THE SHE-WOLF AND THE RAVEN
Chapter 1: Svartalfheim
"Then shrinking from the wrath in the eyes of Thor, Loki passed out of the feast hall. He went beyond the walls of Asgard and crossed Bifröst, the Rainbow Bridge. And he cursed Bifröst, and longed to see the day when the armies of Muspelheim would break it down in their rush against Asgard."
Loki woke on the dusty, ashy plain of Svartalfheim. He sputtered out some of the dust caught in his mouth and groaned. The sun bore down on him with an unrelenting ferocity and the wind refilled his parched mouth with all the fine ash he had just removed.
He tried to get up but could not. His abdomen felt on fire, pierced with a thousand knives of pain. He swiveled his head around as far as he could and all he could see, aside from rocks and ash and glaring sun, were the corpses of Dark Elves. None moved, save for when the wind blew through their long hair, giving their bloated and bleeding bodies an uncanny echo of life.
He closed his eyes again and bit back a scream.
Alone. Thor had left him completely alone. Again.
The puzzle pieces fell into place as he considered it. He remembered a tiny burst of sibling sentimentality from the oaf as the blood spilled from Loki 's wound. Then his senses dulled and he fell into unconsciousness. Thor, assuming he died a glorious death, must have abandoned his body to the dishonorable burial of the forgotten warrior and chased down his next heroic quest. Off to save the universe again, defend the powerless, and raise his hammer for all to see and applaud him, as was his wont.
Did he even pray the warrior's rites over my fallen body? Loki silently asked of the sun above him. Did he check to ensure my death permanent or did he simply abandon me to die, relieved to finally be rid of me? Does Father know or care?
Loki ignored the tear that slipped down his cheek as he laboriously crawled his way to the nearest fallen soldier. How many days had he been here, unconscious? The stench made him increase his initial estimate.
Propping himself up on his elbow, he searched through the pockets of the first corpse. A flask of elven wine dulled his pain and quenched his thirst. A search of the next elf provided a few stale cakes and a bit of water. He sent his magic through his abdomen, healing the deepest internal bleeding, but he lost strength before he could continue. He returned his head into the dust and closed his eyes, seeking more strength than his body currently possessed.
The red sun warred with the three moons of the Svartalfheim twilight when he woke next, his body racked with pain. He did not bother to hide his reaction but cried out and the sound echoed off the nearby rocks and through the barren valley.
He nearly shouted in joy when the next corpse provided him not only a full container of fresh water but an elven equivalent of a healing stone. True, a different variety than that used by the Aesir, but potent enough to complete the healing his diluted magic had only started. As his internal organs and ligaments and muscles knit back together, he lay his weakened head back in the ash and stared at the sky.
In a few more hours, he should gain enough strength to stand. He could not linger here, so exposed in the land often frequented by the rock dragons seeking live fodder. But from Svartalfheim, he only knew the way back to Asgard.
Asgard…and back to a prison cell or, more likely, death for another round of treason. True, this time around it was Thor who instigated the treason, but he hardly thought that would count in Loki's favor in the eyes of the All-Father.
He preferred neither scenario.
He couldn't escape the gnawing sense of curiosity that plagued him at the thought of Asgard's reception of his death.
Would the All-Father's face flush with relief or grief? Would bards compose songs in his honor or would his memory remain shrouded in scandal and dishonor? Would Thor remember to erect the customary statues in the likeness of Frigga and Loki or would he bury the memory of his fallen relatives with another quest, another band of warrior-companions? Would Thor, once again, castigate him for failing to die, despite all of Loki's best efforts to the contrary?
He almost wished to return to Asgard, despite the risk, simply to find out.
ooooooooo
When Loki woke next, it was to the heat of the sun and the ferocious whipping wind casting sand into his face in relentless swirls. He sat upright choking and sputtering and shielded his face from the onslaught as best he could. The elven magic healed the deepest wounds within him and he could just barely gather enough strength to stand on his feet and fight against the wind to seek shelter.
He had a faint memory of a cave to the north and so he pressed onward, his eyes half-closed as he fought against the growing strength of the sandstorm. His memory did not fail him this time and he collapsed with a sigh of relief onto the cool, rocky floor of the small orifice in the heart of the Svartalfheim surface. He wished he had more carefully searched the remaining elves for weapons or supplies as they would surely be buried beneath the sands after this storm relented. Loki lay his head against the cavern's wall and closed his eyes to listen to the howling of the wind just outside the mouth of the cave. Stray particles of sand and gusts of wind still invaded the hallowed space of the cave, but they were few.
He opened his eyes when his hand fell upon a strangely shaped object. By his hand lay a thin metal cylinder, brightly painted with Midgardian characters. Loki picked it up and furrowed his brow as he turned it over and over in his hands. Traces of the sickly sweet contents of the Midgardian brew clung to its edges and the container showed no visible signs of wear or age. How did Midgardian refuse come to rest in a Svartalf cave?
He used his magic to cast light deeper into the cave and he found the cylinder to be but one of many strange objects populating the cave. A worn left shoe, some crumpled papers, a broken bottle, and a child's toy missing a wheel all lay strewn haphazardly across the back of the cave. Doubtlessly, they were all of Midgardian origin. It was only as Loki walked deeper into the cave that he felt it – the liminal band of space emanating with possibility.
Loki grinned and threw the metal cylinder through the portal. It disappeared without a sound or a trace.
This was a portal between realms, though waning and temporary. Within a few days or hours, this elastic connection would evaporate and leave only a Svartalf cave littered with discarded foreign objects.
Until then, it remained a perfectly functioning portal. A portal with a destination other than Asgard.
Without another moment of hesitation, Loki walked through it and emerged in a dark, abandoned wreck of a building in a large Midgardian city.
Ooooooo
It was the epic saga shared across the Midgardian city – how Thor and his lady love had saved the realm from malevolent beings from beyond the stars. In a heroic blaze of crimson cape and flying hammer and lightning strikes, Thor managed to save the universe, capture the Aether, and embrace the fair maiden for all to see. It was so very Thor, so very Aesir, so very fitting an end to another villain's nefarious plots.
Loki told himself he had no justification for bitterness or jealousy. Of course, it was right and fitting for Thor to concern himself with saving the masses, even as his disgraced brother lay dying, buried for all time in a moment of proper honor and Aesir glory. Loki swallowed down his grimace and the burning in his chest. Even Thor's worst treacheries lauded him naught but glory and praise while Loki's greatest exertions for the protection and benefit of all reaped naught but rejection and accusation.
An even smaller part of Loki wondered how Thor could appear on Midgardian publicity with a smile on his face. He had lost a mother and a brother within a matter of days, and yet he could still smile and play the hero. Perhaps it was a fitting reminder of what Loki should now turn his attention to. If Thor could, so could Loki. Loki had also lost a mother, a brother, a father, and a realm in a matter of days. Surely, he could smile and play the villain.
Even as he said it to himself, he knew he was lying. Loki's most villainous deeds were accomplished out of a desire to be the hero. Perhaps if he set his mind at being the villain, he could finally succeed in the contrary.
Always so perceptive about everyone except yourself.
His mother's last words pierced him from the inside out. His anger, his jealousy, his hatred melted away in his last remembrance of her beautiful face, the tears he caused sparkling in her eyes.
He grit his teeth together to keep from letting his emotions simmer across his face. He was in no state to know who (or what) he should be. He was, for all intents and purposes, banished on Midgard as surely as Thor had been. He could not return to Asgard and which other realm could he so easily hide in? The Midgardian ineptitude at all magical abilities would shield him better than the best illusion on Alfheim or Nidavellir. Perhaps the best course of action before him was what he truly excelled in - slinking into the shadows and hiding away. It would only take a hundred years or so for his face and past exploits on Midgard to be forgotten by the short attention spans of the Midgardian natives and then he could start afresh.
He had what he had so desperately needed ever since he first saw his blue hand in Jotunheim: the unrestrained space to heal and think and remake himself in (without chains or prison cells). He would take it. But he had not wish to do so under the scrutiny of Midgardian eyes.
He could shift his form to that of bird or beast, give himself to the instincts of that form, and give his tired heart the solace and reprieve that could only be achieved in perfect isolation and quiet. Midgard still maintained uninhabited spaces aplenty. To those he would go. With a shimmer of green, he transformed into the form of a raven and spread his large wings to carry him away.
oooooo
Author's Note: Why am I starting another story? It's a question I keep asking myself. I really shouldn't be. However, this one is flitting about in my head-and it has words, unlike some of the others-so I'm writing it down as it comes. Will it be long or short? It depends on both author and reader interest, I suppose. Basically, I started reading a couple of Twifics revolving around Leah imprinting...which led me to reading up on Quileute mythology and culture...and, yeah, this started. So this one is growing and evolving as I keep reading and playing with archetypes, symbols, and myths which, to be honest, is a whole lot more fun than trying to figure out how to home school.
Grammatical mistakes, terrible ideas, and flawed interpretations of cultural beliefs are all my fault. The characters, symbols, and cultures expressed either belong to Stephanie Meyer, the MCU, spotty records of Norse mythology, or websites and articles about the Quileute.
Myth at start of chapter from Padraic Colum's book, Children of Odin.