Be Crazy

Ie-maru's prompt: Harry's been driven mad by his immortality, Loki's been driven mad by his fall through the Void; let them be happy and mad together. Who needs to be sane to be happy? Relationship can be platonic, friends with benefits, or romantic.

"People are all crazy... but the craziest are the ones who never allow themselves to be crazy."
― Paulo Coelho

"The stars are bright tonight." Harry Potter had not noticed them until Angrboda so spoke, he sighs and looks skyward. He knows all the stars, has put them in their places and cradled them in wombs and buried them in tombs. Stars are the oldest souls Harry Potter knows, and the stars sing of what was, what is to be, and all things between. Only Harry can hear the stars singing. He sees the sky, bright and blue, as Sol flees across the sky, her skirts lifted high and her long legs flashing.

Angrboda sees where his stares, and laughs long and loudly, she nudges his head aside as Árvakr and Alsvidr pass and Harry sees the glint of Svalinn, Sol's shield.

"Not there, my Ettin King, do you not know that if you stare so, you shall go blind?" Angrboda points so this time his eyes can not go astray. He looks where her finger leads and sees.

"That is not a star at all, my dear lady." Harry answers her with narrowed eyes. He knows every body in the heavens, and this one does not belong.

"Well, what is it?" Angrboda demands with a cat like stretch in the sun.

"A boy, I believe, burning." At his words, she goes still and with a hiss she is upon him, cerulean skinned and coal red eyes. Harry takes a shaky breath, and remembers again how deadly she can be. He can not die, but that does not mean he likes pain better than his pleasure. She promises pain if she is not paid attention to.

"Save him." Is her demand, her fingers digging nails into his throat. Harry sighs beneath her, and wonders why he should.

"Save him, I say, and I If you do not, Ettin King, you'll get no peace with neither Sinmora nor I." Harry Potter sighs and raises his hand and mimics plucking up the star, and Angrboda smiles to see his deed. He opens his hands and the youth is laid at Harry's side, breathing deeply.

"Why does he not wake?" Angrboda demands with a tilted head. Harry Potter sighs and rolls to his side and kisses the boy's lips, his skin is the crystalline sapphire and his eyes will burn like embers when they open – which they do, and widely. Angrboda claps her hands in pleasure.

"Oh, bravo, my love!.." Loki is startled by the kiss upon his lips, and the words of a woman who wares skin like his, he struggles to flinch away, but can go nowhere away from Harry if Harry wants to follow. Harry smiles slightly down at him, shy and sly, and lets Angrboda gather the boy up and carry him into her hall.

Harry lies in the grass and listens to the stars sing of what might be, until Sol is at last out of sight and he goes to see what Angrboda has done to the poor boy. Járnvid, wood of wolves and witches, trolls and giants, is no place for a prince to be. Angrboda sits at her round table and has put frozen foods on a silver plate for the prince to eat.

"Well of course you are what I am, do you deny me my race?" Angrboda skin and eyes are alarming in the dark hall, where she lights no fire and refuses any golden thing.

"If you are not Jotun, what are you – and what may I be?" Angrboda throws her head back and laughs; it is a laugh that would chill anyone, for hers is the laugh of the furies. She knows no good or bad, there is only law and order, and that is no sane way to be.

"You are a true prince of the blood of Ymir, and I should know – as I am Ymir's daughter - you are as I am, hrimthursar - the rime breed." Harry kisses her shoulder, and she turns to see him with a smile.

"And he?" Loki asks, softly. He's must have seen that he can not change his skin to a healthy pale shade in this wood, for this is Harry's home. Everyone can only appear here as they are; there is no hiding, and no lies.

"He? Oh, the Ettin King? He has many names, the dwarves call him Dvalin, the elves name him as Ivaldi, as to the giants he has ever been Fornjótr, the trolls and seers say he is Surtr, but oh the gods and goddesses call him Buri…and little prince, none must know he is alive and well and awake. If the Norns known, there will be no quiet, and he wants it to be quiet, so quiet you will be, or I will take your tongue." Angrboda's eyes are red as blood, flashing in the dark, and with a fury that knows no ends. Her smile is as sharp as Harry knows her teeth to be.

"Bless you, Ymir's daughter; I need no protecting with so many blessed and blasted names." Angrboda's eyes half close and she sighs as Harry kisses calm her. Loki watches, pale blue and quite embarrassed. He'd thought Harry too lovely and mortal to be a lover of other races. Yet he is called by other and older races by such strange and noble names, the sleeping one, the all powerful, the first giant, the swarthy one and the producer are the meanings of them all, but a mortal such as Loki sees – he can not have so many names and must be stealing them all to hide his own.

Yet Loki sees Angrboda means every name, and why she would flatter a mortal mate with them, he does not know.

"Where am I?" Loki asks softly, as his doubt begins to grow. He remembers not how he got here, but how he fell, being burnt inside and out, shaped and made and changed, and seeing all the stars see into him and sing songs of silver tongues and liars and evil deeds he has not done. They had judged him, juried him, but when he would have faced justice in dying, he remembers…as if in a dream, being stolen away and saved.

"Járnvid the giants call it, mortals will call it Hoddmímis holt, but to the gods it is the dreaded Myrkwood." Loki looks out the window and sees trees that have stood since the beginning of time, one among that forest is an ash named Yggdrasil beneath which a serpent sleeps and whose roots rest in wells that span worlds.

Another out there is Mímameiðr where up in it boughs roosts Vithofnir, and Laeradr was taken from here and planted in Valhalla. Yet it longs to return and calls to this wood and the wood grows new trees to spread and speed itself along. The wood will not rest until Laeradr is within it. The trees are still in the darkness, but Harry hears how they whisper. All tress think they know everything and are great gossips besides.

Loki breaths and is still and silent while Angrboda twists about and brings Harry to settle upon the table before her, straddling her waist and laying prone between the two like a feast upon the round table.

Harry had muttered of round tables and kings and knights and royals and their noble deeds in his sleep and Angrboda had had this built, and upon it each night she beds him and there are no such dreams anymore. She contents herself in that no dreams mean no nightmares and no visions. She looks up at him and smiles, daring him to join in and bed a mortal that is no mortal at all.

"You are mad." Loki whispers it, to himself, to them. Harry laughs as Angrboda suckles at his lips.

"Oh, little prince, is being mad so bad?" Harry stretches out his fingers toward Loki, and there they sit within Loki's reach to touch, to taste, teasing. They curl there in a beckoning gesture, to join. Angrboda tears woven clothes from Harry, baring every inch and not a bit ashamed. She kisses his lips one last time and rolls away to sit astride a seat and speak.

"He wants you, will you deny him? If you do, you lack your wits along with your so called sanity." Angrboda sits at Harry's side, content to watch and wait. She licks her lips, and possessively trails her eyes over every bit of that pale skin.

Loki hisses at her, knowing if they fought, Ymir's daughter would win, but this is not a fight, it is…it is a gift.

Loki wonders if he is crazy, as he climbs the table top and straddles the slenderer body beneath his, protective and possessive, his fingers playing in hair that is darker than this night. With every kiss he sees bits and pieces of history, and realizes with a gasp, that he holds no name stealer's wrists he holds by one of his hands, but the maker of those names.

"Ettin?" He hisses, for that is no name at all, his fingers play against the soft skin and silky hair of the not-mortal's loins. Harry whines, frustrated and straining against Loki's grip and weight.

"Dvalin, you are not now…" Loki proves it by playing his fingers into the cleft of the immortal's ass and pressing a flicking finger within. He hooks it and Harry chokes out a noise which would have been a cry, if only he had had air to make it more.

"Ivaldi, I think not yet." A second finger sneaks in, and Loki shivers at the heat of him and the tightness about his fingers. He thinks of rutting into the other, of taking all that is given to him freely and more. Loki's breath comes in short gasps, as he tries to steady himself, tries to take his time and wait and not ruin this gift.

"Fornjótr you were, but now? No few think that name died with a flood of blood." Loki kisses the memory from Harry's lips, and shudders at the grip of them, the depths and what Loki risks, for Harry could bury him in memories and Loki would never know what was real and what was not. Not for ages upon ages.

"Surtr would slay rather than be bedded one such as me." Loki is well aware of it, and knows that in Harry is Surtr who would burn the worlds all, and not weep, whose lover Sinmora knows no evil deed that she would not forgive of him. Of them, Loki sees, all of Harry's lovers Sinmora would bed gladly. Loki wants that, keenly and deeply, and Harry laughs under his body, bucking up as if the memory of Sinmora and who Surtr is calls up that dominance.

Loki goes still above him, and like a tide it washes over him, how sweet surrender would be, to be taken. Harry growls under his breath and rolls Loki onto now bowed back, from underneath his hair he sees Angrboda lick her lips.

"Buri, who is beautiful, first god, Odin's famous forefather, which and what is your name, if you take me you must give me it." It is a name that Loki knows it hopeless to get, but with each name he knows - Loki glimpses the gleam of Angrboda eye, and her slight smile.

Harry laughs, teasing and slaps his ass playfully.

"None know, prince-ling, god-ling, you are too young yet to guess…indeed, far too young for me to bed or be bedded by." Loki flinches with the sting of words more than the swat upon his ass and Harry presses a kiss against the skin. He can not help but whine helplessly, maddeningly. Pleasure and pain torment him like stinging flies.

"Please, if, if you do not, I shall go crazy." Loki offers himself for nothing, no name, only to be taken.

"We all three will be crazy together, little prince – what say you, my lady?" Harry kisses Loki's shivering skin, like a horse to be calmed. Every kiss brings with it a memory, some sweet and warm like honey, others bitter and cold.

"You are at the doors of death, Loki, you will craft for me Laevateinn with runes, and when it is finished I will put it in Laegjarn, a chest that Sinmora will keep tightly shut with nine locks until the end of time. It alone will slay Vithofnir, the red rooster that would cry for Helheim at the twilight of the gods. If it dies, all you know never ends, what say you to such madness as this?"Angrboda pets Loki, and he stares into her red eyes and knows she does not tell him all she plots. Yet it is life she offers, life that seems never to end, and immortality.

There is in all the nine worlds but one immortal, and he watches and waits for Loki to answer her. She who is not Harry's wife, but will be Loki's mistress.

"So it will be." Loki knows he's damned, but as the pain of pleasure gives way to gratification, he does not care to dwell on what he will do. He is maddeningly happy. Loki finds he is still falling, into the dark and deep void, and does not know if the stolen moments he had seen are memories of another, or if they have not happened yet.

He knows the name he seeks.

o*~*o

Surtr is not his name; they get that name from Surtalogi his flaming sword, heart of Muspelheim. He has all but forgotten his own name because of how long it has been since he has heard it spoken. They call him Surtr, and Surtr he calls himself, though he remembers another name that belongs to a life that was brief and small, but his alone and mortal.

"Father?" Sinmora speaks, she's got flames for hair and stars gleam in her stare. He sighs and smiles, for a moment forgetting he is Surtr and all that began with stars and spells calls him father as well as she who is Muspell's queen, as Hel is queen of Niflheim. He knows she has been trying to get his attention for some time, perhaps the passing of ages and eons, if she speaks that title – a title that she thinks is unworthy of one such as him. It is… he knows, she thinks it too common.

"Lopt is falling." Sinmara's eyes are dim in pain, as she looks to Bestla's father, her brother Bolthorn who the old races all called Fornjotr. It is from Bolthorn's blood that the race of Aesir was born, for Odin sits upon his Asgard throne and knows he is Ymir's seed too.

One brother and one sister were born from the sweat of Ymir's arms as he slept against Surtr's side, and one night more brought forth the six headed Thruthgelmir between his feet by whom all giants owe their seed. They had lived together, all of them, if not happily, than not ever alone between the gap of ice and fire.

Bolthorn kisses his slight but oh so rightfully powerful father's hand, where a ring of black stone lets him see a glimpse of Ymir who sees frozen Surtr and in turns knows his blood to be the venom of rime from the Élivágar, the twelve frozen rivers, the salty dripping of serpent's poison from the heat of Surtalogi.

Audumbla too, had known and nursed Ymir upon her milk as she licked that salt from deadened skin which had quickened to life at her lips. Buri they had called him there, a mocking twist in tongue alike Harry. Surtr he became later, when Ymir, that evil one, had twisted Surtr inside and out, and none but the sons of Borr had seen it, and avenged it. Borr was Buri's son in a way that Bolthorn and Sinmara and Thruthgelmir were Ymir's.

With that glimpse of memory, Bolthorn shivers. He knows Surtr planted Yggdrasil by his wand, a wand he – who is older than all stars – called it Elder. It was a wand that called the wood, called a forest that knows no ending.

"We shall find him, father, and save him, if that is what you desire." Borr speaks, ever he is at Surtr's side, and knows all spells that his father does not speak. Some he has shared with Bolthorn and his son, but more he shares with his sister.

"Do as your whim takes you." Surtr says softly, and Audumbla raises her head from where it rests in his lap, her hide alone ensures that here with the heart of Muspelheim no harm can come to him from fire; eyes are dark as the depths of night and her horns are to be feared. They know they are to find Lopt and bring him to Surtr, for not since Ymir's blood had flooded all the worlds had their father Surtr spoken of another with lust in merely meeting.

"So it shall be." Thruthgelmir declares with six strong voices mingling in harmony.

Sinmara stays at her father's side, while her brothers and Borr go, Audumbla has not shifted an inch since Ymir died, but now she stretches and licks at Surtr soothingly. With each touch of her tongue, Sinmara sees why Ymir called him Buri, for he is beautiful, her daughter Nott does not have hair so black, neither does anyone have such green eyes or golden skin. She kisses him, and minds it not at all that other's think Surtr's daughter is his wife after then.

Borr has taken his father's cloak, and strides unseen through worlds named and unnamed, searching for one called Lopt. He finds no one by that name, and knows the name is another, like Surtr is called Buri and Buri was Harry and no one but they know that secret name.

Thruthgelmir calls all names he knows for Lopt, knowing he'll be answered, for fire is not fickle and Lopt is what fire is. He's stubborn through and through with all six of his heads and will never give up.

Bolthorn goes between his sons, the sea ruler Hler, the sky walker Kari who travels all worlds as the wind, and the fire master Logi which calls Glod his bride and his daughters Eisa and Eimyrja his right hand and his left and only by his daughter Ran and the Waves does he find that one called Loki has been lost to Asgard.

Falling, just as Surtr had said. He will fall and see all his lives he's lived and lost, and he will never know again if he lives life or is merely remembering it.

"Do you know the origin of fire?" The one that speaks demands an answer, but Loki does not know who it is and so can not answer.

The stars are sparks spinning off into the dark void, the black yawning gap that mortals call space is Ginnungagap, and across it Loki goes. There are two ends, one the cold north Niflheim and one the fiery south Muspelheim, where souls and spells are born. Niflheim is their end, for all flows out of the well Hvergelmir and all flows into it at the end.

Hvergelmir breeds Élivágar the twelve rivers that cross into all realms and serpents too, of every kind. Loki does not want to end, end over end until he sees the south, it beats, bang, bang, boom, the beat of blood, the pulse that began the whole universe wide. It's the heart of all, and Loki falls with pride, knowing he might yet die.

He does not die, for Audumbla looks up and sees him dripping down, falling like a drop of smoking rime, poison to the likes of all but she, and she licks him up and spits him out for he is not salty despite his sweat. With the touch of her tongue, Loki sees more than stars, he sees the beginning.

How Surtr, the only immortal in truth, had come across the Ginnungagap, for like called to like, and the cloak is made up of the threads of the void. Surtr had been alone, and laid down and wished to die all for being lonely, but the heart of Muspelheim had gone to his hand and milked life from the rime of Niflheim.

Drip by drip, Ymir had been born and Audumbla too, and they had seen to it that Surtr, that stranger who had made their world what it was, was saved.

Ymir, it is said, knew no other lover but Surtr, and when he lay with him in sleep, their sweat bore the first children of the world. Poison though, was Ymir's beginnings and ending, and Surtr took his children by Ymir, six headed Thruthgelmir, his daughter Sinmora and son Bolthorn, took too the spring born Audumbla into the life-force of fire, where the flood of blood could not touch them. Others went into the Myrkwood which straddles Muspelheim – and none knows what survived in those woods as a world was washed away and made anew.

Loki burns outside and inside, seeing stars as they are born and die in the time it takes him to breath again. Loki is smoke and fire and he crashes and burns and rises with the flames, to the laughter of the lady Sinmora who kisses his cheeks in greeting, like kin.

"Hello, little prince Lopt, do you seek my master – your maker?" Her eyes burn bright as any star's skin and where she touches Loki leaves red singed welts. He gasps and groans, eyes fluttering and seeing light and his pain crossing with pleasure.

"Yes, yes I would see, see he - him - Surtr." Loki speaks though his tongue is burnt and if it's silver indeed, it shines bright for Sinmara does not take her eyes off his lips.

"So it shall be, he has awaited thee, little prince. Remember you asked me for this meeting, do not hate him – or I shall see your ashes scattered into the depths of Hvergelmir and you'll not get out ever again." These words she murmurs as she takes his hand and leads him along the lava that flows and is a slow going road that takes him to the holder of the heart of burning Muspell source of spells and stars.

Surtr is the heart called, for he is burnt black, not born of Muspell as Sinmara who is bright and pale burning. Sinmara sings a greeting, something old and familiar, and Surtr looks to see her standing there with Loki at her side. His smile is small but strong. Audumbla is she, the horned and primeval heifer who sits at his side.

Loki lays down low in a bow that touches his head to the coals; to see them is a blessing. Loki feels Surtr's fingers thread through his silk black hair, and is not burned.

"One day I will burn all your kind away, but that day is not today." Loki looks up to see, for he still has eyes to see by, the face of Surtr is burnt golden and glowing, his eyes gleam green and his hair is blacker than any burn. Loki sees that his lips are fine and red, and his skin against Audumbla's hide is healthy.

Surtr kisses him and it makes the stars he sees being born and dying all spin in a spiral unending. Loki has to wonder if this is what Surtr sees at all times and it is no wonder he never sleeps. Loki knows his sanity has slipped from him, and he does not think he needs it if this is what he gets.

All fire to him is a living thing, which sees and breeds. Loki forces Surtr onto the back of Audumbla, who watches with wicked dark eyes staying still as Surtr writhes against her and him. His skin is how with sweat and Loki laps it up, tongue tickling him and making Buri plead, for Loki alone calls him Harry, over and over, like a dirty word.

Loki is pleased that his tongue is all it takes to make Harry promise him anything, and with a twist of it he comes undone. Harry lays breath him, defiled and defeated, submission in the turn of his neck and cheek. He eyes Loki beneath his lashes, and Loki kisses each eye until Harry speaks.

"A secret I will give to you as gift, Laufey's son." Loki is still atop him, having his maker between his thighs, mastering the master and maker and murderer of worlds. He wonders if he now dies.

Sinmara hisses, a warning to Loki to be wary, for like a serpent she is born of venom, and is never to be near without wariness. Her loyalty is only to Surtr, and at her hiss, all nine worlds hear, and fears as her roaming brothers come home, appearing with smoke and seeing them Audumbla turns her horns in warning. She'll not let Surtr be harmed, nor let Loki be taken from her back.

She throws them aloft and Loki clings to what he has claimed and what has claimed him in turn.

"It all never really ends." Loki takes what assurance he is given, for he agrees. He gives all that he is in turn to Harry, who is his. Loki knows it is to him who he belongs.

His falling will never end, but he is not alone in it.