Author's note: Well, look who's finally back with a new chapter! :D To make a short story even shorter – my modem broke down, I didn't have internet access for almost a week, it sucked. A lot. But, if you dear readers want to make me happy again after my recent non-internet-access misery, then it is fully possible to do so by leaving me a nice review towards the end of the chapter. ;)
Ahem, well then, onto the story! :D
Absentmindedly, he flips through one of the magazines that Tony has left for him on the bedside table, turning dull page after dull page. There's precious little in there that piques his interest; perhaps if he had been a Midgardian he would have appreciated it more, but most of it is too unfamiliar to him.
He stops his browsing as his eyes fall on an almost blank page, the empty whiteness broken by only a few lines of printed text.
There's a pen lying on the table next to him, and reflexively, his right hand reaches out for it. A moment later, the point of the pen has left its first few traces on the almost-empty paper, merely dawdling at first, squiggly lines and flowing contours filling the available space. It's not supposed to portray anything in particular, it's only a distraction to keep his mind occupied. Or perhaps rather his restless fingers, now that they can't weave their magic anymore.
Idly, he lets the pen move across the sheet, slowly marking it with black ink. It's not until after a few minutes that he realizes what is taking shape before him – The Royal Halls, the home of the King of Asgard and his family, the place where he's lived all his life until… well, recently.
He blinks in surprise at the image staring back at him, not sure where it all came from. But it is definitely the Royal Halls, complete with the spires and golden gates and runic inscription lining the outer walls.
A place he will never see again, and despite not having felt any fondness for it in many centuries, the knowledge still stings inside of him.
He has no idea why his fidgety, itching fingers decided on that very image, but it stirs up memories he has paid little heed to since his trial and his arrival here. There were so many other, much more pressing issues and concerns to deal with then, but now that those fears have slowly dissipated, the recollections poke at his attention once more.
Most insistent are the memories from his trial and his so-called family. Odin, his so-called father, damning him to a life as someone's property. Thor, his so-called brother, whose far-reaching shadow was always looming over him, never far away. Frigga, his mother, who is surely the only one who misses him at all, with the exception of Thor. He recalls with a pang of sadness how she had cried as his sentence was read out. The only one in Asgard to let any tears fall on his behalf, of course.
He looks at the picture, sorely tempted to crumple it in his hands. Before his fingers have closed around the paper, though, there's a voice just to his right, making him startle because he was too deep into his own thoughts to hear the soft footfalls of Tony entering the room.
"What are you drawing there?" the man asks, flopping down on the chair next to the bed, a hand reaching out for the sheet still clasped firmly in Loki's grasp.
Most of all, he would have liked to pull the picture away and place it out of Tony's reach beneath the pillow, or, better yet, tear it to tiny ribbons. But of course, he does neither of these things, merely letting Tony take the drawing out of his hands for closer inspection.
"Huh," the man says after a few seconds of scrutiny. "So this is Asgard, right?"
"It's the Royal Halls," Loki says, not feeling particularly up to discussing the subject any further, hoping Tony will be content to leave it at that. Though, somehow he doubts the man is going to share his inclination.
Of course, he's right.
"And that would be the place where you grew up?" Tony asks, turning the drawing around in his hands as if he's expecting something to materialize out of it or perhaps turn into one of those Midgardian series of moving pictures shown on screen.
"It is."
"Figure it must be one hell of a fancy place. Not anything like this, huh?" Tony says, making a sweeping gesture that's probably supposed to encompass the entirety of his tower.
And while Tony's tower might be spacious and outfitted with all kinds of strange and exotic amenities, it does lack the splendour and grandeur of the Royal Halls.
"I suppose it had it charms," he says as neutrally as he can manage, giving a small, non-committal shrug.
"And all this is only for the royal family?" the man continues his questioning, gesturing at the drawing.
"The entire royal household lives in the Halls, including all the servants, workers, attendants, and… the like." As in slaves. But he doesn't feel like mentioning that.
"And Thor is going to be the heir of all this, once Odin… kicks the bucket?" Tony whistles, sounding impressed.
"Yes. That was how it was always meant to be," he says, wincing as he hears the ill-hidden bitterness in his own voice. So he tried not to let it show, but he clearly failed.
It seems that Tony has noticed it too, as he gives Loki a narrowed look. "Well, Thunderboy is the oldest son, isn't he? From what little I know of royalty, that would mean he's next in line to the throne." There is a hint of a challenge in that, and Loki hesitates whether to take it up or not. It is tempting, but given his current station, it would hardly be fitting. Better to just let the topic die, especially if it is the case in Midgard that the oldest son automatically inherits his father's titles, rather than the one most worthy and accomplished.
"He is." Not that order of birth would have meant much in Asgard, of course, but there was still never a shadow of a doubt that Thor was the one preordained for the throne. But if Tony thinks that being firstborn is enough, then Loki will let him believe so.
"Well, your big brother is a pretty awesome guy, with his mighty hammer and Shakespearian talk and all that stuff," Tony says, leaning back into his chair, drawing a leg up to rest on his thigh. "I'm sure he'll make for a great king one day."
Well of course. Everyone thinks that Thor is the special and exceptional one, why should Tony be any different? It is only to be expected. Thor commands respect and admiration and recognition wherever he goes, Midgard included.
Still, he feels a bitter sting of something at hearing that comment from Tony's mouth.
Jealousy? No, his brain quickly decides; it can't be that. Why should it matter to him what Tony thinks about any of that?
Annoyance, then? Yeah, that is probably more like it. Annoyance that even here in Midgard, he's forced to endure the endless comments about how fantastic Thor is.
And of course Thor is the only possible choice for the throne. He's always known it, and so has everyone else.
"Besides, Odin would never let a frost giant sit on the throne of Asgard, nor would anyone else."
It's only when he sees Tony's puzzled expression that he realizes that he said that last part out loud. Damn. That was never his intention.
Clenching his fists, he steels himself for the inevitable barrage of questions that will be coming his way, asking him things he isn't comfortable discussing.
"Frost giant?" Tony says, cocking his head to the side. "What do you mean?"
Before Loki has managed a reply, Tony speaks up again. "Oh, wait! Point Break did mention something about you being adopted…" He gazes curiously at Loki, as if he's expecting him to sprout horns any minute after this revelation. "Is that what you mean? That you're one of these… frost giants?"
Well, no one can accuse Tony of being daft or slow on the uptake, he supposes.
"That is so," he says while silently cursing himself for letting that tidbit of information slip so carelessly. His heritage is something he would have preferred to keep to himself.
"So what's up with these frost giants? Do they live in Asgard as well?" Tony asks, sounding genuinely interested, as if it's actually a proper topic for everyday conversation.
"No, they live in a realm of their own, a place of eternal winter and coldness. Jotunheim, it is called."
"Sounds pretty crappy to me, being stuck with the whole everlasting freezing one's balls off," Tony supplies, quirking an eyebrow. "Bet you got a better deal ending up in Asgard, then."
He offers no reply to that.
"So why wouldn't daddy dearest let a frost giant seat his ass on the throne?" Tony pushes on, refusing to let the subject lie. "That whole equal opportunities thing hasn't made it to your side of the universe yet, or what?"
Such an obvious answer to that, and yet, Tony, in his Midgardian ignorance of these matters, is entirely unaware. "Frost giants are the sworn enemies of the Aesir. Countless of blood feuds and wars have been fought between our two races." He looks at the drawing still in Tony's hand, thinking about the time he let those frost giants into the weapons vault. "No one belonging to their kind could ever be a king of Asgard."
"Hmm. Then why did Odin adopt you, if you hate each other's guts that much?"
Yes, why indeed.
"He found me when I was a newborn, left in the snow to die, while he was in Jotunheim on a war campaign. Hoping to be able to use me for political purposes, he took me in and raised me alongside Thor." He makes his summary as brief as he possibly can, because it stings having to admit to this, to being abandoned and left behind.
To being unwanted.
"Huh." There is a moment of silence following that, before Tony starts talking again. "You don't look very different, though. I figured belonging to another race and all, you would at least have fangs or fur or something like that."
Yes, he could lie, of course. Tony obviously knows nothing about frost giants, nothing more and beyond that which what Loki has said today. Still…
"This isn't my true form. What you see is merely glamour, a way of shielding that which sets me apart. Without it, I would look… different."
At that, Tony leans forward, a bright spark of interest in his eyes.
"So can you…" he wiggles his fingers around, "you know… remove that glamour thing and revert back into your other form?"
Again, he could lie. It would be easy. Tony would never know, and it would be for the best.
"Yes," he hears his own voice say. "I can."
Tony flashes him an expectant look, almost like a child on his name-day eyeing all the gifts presented to him. "Then show me," he says, and Loki feels something sink in his stomach.
Of course, he knew it would eventually come to this when the subject was brought up. And he can't back out of it now that Tony has made it clear he wants Loki to showcase his Jotun form.
Obviously, Tony is a Midgardian and hasn't grown up with moralizing stories about evil monsters lurking at the edges of the realm, waiting to steal misbehaving children away to eat them, nor do his people have any memories of being locked in bitter war with their kind. To Tony, his Jotun appearance will not mean the same things as to an Aesir, won't evoke the same hate and animosity and malevolence.
It might still evoke disgust and aversion, though, this utterly alien and foreign form of his.
For a while, he hesitates. A part of him is loath to see that curious look on Tony's face turn into one of repulsion, once he is confronted with Loki's true appearance.
But, he can't back out of it now.
So he lets the glamour slip, the protective shield he's been wearing his whole life slowly disintegrating. Even now, with his magic sealed, he can still control this, because it is Odin's magic that is shrouding him in this veil of normalcy, not his own.
His eyes are fixed on the tendrils of blue snaking up his arms and then further over his body, leaving a soothing cool in their wake. As that cool reaches his face, he clenches his jaws, knowing his eyes are now shining with unnatural blood-red, instead of their usual and normal green.
There is silence for a while, and he doesn't dare to look at Tony, because he doesn't want to see aversion on his face. So his eyes remain fixed at his hands and the travesty of cobalt and indigo covering them. It makes no sense that he should harbour this illogical and yet insistent desire for Tony to accept what's in front of him, this aberrant and outlandish appearance.
"Whoa, dude, that's some freaky shit," he hears Tony's voice breathe to his right after the silence has pressed on for too long.
Of the expected disgust and aversion, there is none to be heard, though, so Loki raises his gaze to look at the man at his bedside.
There are none of those things in his face either, only curiosity and interest, as if he's looking at an exotic and fascinating creature from a faraway land, and not a monster.
Then, Tony's face slowly cracks up into an impish grin, as he leans back into the chair, folding his arms. "You know, that's a pretty neat party trick. I bet not even your big shiny brother Thor could pull that off, huh?"
And Loki lets out a little breath he didn't realize he had been holding, stumped by just why Tony's flippant acceptance of his Jotun form should at all cause this sense of sudden relief to well up in his chest.
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