For those that are interested, the forest that Loki's taken to tutoring Harry in is the Aokigahara Forest, Japan.
To those are unaware of its infamy; it's also known as the Suicide Forest, because of the sheer number of people who go there purely to kill themselves. The concept is pretty creepy and definitely tragic, but there have been some observances of the area having high levels of electromagnetic energy/anomalies. It's a place of interest to Ancient Alien theorists (S03E10: for the record, I'm not one, but I do enjoy watching the occasional episode when I feel like tearing something to pieces with logic and sanity) because it sits at the foot of Mt Fuji, which is apparently known to be a World Navel/Axis Mundi (a place where the Earth meets the Sky; the Heaven's Gate), and is (and I quote) a 'dimensional time-space portal'.
Claptrap, in my opinion, however I have latched onto the idea of Aokigahara being a powerful place, and have shamelessly warped this to my own ends. The forest- as previously stated by Loki- sits in an area where old magic lies in such levels as to completely mask their presence. Of course, this is just because of the dispersal of Earth magic (think ley lines here people) and has nothing to do with it being a Heaven's Gate, but that is what the Ancient Alien theorists are picking up on; at least in the MCU.
Thank-you to those who reviewed! You brighten up my world!
Part Two: Gifts Not For Giving
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Save it For Later
Loki doesn't return until the next morning, not long after Harry wakes and motivates himself enough to roll out of his ridiculously comfortable bed (and seriously, why on Earth was it that soft? He was being held captive [more or less]. Captives were not supposed to have rooms that were furnished like libraries and be fed regularly or be given stupidly nice beds to sleep in. That wasn't how the kidnapping rules went). He throws an apple at him almost as soon as he's through the door and Harry fumbles to catch it for the briefest of moments. He coughs to hide him embarrassment at his sloppy reflexes; it had been far too long since he'd tested his seeker skills.
"Thanks."
Once, he could have caught that with his eyes closed.
Loki nods, "We're going."
He stiffens, frowning slightly, "Where?"
"Same place as before." He motions impatiently, "Come on Potter."
Harry glances down at his rumpled clothes and grimaces, "Er… you mind if I use the bathroom first?" He had just gotten out of bed, and it wasn't as if he'd been able to change clothes the night before.
Loki stares at him blankly; blinking slowly before his face clears and he nods tautly. "Don't keep me waiting." He drawls imperiously and leans against the cleared table. Harry sends the Asgardian a grateful smile and flees to the bathroom, which right now he couldn't be more grateful to have. Something tells him it had probably been an afterthought on Loki's part- though he'd failed to think of getting him additional clothes- but he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth; especially when it looked far more serpentine than equine.
He's in and out of the room as quickly as he can be- using the toilet and washing his hands and face with water that's icy cold and sends violent shivers down his spine. His shirt's not an entirely lost cause when he checks it with a tentative sniff, but he'll probably want to change by the end of the day. If he'd any real skill with wandless magic, he'd just clean it himself, but he wasn't exactly keen on trying to clean his only shirt with a burgeoning talent he'd so far only used to burn things.
He walks out cautiously; Loki hasn't moved from his spot, but he straightens when the door opens.
"Are you ready now?"
Harry lingers in the doorway, indecisive. There's a question that's been plaguing him since last night that he knows Hermione would kill him for not asking. Loki frowns at the evident hesitation on his face, "What is it?"
He looks away feeling understandably nervous. Loki and his mercurial moods weren't really something he wanted to push, but he had to ask.
"Spit it out." Irritation laces his voice and Harry grits his teeth in determination.
"Could- would you… your magic-"
"- My magic what, Potter?"
Just go with it.
"Could you return us? To our universe, I mean." The Trickster's eyes remain unreadable for a long minute. Harry fights an unsure flush.
"Perhaps. Retrieving the Veil is not out of my reach, by any means." He tilts his head, thin lips pressed into a serious line, "The question is; do you want me to?"
"Of course!"
He sneers, "I am the God of lies and trickery, boy. You would need a millennia's practice before you could even think of feeling me falsehoods."
He blanches at the implications behind his words, "Our universe is our home! Why would we not want to go back?"
Loki stares at him some more, eyes wide and intense, "And what an inviting world it sounds like; bigots, xenophobes, persecution, psychotic followers and a lifetime spent in hiding. You do yourself no service with your self-inflicted lies."
He can feel the half-hearted grimace growing on his face. The truth was it felt as though he'd lived more in the past month than he had the last decade and a half.
"I can't just abandon my people! They-"
"-They what? Need your help?" Loki steps closer, eyes flashing dangerously, "Funny you think so highly of yourself, when you spent the last- what, five years- hiding and pretending they didn't exist. They're no more your people than the Midgardians and the Asgardians are mine."
Harry eyeballs the other man, wide-eyed. He has the feeling Loki's just revealed something very important and intensely personal to him, and he's no idea if the slip was intentional or not. He licks at uncomfortably dry lips.
"How do you even know about that?" Misdirection is probably the best course of action right now, before the fallen god lashes out at him in a fit of spite.
"You think I just pretended your arrivals were as ordinary as any other arrival on Midgard?" He laughs; a cold and bitter thing, "I've been watching you Potter; you and your… entourage, ever since you tried your hand at skydiving without a parachute. And I've been in this game a long, long time. You couldn't detect me or hide from me; even if you tried for a hundred years."
Harry feels like that's a bit of an overly arrogant assumption, but is determined to say nothing about it. In the lull of conversation/argument, Loki stretches out his arm, the discussion now apparently closed. He watches the outstretched fingers savagely as he collects his scattered, affronted thoughts.
Truth be told, it felt oddly freeing to be told he owed his old world nothing. It felt good to think about never going back. Because Loki was right; it wasn't a nice place. Sure, he'd had his friends and family; extraordinary people whose absence left a gaping pit of despair and loneliness in his heart. But the Ministry had been corrupt for centuries; their society was inherently xenophobic and isolationist, and positively backwards when it came to innovation and progress. It wasn't a world he'd ever want to return to; having accepted almost a decade ago that it wasn't about to change any time soon.
If he was true to himself, it had been a relief to think he could never return; he's entertained quite a few fantasies of actually living out a life here over the past few weeks. It was a fresh start; a new canvas. A world where nobody knew his name. He hadn't had a chance to experience that since he was eleven; and his childhood with the Dursley's couldn't exactly be called enriching. The thought of staying here… it excited him; possibly far more than it should.
And it hurt, to think that, because no matter how much he wished it were false; people had died for him- shit, Ron had died for him; his best friend and the adoring parent of a now fatherless son. Remus, Tonks, Fred, Colin, Dumbledore and even Snape. How could he leave them to fend for themselves against the growing threat of the Death Eaters? He couldn't resist the obligation of returning; to fight the good fight, even when he knew that his friends were more than capable of fighting back; and if worst came to worst- leave. But it was a hard reality to abandon when he remembered all of those who had died in the wars. Sometimes if felt as though he'd never escape the lifeless eyes, endless rows of gravestones and rotting bones that tied him to wizarding Britain.
And it was stupid of him to think that way- conceited even- because he knew, logically, that all of those people- his friends and mentors- hadn't died for him specifically; had lost their lives in the fight for survival; for their families and their world. But it was one thing to say their deaths held no sway over his psyche, and another to actually mean it. Even now; fifteen years on he struggled to come to terms with it (and, well, Ron had barely even been gone a month). Hermione called it survivor's guilt; said it was a natural thing to feel, but it didn't make him feel any better.
It was made worse by the fact that everything Loki had said so far had hit its mark head on. He narrows his eyes at the dark-haired man, still holding his arm out patiently.
"You know, for the God of Lies, you haven't really said any untruths."
Loki grins wickedly, "It is not my fault people confuse chaos with deceit. People underestimate the power of truths."
Once again Harry is struck by the absurdity of his new situation. So far, all the things he'd heard about Loki (apart from the rare tales he heard from Thor) had centred around the fact that he was evil with a large helping of crazy. And while he had the crazy aura downpat; Loki hadn't exactly done much in the way of actually threatening his safety. If at all, if he was honest. Once again he's forced to question the man's motives, because beyond holding him against his will to sneer and smirk and pick his battered psyche apart piece by agonising piece, they were pretty murky as far as supervillain motives went. Mostly, he'd come across as casually ruthless, somewhat unhinged but surprisingly insightful.
Loki waves his arm, eyebrow rising the only sign of his growing impatience. Harry gives him a weak grin and clasps his arm before he can say anything stupid. They're transported to the same forest as yesterday, with its rocky and uneven floor and tightly grouped trees.
"You're to do the same thing I asked of you yesterday." Loki declares, moving away to craft himself a chair out of the exposed roots of the closest tree, "Except this time, I wasn't you to be able to change the colours and the heat at will, and extend the flames up to you elbow without burning your clothes."
As he speaks, Harry watches his elegant hands coax the tree into shaping itself to his liking with seemingly minimal effort. He can't stop the little pang of jealousy at the skill with which the Trickster wields his magic. If he was honest with himself, it was because of these occasional displays of power that he hadn't really tried to escape yet; which was probably a stupid motivation, and Hermione was liable to kill him slowly and painfully the next time he saw her, but it kind of felt like Loki was out to help him, and he wasn't about to laugh in the face of his oddly displayed hospitality.
He looks down at the apple still in his hand as Loki sits, his face expectant. Part of him wants to eat it now, just to break his fast, but the more logical side of him (which admittedly, wasn't very big- being a wizard and all) suspects this was all he'd get until they returned, because so far Loki had given him food seemingly as an afterthought.
He decides, in the end, to save it for later and sits on the rocky ground, settling himself as he'd done the day before and searches for that well of magic and pure, unadulterated power inside of him once more.
"It's strange, don't you think?" Harry asks in between bites of his apple, which he is now immensely grateful for not eating before. He'd progressed quite well in the past few hours, he'd like to think, and had managed to produce the flames Loki had wanted in just under forty minutes (he thinks). He'd been working on his stamina since then.
"What's strange?" Loki's chair of roots had at some point morphed into a bench, which he was once again lounging across. It seemed to be his default setting when he wasn't picking Harry apart and snarking his way thought all of their 'conversations'.
"The Veil; the way it deposits people in random places. I don't get it. Should you turn up in the same place you left?" It's probably a long shot, fishing for answers like this; especially after yesterday's attempt, but it's something that had been puzzling him ever since Hermione had told him they'd come through the Veil.
Loki hums but doesn't answer. His hands are absently creating some kind of intricate knot-work out of a bunch of twigs. He soldiers on through the silence anyway.
"If the Veils were created in the beginnings of the universe-or universes, I guess- then I'd think they should be pretty similar properties wise. So why is it that this universe's Veil acts differently? And wouldn't it be, like, a two-way thing? In which case, why have we never had anyone come through ours?"
Loki pauses in his work and rolls his head to the side to regard Harry. His eyes are considering, but he doesn't look like he's planning on actually saying anything. He huffs in frustration, "Come on mate, cut me slack here; what exactly could I do with the information anyway?"
The corners of Loki's eyes dip in amusement, "It's the archways."
Harry blinks in surprise; he certainly hadn't counted on that working. He thinks on Loki's answer, "And there's no archway here."
The Asgardian nods, "There was- once. Made long before humanity had even learnt to speak. They are- were- like an anchor for The Veil; a two-way corridor leading from one universe to the other. The Midgardians worshipped it for a while, but it fell into obscurity with the advent of Christianity." He wrinkles his nose as the term, like it's a dirty word, "I believe there remained still an underground cult that saw to its upkeep and maintained its secrecy.
"But then your people had the charming idea of sending convicted criminals through. They thought they were demons sent straight from hell. The Veil was spewing forth monsters- rabid Seiðr who revelled in suffering- on a semi-regular basis. The guardian cult didn't stand a chance- they were eliminated quickly- and it took a long time for the locals to work out where they were coming from. In the end, they did the only thing they could do; they destroyed the arch." Loki huffs out a sigh, "It's a shame really; there's not that many objects of such antiquity left in the universe."
Harry looks down at his half-eaten apple thoughtfully; though he fights the urge to roll his eyes.
"Of course, they couldn't actually destroy the thing that was allowing the 'demons' to pass through- the archway acts only as a focus and anchor for the Veil- but with its anchor destroyed, the Veil was set free. It's been following the currents of the wind for centuries now."
He blinks in surprise. That actually made some kind of sense.
"Does that mean there's only two alternate universes? It was my understanding that there was an infinite amount- I remember Hermione discussing it at some point. So couldn't you access multiple universes through the Veil?"
Loki shakes his head, "These are the only two that hold artefacts like the Veil in all of the Nine Realms- hence why it is only these two are linked via Midgard, but there are quite certainly an infinite number of parallel universes out there."
Harry chews on the information for as long as he chews on his apple, grateful to at least that much. Loki hadn't answered everything he wanted to know- not by a long shot, but he's not about to forget his promise that all information came at a price. It's probably best to stay quiet for now about it.
Maybe tomorrow, he'll ask again.
Harry doesn't ask tomorrow.
Or the day after that. Or even the day after that. He's too exhausted by the oddly strict yet simultaneously lax regimen of meditation and spell work he finds himself in. Loki has him working from dawn until dusk most days (which is disorientating given the different time zones between the two sites); refining his summoning technique until it takes barely any concentration, and extending his stamina. It's challenging work, but he's nothing if not stupidly proud of how far he's come in so short a timeframe. And part of him feels guilty for that- a large part- because Hermione must be worried sick about him, and by now she'd have probably started tearing out her hair in frustration from her fruitless search for him.
With thoughts of Hermione in mind, every night without fail, he tests the wards of his prison, searching for weaknesses or loopholes to escape through, but whatever 'simple spell work' Loki had left on his door that first day had evidently been replaced with something far more infallible in the time since. Harry reigns himself to being stuck with the fallen god for the time being.
Loki is an odd teacher for Harry to deal with. He comes across for the most part as an eclectic mix Snape's antipathy; Malfoy and his unending vitriol; Professor McGonagall's caustic sternness and, unnervingly, Hermione with her stubborn studiousness, thrown in for good measure. It unsettles him; leaves him unsure of where to tread; what he can ask for without fearing the repercussions. Because as much as Loki comes across as (somewhat) benign, Harry is still aware that he's the man that had attempted to take over the world, and kidnapped him with little compunction for the fallout of such a move. The barest human necessities- food, water, clothing… rest- are granted to him like an afterthought- as though Loki forgets he even needs them- but are rarely denied, unless he's in a particularly sadistic mood.
They turn up occasionally; triggered by what feels like nothing at all- Harry doesn't talk to him much apart from asking for the things needed to keep him comfortable- but the disgraced prince never sends more than carefully crafted barbs, directed at whatever character flaw tickles his fancy at the time. He tries to brush them off- ignore them and remain passive to the obvious provocations- but the man is a manipulator; cunning and wily and more than a little bit vicious, and it's little comfort when he falls into his bed at the end of another exhausting day.
On his fifth day with Loki (awake that is; he's not entirely sure how long Loki kept him under before that), he's set to work on offensive and defensive magics; shields to build around himself and bolts of energy that can move in straight and curved lines, or even lock onto a target. It comes to him with a tentative ease now- though he's nowhere near the instinctual reflexes Loki seems to exhibits- and he only needs to think of pulling his magic to the surface and it comes; vibrant and addictive, bubbling beneath his skin like electricity. Part of him wonders why it's so easy- surely if it were so simple to learn, wizards would never have bothered with wands in the first place.
And then he gets distracted by some falling leaves, or a stone thrown at him by a bored Trickster and the magic unravels- or worse, blows up in his face- and he remembers again why wands are so popular.
Because this magic is hard. It requires a constant, conscious effort on his part- more than just some spoken words and movement of his wand. If he's distracted for even a moment, his efforts dissipate like ashes on the wind. It's tiring and eternally frustrating, but when things go right, the results are immensely satisfying. Every shield; every flicker of flame; every unnatural growth of the plants around him, happens because of his hard work.
It occurs to him at some point that maybe the ease with which he manages to perform wandless magic is less because of any improved tutorship and more because there's something profoundly different with the magic here. Which is an unfamiliar concept for him to consider, given magic is mostly internalised, but he's pretty sure he heard from Hermione at some point that magical cores were like batteries that drew from the Earth's power. Or something. Harry can't exactly tell for himself though; given his relative inexperience with inspecting the taste and feel of both the Earth's magic and his own, he wouldn't even know if they were identical or as radically different as the sun and the moon.
He asks Loki about it late into the afternoon on his fifth day. Loki just shrugs in a way that makes Harry immediately certain that the Asgardian does in fact know the answer but is disinclined to tell him.
Harry sighs. Information was not free and so far he'd worked on the assumption that Loki was feeding him information bit by excruciating bit as some kind of strange reward for his good behaviour; like not trying to escape. Not that Harry was particularly tempted to escape. Besides testing the wards on his room, there wasn't really all that much Harry could do to get away from wherever he was- not without bringing out the Death Stick, which was right up at the top of his 'Things-I-really-don't-want-to-have-to-do' List.
Needless to say, they had something of an odd relationship.
He tries for wheedling instead. Harry gets the impression that sometimes Loki just likes to play hard to get, and it had worked for him the other day.
"I mean," He continues resolutely, "It's hard to tell myself, because I've never exactly tried to analyse my magic like this."
"And what makes you think that I would know?"
Harry shrugs, trying to feign nonchalance, "You seem like someone who would make it their business to know." Is he hoping flattery will work? Yes. Yes he is.
Loki stares at him, but his 'serene' expression doesn't scream at him to back off, which is probably as close to encouragement as he's going to get.
"Someone as intelligent as you- uh- probably would have studied it, right?"
His eyes dip at the corners, visibly amused at the clumsy ploy.
"I did notice a difference," he concedes finally, "between the magical signatures of travellers who had arrived, and those that survived their first month on Midgard."
Harry fights the urge to say or do anything that might make Loki realise he was speaking and clam back up.
"The taste of magic from your world… it feels milder. No less potent, but certainly tamer; more cultured. Magic on this Midgard is raw; unrefined. I hypothesized that it was due to the lack of Seiðr; your Midgard had several millennia of magic users feeding off its powers. It was hardly a surprise that its magic would not come out of such an exchange unscathed.
"That said, for those that came out of such a… refined-" He sneers at the word as though he finds personal offense in it, "-culture of magic users, the vast majority of Veil travellers are disappointingly unskilled."
Harry frowns thoughtfully, choosing to ignore the dig at his own talents, "Yeah, but that's kind of a given, don't you think? I mean, those wizards were for the most part evil, and the Ministry sent them through presumably with no possessions. Before Hermione and I," and he absolutely refuses to think about Malfoy at a time like this, "Did you ever actually come across a wizard with a wand?"
Loki grins wickedly "Once. But he was battle weary and I had no interest in him; which is what makes your appearance so exciting."
And the Asgardian sorcerer springs forward, a dagger seemingly appearing out of thin air and headed straight for him.
PLEASE REVIEW!
A lot of time and effort goes into writing this story, and it is immensely disappointing and disheartening to receive so little feedback and support.
I spend a good chunk of my time working on GE so that you as the reader get a good sized chapter to sink your teeth into every fortnight. I've been more or less writing 2000 plus words a week for the past six months- that's more than my average university essay, and I'm only expected to hand in 8 of those a year.
So please; review. To those who don't write, you have no idea how ridiculously exciting and fulfilling it is to receive the support and appreciation of your reading audience- how shamelessly we crave it- and how damn discouraging and frustrating it is to get barely anything back for the long hours we spend toiling away in front of notebooks and computer screens.
Thank-you!