Loki thought that it was the fifth or maybe the sixth day since he'd been in bed.
The fever had largely gone on its way – even he could tell that, and he'd been an invalid long enough.
Carefully, he wriggled himself out of the bed and into his proper clothes.
It was that quiet, in-between-things time of day, after noon, but before preparations are being made for dinner. No one was in the kitchen.
He wasn't hungry – which almost alarmed him. It had been several days, and he had neither eaten nor drunk during that time. To admit the truth, he was nearly afraid to.
Ridiculously grateful that no one was there to watch, Loki got a cup of water and brought it to his lips. It was cold and stung him, but if he swallowed quickly enough, he found that it was largely a painless exercise.
He wasn't paying attention and was mildly startled when his mother said from behind him, "So, you're well then?"
He turned to her and would almost have smiled, but didn't quite dare. She'd always been able to read him, and she didn't disappoint now. She came across the room and touched his arm, "I'm glad to see you're up. You gave me quite a fright last evening. Your fever was so high I thought it liable to burn you to death."
She had a hand on his shoulder, and as she spoke she began to lead him out of the kitchen and down the hall toward the garden. He knew what she was doing but allowed himself to be persuaded to follow her lead. There were others in the garden. They caught nervous glances at him, and some openly stared. Frigga continued to speak as though none of them were there, and Loki listened.
It had to happen sometime. He couldn't hide in his room forever. The sooner he was seen the better. He gave none of the spectators so much as a glance but kept his head bent toward his mother. He wasn't sure he'd have been able to do this on his own, but as she went, never once acting as though this was anything out of the normal course of events, she made it easy for him. He was grateful.
~.~
She didn't keep him out long on that first day. He needed rest, whether he thought he did or not. For the next several days, Frigga found him – most often he was in his room – and together they would walk the various garden paths surrounding the palace. He barely spoke, but the way Frigga saw it, barely was a good sight more than never, and he would get the rest of the way eventually. In the likely course of events, much sooner, rather than later. He had always been a talkative child.
As time passed, she began to find him in his room less and less often. He would venture out on the main paths where he was liable to be seen and visit the library, or the stables.
She was proud of him.
He avoided his father and brother, and that at least showed no signs of changing in the very near future. She could understand that and knew that it would wear off with time.
But his mouth wasn't healing quite as it should have been, and he began to look less well. Just as things were starting to return to their old ways, he began to refuse to leave his room, even accompanied by her. Again, he wouldn't speak.
One morning, Gefjon came to her. She'd been cleaning in his room, and she had found a bundle of rags – hidden – all crusted with dried blood.
Frigga went and found Loki. He was in the library. She knew he would be, but it still took her several minutes to locate him, wandering among the shelves.
"Quite a search you've given me today,"
He jerked, then recovered. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
He was startled more easily, she noticed. "Yes, you have," she touched his chin, tipping his face toward her to get a better view of the scars. None of them looked as though they'd been open for some time, and Gefjon had said that the blood was old. In the past, Loki had hidden injuries by magic, but she could sense none of that on him now.
"How is it today?"
Loki turned back to the shelf, he shrugged. The light played off his skin.
"You haven't been sleeping, have you,"
Something behind his eyes flickered. He pulled a book from the shelf and turned it over in his hands.
"Loki,"
He put a hand on her wrist, "I'm fine." His voice was low, and hoarse from disuse.
He slipped past her and vanished among the shelves.
Frigga let him go.
The next evening, she managed to persuade him to go out with her for a while into the garden. His head was bothering him, so he told her that he was going to go to bed early.
A few hours later, Frigga went up to his room. He was near to a grown man, but he was still her child. She wanted to make sure he was alright, and the cloths Gefjon had found made her anxious.
She tapped on the door. There was no answer, so she pushed it open and slipped in.
Loki was breathing hard, thrashing in the throes of a nightmare. She took him by the shoulder to try and wake him and his hand came up, slamming against her chin and forcing her backward. She tripped and caught herself against the wall.
Loki came up. He scrabbled back against the headboard, drawing up his knees, his eyes wide and frightened, chest heaving. He pressed a hand across his mouth, inspected it for blood, then let it fall, disgusted.
He must have been dreaming about it. She wondered how often he did.
He looked at his hand, the one he'd hit her with. His brows twitched together, like he was trying to remember.
Then he noticed her.
Her hand had gone up against her jaw, where he had hit her, and she drew it away. But not before he'd managed to make sense of what had happened.
Closing his eyes, he turned away, trying to hide from her the way he swallowed back tears.
He'd never been able to hide much from her.
"I thought I told you not to come."
His voice barely betrayed him, steady until the last word. His hand went semi-consciously up to his mouth, tracing the scars. Her stupid boy. Frigga was unsure if she wanted more to hit him or to hold him. Tears bit at her eyes, and before she really knew what she was saying, she'd asked the question.
"Why did you do it?"
Loki twitched back a little, like her words were a blow. He fumbled his way to his feet, and then nearly shoved past her as he stumbled out the door.
She hadn't meant to ask, and she was sorry that she had. She wiped the fresh wetness from her cheek. She hadn't meant to hurt him, and it seemed as though that was all she had accomplished.
She did not follow him.
~.~
The hallway was dim and shadowy. All the palace people had gone to bed and few others would be up now. The chances of meeting someone on the way were few, but Loki ignored that. Like a wild, hunted thing, he made for the passages. A few others knew about them, but none used them. They were his. They had always been his. They were safe.
He still felt shaken, unsteady, from the dream. It had all happened again, his father watching, Thor holding him still, the sharp little awl stabbing hole after hole and the strip of leather lacing through, again and again and again. Every night. Was he never to have peace?
His mouth hurt, but he wasn't sure if it was real or dream-pain.
And then his mother had come. Still meshed in the nightmare, he'd struck her.
He couldn't believe that he'd hit his mother. But the pain of contact was there, and she'd tried to hide the shock at being struck, but even still half-caught in sleep, he could see the bruise forming.
Why did you do it?
He didn't know. He couldn't think back and remember why any of it had been a good idea. All he could remember was how afraid he was and how badly he hurt and the way his father had just watched.
He came to a door in the wall of the passage and – knowing only through instinct where he was – he crashed through it.
The library was all peace and stillness. The harshness of his breathing, far from shattering it, was overpowered. It settled over him like a heavy blanket across his shoulders. Shuddering in and out of him, his breath was forced to slow.
He tripped and came against the smooth side of a broad, tall bookshelf that suddenly struck him as enormous, even though he'd seen it nearly every day of his life and never thought to remark on it before. He leaned against it. His hand was clapped over his mouth and he didn't know how long it had been there. It didn't matter. He was afraid, and the pressure of his hand made him feel safer. It was dark. Tonight, here, the dark was kind, numbing from shame and anger and fear.
He remembered Thor catching hold of him in the doorway, dragging him back, holding him down.
He remembered the way the cord had bit into him.
The tears that had been so ready to fall in his room did little more now than sting his eyes.
His body was heavy with needed sleep. His mother was right, he hadn't been sleeping. Every night he woke to the dream. Sometimes even in daylight he would be plagued. Often now, he didn't even try.
He was afraid, so afraid. But there was nothing he could do about it. And he was so tired. His knees gave and he allowed himself to slip down with his back against the shelf.
His hand was still clamped over his mouth when he fell asleep.