there's a gasp and a sick sound to slicing flesh, and a breathless, confused question,
('Am I to be your sacrifice?')
and when the familiar sound of a shifter changing forms fills the night, Maryann is struck silent in the face of death, the face of the man she's chased since he was hardly more than a child. Until:
'Was there no God?'
Loki's eyelids snap open in time to see Sam, arm covered in oily black blood, crush the maenads heart in his palm, and Maryann Forrester withers away like the ages are catching up to her. The desiccated corpse falls at the side of Loki Odinsdóttir, Princess of Asgard, and all her dizzy mind can think as she stares at the shell of what was once a creature of ten-thousand years is "not the one you wanted".
But then Sam is at her side, uncaring for his nudity as he stares down at her. 'Vick, oh God, Vick.' He clasps her left hand to his chest and looks about him frantically. 'Bill!'
Sookie and her boyfriend rush into Loki's line of sight, and the telepath gives a little cry of horror – but the vampire is staring at the wound with blown pupils, and Loki is suddenly more aware than before. 'Sookie,' she chokes, 'keep Bill away!'
'Vick, you need to drink his blood.' She insists, and Loki's grip on her boss's hand tightens in urgency. The fairy doesn't get it – in taking off all of the shielding charms, she'd also removed the spell that keeps supes from smelling her blood.
So her next warning is honest. 'He'll drain me if you don't keep him away.'
'Do as she says, Sook,' the shifter insists, throwing the vampire a wary look as he takes in Bill's near frenzy before turning back to her, 'what do you need me to do?'
Loki haltingly instructs him to rip the fabric of her shirt away from the wound, which he promptly does one-handed, and the Æsir mage finally knocks down the metaphysical dam that allows power to rush through her once more. Sam gasps as the torn flesh glows faintly white and knits back together inch by painful inch, and the icy burning sensation of unrefined magic makes her bite her lip and furrow her brow to keep her concentration. She isn't a healer – she's not even close, honestly – so the wound is not completely gone by the time the glow fades, but the only evidence of injury that remains after a long minute is a centimetre deep cut between her ribs and an all-encompassing ache in her chest.
'Fuck,' Loki exclaims to the star-filled sky above her, carelessly shattering the stunned silence of all who witnessed the healing, 'I'm going to sleep for a week.' She peeks at her boss. 'And you're naked.'
Sam blushes, and from across the way where Sookie stands with her arms wrapped around her finally more composed boyfriend, the telepath bursts into semi-hysterical laughter.
xXx
It's only an hour before dawn when Eric alights on the little Juliet balcony of Victoria's well kept home in the heart of Bon Temps. He shouldn't be here, he knows, but had been unable to stop himself from coming the moment Pam had left his side earlier that night.
The mage's emotions tear through his being as though they are his own, and Eric has grown used to the peculiar hum in the corner of his mind that is distinctly Victoria, so it had nearly shocked him from his throne in Fangtasia earlier that night when the tearing feel of agonising pain swept through the bond. It had subsided into weariness and sadness and a vague sense of triumph so quickly that he assumed all was well, but...
Well, he should at least check on his human – that's his story and he's sticking to it.
The Viking, acutely aware of the fact that Victoria is feet away from him, taps gently on the glass door, anticipating a cautious response from the woman inside. So he's surprised when all her hears is the shifting of bedclothes and a quiet "come in, Eric", but after only a moments he twists the antique brass door handle and steps inside Victoria's home.
It is, as he suspected, a bedroom, lit only by the quiet glow of the lamp on the bedside table. The room is decorated like something out of Best Homes and Gardens, all colour co-ordination and matching furniture. But the little things here and there – the dressing table scattered with make-up, the messy pile of sheet music set on top of the chest of drawers, the busy and out-of-place bookcase crammed into a corner – is what distinguishes the room as cosy rather than pristine. A queen-sized, sturdy oak bed sits in the centre of the room, so overflowing with cushions of all shapes and sizes and colours that it takes Eric a moment to pick out Victoria in the pile, curled on the side closest to the lamp and holding a well-loved copy of A Study in Scarlet in one slack hand, and the Viking moves on silent feet to stand beside her.
The mage smiles faintly up at him, eyes half-lidded in exhaustion and looking as pale as a vampire. The sight sends an unidentifiable pang through Eric's gut. 'Victoria.' He greets. 'You do not look well.'
'Ah, that's just what every woman wants to hear.' She teases, shifting her legs to make room by her knees and patting the mattress meaningfully. After a moment of consideration Eric sits where indicated, and the springs of the mattress groan under his weight. 'I lost quite a bit of blood today – please excuse me if I'm not looking my best.'
Eric's attention sharpens immediately. 'Blood?'
'Yes, blood,' Victoria rolls her eyes at having to repeat herself, 'or did you somehow manage to finagle a way out of this thrice-cursed blood bond and miss the horrendous pain earlier?'
The Viking, for once, refuses to rise to the sarcastic words. 'Where were you hurt?' She ignores the words, and he captures her gaze in an attempt to pull her under his compulsion. 'Tell me.'
Victoria merely quirks an eyebrow as if to say "nice try" – Eric's inability to glamour her is (and always has been) rather aggravating, and their unblinking eye contact is only broken after several seconds when the mage rolls her eyes in exasperation and burrows further back into the cushions at her back.
'I was stabbed.' She concedes, the words sending an unprecedented thrill of alarm through him even though he refuses to let the sentiment show on his face.
'Do you require a healer?' Eric says after a moment. It's been a long time since he himself was significantly affected by blades made of anything other than silver, but the memory of his human death has taught him a lesson in mortal fragility that he will never forget. Green eyes stare at him from behind dark lashes, and the mage gives a faint smile.
'Nah, it's mostly healed,' without prompting, Victoria tugs the neckline of her sleep-shirt down, flashing a good deal of cleavage and a three-inch long vertical cut that looks like it could have come from a piece of paper, 'I just need a day or two to replenish blood.'
'You couldn't have lost much from that scratch.' The Viking observes, a little incredulous despite himself. Victoria's lips twitch.
'Well, no.' She runs a finger down the wound carelessly – Eric's eyes lock onto the motion. 'It was deeper before.
'You healed yourself with magic?'
'Yes.'
'But not completely?' In an uncharacteristic show of discomfort, the mage fidgets minutely.
'Well... healing isn't my speciality.' The comment peaks his interest. Mages are rare, but Eric knows enough about them to know that they usually have an affinity for one area of magic more than others. In the 1500's, the Viking had come across rumours that a male mage – a self-proclaimed master of offensive spells – was in the area of Vienna he'd been residing in at the time; a mage that had decided to prove his prowess by obliterating any vampire he came across. News of the man's death were quick to spread within a week.
So sufficed to say, the man was no "master", but Victoria has never seemed the type to admit weakness. If she says her healing is poor, it must genuinely be rather awful. Pride, he has learned, is one of her chief sins (but Eric hardly has room to talk).
'What do you "specialize" in?' He pushes, never one to miss a chance to learn something he can take advantage of. Victoria, however, seems to realize this too, and only shoots him a wry smirk as she rearranges her shirt to recover herself.
'Where would be the fun in telling you that?' She near-purrs the words. 'I do so love to keep you guessing.'
The Viking huffs in amusement, allowing himself a seductive look in her direction. 'To keep me coming back for more?'
'To watch you flounder in my mystery.' She corrects imperiously, but the sentiment would be more believable if he couldn't feel the amusement and lust radiating of off her. As it is, Eric raises a knowing eyebrow and gets back to business.
'I trust you were wounded in the process of killing your maenad.' Eric prompts, and she nods. The motion is soft, and the Viking notes for the first time that her eyes are flickering sleepily.
'She wasn't "my" maenad,' Victoria protests half-heartedly, burrowing deeper into her blankets, 'but she is certainly dead.'
Eric studies her features intently. 'Is that regret I sense?' His tone is bland, but he can't keep from feeling a little derisive of the sentiment. She had never struck him as someone particularly opposed to deadly force. 'I was under the impression the creature was attempting to kill the shifter, enslave the town, and, apparently, kill you.'
'No, she needed to die.' Victoria's shoulders shift in a slight shrug. 'It was just... anticlimactic, I suppose. Thousands of years of living just to die in the middle of nowhere Louisiana over something as silly as a "god".'
'Oh?' Eric teases. 'Are you losing your faith, Ms Storm? Going to miss church on Sunday in complaint?'
The mage laughs immediately. 'I'm certainly not a Christian, Mr Northman.' She manages between chuckles. The Viking leans a little closer, interested. 'And I don't have much faith for invisible men in the sky.'
'What do you believe in, then? It's my experience that you humans tend to cling to something intangible just to get through the day.' There is an unexplainable bolt of amusement through the bond at his comment, but when she replies she is remarkably solemn.
'My friends, I suppose. Sometimes my family, too, on a good day.' Vivid green eyes lock on him. 'What about you? Is your faith as changeable as your mood, Eric?'
'My religious beliefs ended with my human life.' He tells her, stoic even though in truth some of his most clear memories of his first life include prayer and worship. Something... impossible to place flickers over her face, but Victoria smiles at him even as her heartbeat begins to slow.
'Good.' She declares, and her eyes drift closed. 'Gods are unreliable anyway.'
Eric watches, amused, as the mage falls asleep without so much as a "good night", face relaxing in the peace that only unconsciousness can bring. It is either foolishly trusting or genuinely mistaken for Victoria to so readily expose a moment of weakness in front of him – a lesser vampire, Eric thinks, would surely take advantage of the powerful woman's unaware state. The Viking himself is less inclined to go for such easy prey, but even he has to admit that the temptation to sink his fangs into her soft, pale neck while she lays there so unaware is there.
Victoria is fascinating, and judging from the display in his office earlier in the night, not altogether opposed to his advances. But, Eric knows, she will never be "prey"; she is too proud and too powerful to submit; the spark in her eyes tells him she will never be a delicate or wilting woman. Their relationship – whatever you could define it as – has never been gentle, and Eric suspects that it will only grow more passionate as it progresses, but the two of them are too similar for it to ever be easy.
The Viking looks down at the sleeping form on the bed and can't help but smirk.
He can't wait.
xXx
Loki sleeps for what feels like eons but is in reality only 20-hours, interspersed with bathroom breaks and vivid, extremely kinky blood-induced sex dreams about one Viking vampire. When she finally, truly wakes, she slips into her shower and out of her human skin. It is decidedly odd to spend any length of time in her true form after so long, but it is a little like coming home.
The Æsir are not vastly different in appearance than humans: they have two arms and two legs and there are no odd extra appendages to speak of. Their hearts beat, their skin is warm, and if she were to sit under an x-ray, her skeleton would be almost identical to a human's. It's the small things that truly draw the line between humans and her people, Loki reflects as she steps from the stall and stares at her bare form in the long mirror.
Her eyes glow an almost eerie green, black hair is longer and more glossy, and her skin shines faintly with what her mother calls "the glow of the blessed". She looks, Loki thinks, like Victoria Storm would if someone were to take a picture of her and go crazy with Photoshop. Below the surface though, the differences become starker: Æsir bone and skin is tougher, less prone to breaks and quick to heal when damaged. She watches impassively as the remnants of the stab wound seals shut sluggishly, leaving no sign of damage on her porcelain skin, and she can't keep herself from pulling a face at her reflection.
Some would call her exquisite, otherworldly in her appearance; all Loki can see is a lie. The Æsir "beauty" was a big part of the reason humans called them gods all those years ago, but good-looks don't equate to a good heart - Baldr had been possibly the most gorgeous creature in Asgard, all golden hair and typically Royal emerald eyes (eyes that all Odin's children share). It's a deceptive illusion of perfection, and Loki doesn't want it – her soul may be born of Asgard, but her mind was nurtured from the moment she began to think for herself on the lush hillsides of Svartalfheim and her heart is firmly rooted in Midgard, far away from those that banished her and hounded her for centuries.
Loki closes her eyes and shivers at the sensation of a cool wind caressing her skin, and when she opens them again to see "Victoria Storm" looking back she smiles, admiring the matt pale skin and comparatively dull eyes. Humans, she thinks as she moves to dress, are sometimes ignorant and worryingly short-lived, but in every freckle and scar and flaw Loki sees an eternity of friends and lovers and companions and strangers who have treated her with kindness.
She may not hate the Æsir, but she just can't seem to stop loving the people of Earth.
Loki saunters downstairs and out the front door, pausing on the porch to bask a little in the early morning sunshine and the scent of dew that clings to the earth around her. Louisiana isn't her favourite place on Midgard, but it certainly is beautiful in the light of day, alive with the buzzing of crickets and gorgeously green all around. After a moment she takes off down the paved drive-way, feet beating a steady rhythm against the brick. Her car, she recalls, is still sitting in the parking lot of Merlotte's, and as she sets off down the familiar route to her workplace she pulls her cell-phone from her purse and selects a well-used number.
'Sister!' Thor's voice is, as always, jovial, and the clanking sounds of a kitchen sound in the background. 'It had been some time since I last heard from you.'
'Hey.' She smiles. 'I've been a little busy.'
'Oh? Are you still in Dallas?'
'No, no, I'm back in Bon Temps.' Loki had finally given up the location of her current home some weeks ago, and has since spent every minute with a vague sense of trepidation that her brother will show up with a horde of Æsir in tow – he hasn't yet, but she knows better than to dismiss the suspicions.
Oblivious to the paranoia he has inspired in his sibling, Thor laughs deeply. 'I thought you said it was never busy in Bon Temps.'
'Well, yes,' she pauses, weighing the pros and cons of telling him the truth – then she thinks about the fact that she hasn't spoken to Thor since before she put herself in mortal danger by going into the Fellowship of the Sun, and the guilt brings the words tumbling forth, 'there was a situation with a maenad.'
'What?!' There is a clang and a loud thud, followed by some cursing. Loki can only imagine he dropped the phone. After a moment of fumbling, he continues. 'Are you okay? Do you need me to come get you?'
'I'm fine. Everything's fine.' Loki soothes, warmed by his concern but a little exasperated by his coddling. She only allows it because she knows it's genuine and partially stems from a misplaced sense of guilt over her banishment – she'd never bring it up, and Thor would never say anything about it, but Loki knows her brother was one of the few who ever openly expressed his doubts over what Odin perceived had happened before the truth about Baldr came to light. It is impossible for her to hold a grudge against the man. 'It's all taken care of.'
'What happened?' Thor demands and she tells the tale of Maryann Forrester (carefully leaving out the part where a sacrificial blade was buried in her chest). By the time Loki describes the maenad's death, the brotherly concern has faded, replaced with the familiar curiosity of a warrior. 'She died when she believed she had summoned her God?'
'Yep.'
'I have never heard of someone killing a raving one before.' He notes, and Loki chuckles wryly.
'Yeah, someone should write this down – we're pretty lucky it even worked.'
Thor hums in agreement. 'I will mention it to the book-keepers when I return home. Mother and father miss you, you know.'
The thoughtless comment brings the conversation to a screeching halt. While perceptive enough to never mention Fenrir to her, her sibling isn't renowned for thinking before speaking. 'How nice.'
Thor blanches audibly at the stiffness in her words. 'Sister...'
While relations between her and her family have improved dramatically in the last thousand years, they are far from perfect. She and Odin have never seen eye-to-eye, but there was a time when her mother was one of her favourite people – which is why it was so painful to have Frigg turn her back on her after Baldr. It seems killing your brother (even justifiably) creates familial tension universally though, because her relationship with Odin has only gotten worse and she and her mother are tense.
She completely understands Frigg's side of the awkwardness. After all, Loki has lost a son herself – but the difference is that Fenrir had been a harmless little boy and Baldr had been a monstrous little psychopath.
(She had voiced this once during a particularly heated argument with her Father – Frigg had burst into tears.)
And Týr… she loves her eldest brother, but he is far too consumed in his learnings to weigh in on the family soap-opera.
'When are you going back to Asgard?' Loki questions, and her brother sighs.
'Soon.' He informs her. 'But Loki, if you would come with us, just for a visit...'
'I've got work, sorry.' She is, in reality, not sorry at all, and her tone says so. But Loki does not want to have this conversation, and the sight of a familiar bar coming into view could not be more perfectly timed. 'In fact, I'm there now, so I've got to go.'
'Sis– '
'Tell Sif (1) I said "hi".'
'Please, Lo– '
'And give Astrid a big kiss for me. Love you!'
Loki hangs up with a firm click, stuffing the phone into the pocket of her shorts and running an agitated hand through her hair. Why is family so difficult? The last time she had been home "just for a visit" had featured icily civil banquets and running into Baldr's once-lover. Loki brushes off the memory, determined to forget the whole conversation, and pushes through the door to the bar.
It's mostly empty, as is it usually is on a 10am on a Saturday, but it's clean and shining, the only evidence anything had gone wrong is the deep gouge on the bar, and the stunning normality of the sight fills her with contentment. She darts across the floor, meandering down the back hall and knocking softly on the office door.
'Come in!' A voice calls, and she does so, greeting Sam with a brilliant smile.
'Hey boss.' For a moment, he gapes at her. Then suddenly he is up, wrapping his arms around her and laughing.
'Oh, cher, it's good to see you.' The shifter tells her and the sincerity in his words makes her laugh, too. 'Are you okay?'
'Yeah, I'm good.' He'd asked the same thing repeatedly after Maryann, fussing over her like she had a deadly illness and bombarding her with questions about her sorcery. 'I'm here for work.'
Sam gives a hesitant once-over, probably expecting her to collapse bleeding onto the floor, but eventually gifts her with a smile. 'If you're sure, Vick.'
She insists that she is, and dumps her purse in a cubby before moving back into the bar and getting straight to work as the seating begins to fill up. By midday, Merlotte's is as busy at it ever is, Sookie and Arlene dancing about their sections, Tara leaning up against the bar, and full of the townspeople – all of whom are gossiping about the strange goings-on of the past week. Loki amuses herself by collecting every theory she can from patrons, and they range from hallucinogens in the water supply to an alien close encounter. Maryann, it is declared unanimously, was something to do with the trouble, and she and Sam trade meaningful looks whenever the maenad is mentioned – the maenad whose corpse Bill had buried in a fresh grave plot in the Bon Temps Cemetery.
The lunch shift is just starting to trail off when Lafayette bursts in, looking as flamboyant and fabulous as ever, and Loki giggles when he winks at her and slaps her ass in passing. He props himself on the bar stool beside his cousin, gratefully accepting a tumbler full of vodka and downing it in one. As soon as she gets a moment between customers, Loki trots over.
'You alright, Lala?'
'Mm-hmm,' he tilts his head in her direction, 'I don't remember shit from that night, an' I like it that way.'
'That so?' She asks.
'Yep. And don't tell me even if I beg for it.' He tells her sternly. 'I don't think it's healthy for a motherfucker to remember everything he did and done.'
Loki thinks back on four-thousand years of almost crystal clear memory and smiles at her friend. 'I think you might be right about that, baby.'
He mock toasts her with his refilled glass. 'I am done with crazy supernatural shit.'
'Oh?' The Æsir mage cocks a sassy eyebrow. 'That include me?'
'Bitch, you know it don't,' he tugs her close by the arm, kissing her loudly on the cheek, 'you my favourite.'
Loki tosses her head back and laughs, pulling away when she notes a customer flagging her down. 'Damn straight!' She calls back to him, and winks at an amused Sookie as she passes her by.
It's just a normal day at Merlotte's, complete with banter and bitching, but something has changed. Where, before, Loki had been subjected to various wary, suspicious looks from life-long locals who were justifiably wary of a newcomer, she is dismissed as easily as the other waitresses as familiar scenery. The realization hits her when Jane Bodehouse calls her over to bitch about the saltiness of her salad dressing (something she has never done with Loki before) and it freezes her in her tracks. Somewhere amongst the crazy shit going on, she has become a "local" – and the small part of her heart that craves acceptance like a drowning man craves air flourishes under the revelation.
The every cautious voice of reason in her mind pipes up. It's going to be hard to leave in a few years, it whispers, don't get to comfortable! Loki can see the reason behind the argument, knows the cold hard reality of being immortal in a sea of humans, unchanging and un-aging.
But right now she doesn't give a damn.
So she assures Ms Bodehouse that she'll get her some new ranch and practically skips away, smiling luminously (and ignoring the odd looks she garners expertly). Filling up the little cup of sauce, she smiles when she notices Sam coming up.
'You okay, boss?' He gives a half-smile, but his eyes follow Sookie as she bustles by with a large package clutched to her chest.
'Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay.' He blinks slowly, and Loki watches as a sad realization sweeps into him – it's the moment she will later pin-point as when he realized he should move on from the telepath. 'I just wanna let you know I'll be out of town for a few days.'
'No problem. I figured you were due a break soon.' She turns to face the dining hall, staring out at the busy bar. 'We'll all keep an eye on the place.'
He, she discovers from a skim of his mind, is planning to visit his adopted parents – the ones who abandoned him when he turned into a dog in their living room. The memory makes her want to hug him fiercely, but she is distracted when, across the room in a booth, Coby and Lisa spot her simultaneously and wave over enthusiastically – she and Sam both chuckle and return to gesture.
'You know, I wondered at the time where the hell you got those butterflies from.' He informs her a little wryly. Loki grins at him.
'Well, magic has its uses.'
'With or without it, you had a way with 'em.' Sam tells her. 'You'd make a good mom, I think.'
She hesitate, and when the words come they are tentative. 'I like to think I was.'
Sam sends her a look of genuine shock that she pretends not to notice as she goes about collecting napkins from the service station before her. 'I... didn't know you had kids.'
'Just one. A son.' Loki gives a tumultuous smile – if talking about Fen had become easier, it was no less heart-breaking. 'He was a shifter too.'
Sam fairly staggers in surprise at the confession, questions rolling through his eyes before he registers the full magnitude of her words and his face slackens in sad comprehension. '...Was?'
'He was murdered.'
'Jesus.' Sam breathes, taken-aback at the information, and his blue eyes fill to the brim with sympathy. 'Because of what he was?'
'Because of what I am.' Loki corrects mildly, staring into his eyes and needing him to understand what she's saying. 'He was my world, and he is gone because of me. Out of the two of us, Sam, only one of us is a monster. And it's not you.'
She moves away before she can be faced with the typical condolences that come with such a confession. The death of a loved one affects everyone differently, but the Æsir mage tends to believe that the so-called "5 stages" (2) are pretty much universal.
Loki has felt the shock, –
(She clutches him close, unable to comprehend the coolness of skin, the stillness of his chest or the blood that seeps onto her skirt like ink on fresh white snow)
– she has felt the depression, –
(For day after day, month after month, Loki lays on the filthy ground of some unknown jungle, willing herself to waste away, and when she doesn't – Æsir cannot starve themselves to death in a matter of months – she curls into a ball and weeps until she wants to pluck out her eyes)
– she has tried to bargain, –
(She falls to her knees before Hel, breaths great heaving sobs as she pleads and screams and wishes at her cousin's feet. "Please," she implores, the proud Princess lost in the face of a mother's loss, 'give him back, take me instead" and Hel, stone-faced, turns away)
– and her anger has been a steady companion for centuries. A rage so great that it swells like a sea of red in her memories, and screams out to the un-listening universe to put those who would celebrate Baldr into her path so that she could slaughter them as she did her once-beloved brother. Fury that has stayed with her, always ready to pounce from her breast.
Loki wonders when she had become so tired of being angry – now it's a weight in her chest, rather than a reason to keep fighting.
Loki wonders if the fact she can mention her son without destroying something or bursting into tears means she is finally accepting what happened to Fenrir. She rather hopes so – but she doesn't think that "acceptance" will ever mean "peace". Loki will never again be the same woman she was before her son was born, and this is in many ways a good thing. What she knows for sure is that something has progressed, and the thought makes her smile quietly.
And the message she'd been trying to pass to Sam but had been unable to voice? It was that, for some mothers, a child who is different is always wanted.
(And that for some mothers, losing that unique child can destroy them entirely.)
xXx
Her shift finishes at seven, and after she waves goodbye to her co-workers (and enjoys a long, warm hug from Sam) she sits in her Mustang and checks her phone for messages.
2 missed calls from Thor, a voicemail from Sif, and a text from Pam demanding that she come to Fangtasia tonight and "entertain" the vampire.
Questions aside – how did Pam get my number? When did I get Pam's? – Loki pauses to contemplate the invitation. The black-haired woman is sure there is some ulterior motive behind the message, but she's pretty sure she can handle whatever Pam plans to throw at her, and she has no other plans... but even still, does she really want to spend the night at a vampire bar?
She thinks of Eric and her libido screams "Yes!" and her mind makes the decision before her brain catches up and she is texting a positive response before she can stop herself. Loki stares down at the phone until it flashes a "message sent", and she resigns herself to the evening ahead.
Self-control is important in using magic, but it seems Eric Northman (and his blood) is capable of throwing every part of her in a loop.
After stopping by her house to change into club-appropriate clothing, Loki sets out on the short drive to Fangtasia, and isn't at all surprised to see that the parking lot is full of anxious humans queuing up to get into the overcrowded club. The Æsir mage pulls up next to a gorgeous little red corvette and steps out onto towering stiletto heels and strides confidently towards the mouth of the beast – when Pam spots her, the vampire smirks devilishly.
Loki has, admittedly, dressed up shamelessly for Pam's benefit in a tight, short sleeved body-con dress in a pretty pink shade that she has often seen the bouncer wear and black platform heels adorned with a pink heel – the outfit would be completely wrong for Fangtasia if it weren't for the black lace overlay that covers most of the dress and the fact she has styled her hair into what Lafayette describes as the "freshly fucked" style, wild and artfully ruffled.
'Hello, Pam,' she greets, daring to dart forward to kiss her cold cheek and pulling back with a wicked smirk.
'Hi, doll,' the bouncer's fangs click out in a deliberate demonstration of lust, much to the shock of the queuing humans, 'you look ravishing. My maker won't know what hit him.'
Loki's responding grin verges on feral, and Pam chuckles as she waves her into the dark, pulsing interior of the club.
'I'll save you a dance.' The Æsir mage calls back, and only has time to catch a glimpse of shaking shoulders before she is swallowed into the darkness. As expected of a Saturday night, it is wall to wall with patrons of all shapes, sizes, persuasions and species, the majority of whom are either amassed on the dance floor and grinding or standing off to the side and gaping at the action. Loki takes a moment to revel in the feeling of the inhibitions draining from her, recklessness pounding all around her. This, she knows, is why vampire bars are so popular – the danger, the thrill of being around creatures that could kill you fast, and fuck you faster. Where Maryann's ritual was similarly crowded and even more wild, the maenad's minions radiated a sense of forced conformity in their abandon. Fangtasia is just free.
And in the spirit of the night, Loki lets an iota of mundane power slip free from her tightly held shields, and blue tendrils snake unseen to all but her through the writhing mass of bodies around her in smoke-like wisps, upping the humans it brushes against like a shot of caffeine and chasing down the vampires spines like goose bumps. The power dissipates quickly – she'd only given a burst – but it's enough for everyone in the room to step it up, and the Æsir mage contents herself with standing back and observing the controlled chaos.
She doesn't look over when she feels someone arrive, vampire speed, at her side – she's familiar enough with him that she would likely recognise Eric's signature aura anywhere.
'This is your doing, I presume?' He enquires, and Loki shrugs.
'Just a harmless touch of power, the humans will barely feel it.'
The Viking hums in interest. 'And the vampires?'
Loki turns her head, green clashing with oceanic blue as she smirks up at him. 'Would you like to find out?'
It's a challenge and they both know it, but it's also a question of trust. The black-haired woman assumes that Eric knows enough about mages to know that one could cause him harm – if he agrees, it's a statement that he has even an inch of faith in her. Judging from the almost solemn look on his face he knows this too, so it's a surprise when after moment he holds out a hand in acquiescence.
She brings up her own much smaller hand and runs the pads of her fingers to stroke over his palm, bringing out sparks of power that flicker like navy fireworks through the black of Eric's life magic, and is satisfied when he shudders all over at the sensation. The Æsir mage pulls back just as quickly, and gives him an expectant look.
'You...' He trails off, closes his eyes like he's centring himself and when he re-opens them some of the intent, hungry look from before is gone. 'Why are you here Victoria?'
Loki's eyebrows shoot up before she can stop them at the almost shortness in his voice, and she takes a moment to study him. The line of his jaw is tense, his skin pale enough to indicate he hasn't fed enough tonight to sustain him properly – it is probably fairly common for Eric to be in a bad mood, but for him to be pissed off and allow it to be visible on his face? Whatever it is must be really bad.
'Pam texted me.' She reveals casually. 'And now I see why.'
'And why do you think my progeny has summoned you?'
'Well, she probably thought I'd be good stress relief,' the Æsir mage boldly pokes the locked muscle of his jaw, 'and I can see why you need it.'
Without warning, Eric captures her hand in a grip hard enough to fracture human bone, and the suddenness (the unexpectedness) of the violence sends her free hand whipping out to settle just below his throat in a promise of retaliation pending his next action. Luckily for the Viking, he freezes completely.
'I suggest...' Loki steps closer, and to onlookers it is sure to appear to be an intimate movement rather than the deadly one her eyes scream at him. '...that you release me and never touch me like that again.'
They stand at a frozen impasse, each only a movement away from gratuitous pain. Loki doesn't particularly want to kick Eric's ass in front of the whole club, but she wants a broken wrist even less, and she does not appreciate the Viking's inclination to take out his temper on her. But it's only a moment before he releases her hand from his.
'Apologies.' He murmurs hoarsely. 'I forgot myself.'
'Clearly.' Loki grits out, stepping away from the vampire. 'It seems we need to talk.'
(1) Sif is a goddess from Norse mythology associated with earth and most commonly known for the fact that her beautiful blonde hair was supposedly shaven off by Loki. Those of you who've seen Thor will recognise her as the kickass female Æsir who tags along with the "Warrior's Three" and stands up to Avengers!Loki at every turn. In this fic, she is my OFC!Loki's sister in law, OMC!Thor's wife, and the mother of Loki's niece. Sorry to those who were hoping for Thor to have a human wife, but I thought that would run too parallel too Marvel's storyline, and I don't want to just steal all of their ideas ('cos I don't own Marvel property – please don't sue me!).
(2) The five stages of grief (sometimes called the five stages of mourning) are an idea presented by Elsabeth Kubler-Ross in 1969, and are essentially the five phases that those who experience a loss go through. Not everyone goes through all of them, but it's perfectly normal to feel one or more of them. They include (but are not limited to) denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance. OFC!Loki is slowly but surely entering the final stage, so the Loki we see in coming chapters will be a little less restrained.
