Beneath

Chapter Forty-Five – Bargains

Once he was a brisk half-hour's walk away from the fir tree and the pit, Loki found a resting spot in the form of a large mostly smooth black rock half-buried in the ground, at a slight angle that would have been reasonably comfortable for sleeping, for a rock, if Loki had wanted to sleep out in the forest, which he didn't.

He first inspected his left arm, and found a deep gash along its length, shoulder to elbow, partially hidden by the tatters of the green sleeve that were now sticking to the wound that still wept a little in places. He untucked the tunic and pulled it slowly over his head, feeling it catch on a few smaller cuts, then pull painfully at the deeper one in his right shoulder. He twisted his arm around and stared at it in frustration. These were hardly the ideal circumstances for healing. A healing stone would have made it simple; it was specialized, pure, focused magic, ideal for wounds like this. Without it, Loki would have to first clean the dirt and cloth from the wound, preferably with clean warm water, and then heal it. Missing a cloth fiber here and there would prove more painful later on than simply leaving it as is for the moment, so he applied the most basic of field medicine techniques and ripped his tunic into strips with which to wrap the arm. The shoulder wasn't as bad of a wound – deeper but more localized, probably much cleaner. But he couldn't see it, and was loathe to attempt any healing without actually seeing the injury. There were of course ways around that – there were ways around just about everything – but he was only stopping for a quick examination, to prepare himself for the next part of his journey. The sun was beginning to set here.

He spread his hands out close to each other in front of him, then hesitated, then grimaced to find himself examining his motivation. Would you punish me for not wishing to parade around half-naked, dear Father? He drew the suitcase he'd purchased in Sydney out of the air, opened it, and eyed the dark purple tunic he'd worn when he was first exiled to Midgard. Better not to be in green, anyway. Until he reached his objective, he would need to keep a low profile. He couldn't stay invisible forever – it was a drain on his energy in a way that shielding himself from Heimdall was not, and it seemed to be draining more energy than normal now.

Loki pulled on the fresh tunic – "fresh" being a relative term, he was looking forward to having it properly laundered – and tucked it in at the waist. He put the suitcase away, then turned to the sword he'd rested beside him on the rock. In its design and in the precise shape of its blade, to anyone who paid attention to such things it was identifiably the sword of an Asgardian Einherjar. Loki had friends here – "friends" also being a relative term, and probably not quite what Jane would mean by the word – but he also had enemies. A sword could prove useful, but being seen with this sword could prove dangerous. Einherjar did not leave Asgard in official capacity unless it was for guarding the royal family or for war. Loki tucked it away to join the suitcase.

He turned next to the thin rectangular metal casings with their tiny red lights, strapped to each wrist, and quickly slid the elastic bands off. He placed them on the ground. He stared at them. He lifted his right foot, felt it throbbing with the abuse it had taken at the hands of non-Odin-approved magic. He brought his boot down. To the right of the electronic parts. What does it hurt to keep them? he thought. It wasn't an option he had any intention of ever using, but options, in and of themselves, were never bad to have. The devices joined the sword and the suitcase.

He was left with only his satchel. He took a deep breath, then lifted it slowly for inspection. He found one small cut, so shallow it had not even fully pierced the leather. He breathed a sigh of relief. Of his various options, he preferred this one to a return to the frozen desolation of the South Pole…or to Jane. Her face flashed before him, with that look of concern that had somehow induced a sense of guilt in him. He'd dropped his childhood best friend from the sky trapped in a cage and hadn't felt any guilt over that. He'd vowed not to ever let himself feel it again over anything. And he'd felt it over some simpering look of a worried mother hen. Over a lie. He'd been lying almost since the day he was born, apparently literally, what was so special about one more? Many others would follow it.

Loki raised his hands and this time, instead of drawing out or putting away an object from between them, he thrust the fingers into his hair and rapidly rubbed them into his scalp, as though he were washing his hair. The dark locks soon feel loose, slightly curled and unruly – precisely why he always kept his hair carefully smoothed back. What fell in his face he pushed to the sides, then smoothed it down against his cheeks as best he could. He looked a little different like this, he knew, though probably not enough to fool anyone who knew him. But that wasn't the goal; Loki hadn't been to this village at all since Thor had turned twenty and gained the right to use the bifrost, so it was highly unlikely anyone would recognize him anyway. Instead, Loki now hoped he could pass for one of the Dark Elves, many of whom had pale skin like his – and his had to be even paler than usual now after a month or so with no sunshine – and all of whom had elongated ears that ended in a point. Loki's ears were now fully covered.

Changing superficial aspects of his appearance – such as giving himself a pair of slightly wrinkled long ears – would have been simple, to put it mildly. However, Loki did not wish to endure yet another surge of pain in his foot and up his leg and the concomitant siphoning of his magic, and he now suspected that any magic he used here in the furtherance of his goal would come at a price. He was going to have to go about this through other means.

Satisfied with what he'd accomplished, Loki made himself visible again, then stood and set off toward the nearest village, in a direct line now, unlike the route he'd taken from the tree. He reached Marheim in just under an hour, as the sun was beginning to set, circling it first and entering it from the road to the capital. The roads through Svartalfheim's dense forests were beset with bandits and trolls at night, and eager as Loki was to reach Brokk, rest and a chance to properly clean and heal his injuries needed to come first. He would need to face Brokk in peak form.

The problem was, if he wanted an actual room with an actual bed and access to clean water and privacy, he would need money. He suspected creating it from his personal magical treasury would be penalized.

The solution lay ahead, in a round squat building with a thatched roof, one of perhaps two dozen structures visible. He'd been to that building before, in his youth, but he'd not had the skills then that he did now.

Candles flickered in each of the long narrow windows, and inside, torches whose flames burned brighter as the sun set were placed in between the windows. Loki heard the singing even before he opened the door. After a single phrase – Swords sing through the mist and cry for the throat – he recognized the song. He knew all the songs sung by drunken men on Svartalfheim. This was a particularly raucous bunch; he had to take a quick step to the side on his way to the bar to avoid getting a large wooden tankard smashed into his face by an arm carelessly flung out toward him.

"Have you any rooms available for rent?" he asked the pale-faced young woman at the bar, long straight white hair tucked behind her long ears and flowing down as far as he could see.

"How long?" she asked, giving him only a brief glance as her eyes darted between the tankards she was refilling and her rowdy patrons. Her voice was light and pleasant, but Loki could already tell her personality was anything but.

"One night," he answered.

"We have one room left. Two hundred piras."

"Two hundred?" Loki repeated, shock and outrage in his voice. His voice would have been the same had she said anything but "free," but he truly was shocked and outraged at this price. The last he recalled rooms had gone for twenty-five. Admittedly that was a very long time ago, and Svartalfheim was subject to inflation more than was Asgard, but this was almost offensive. "I wouldn't pay more than twenty for a tavern room in this tiny village."

"Tiny we may be, but night has fallen, and where else will you get a room? There's no other travel lodging here. Two hundred."

"And who else will you rent your one room to? How many will I actually find empty if I go looking? I'll give you thirty."

"Were you left out at night as a child? The price is two hundred." The woman stepped out from behind the bar somehow managing over a dozen tankards and distributed them among her customers, who'd finished their song and were laughing and shouting indistinctly.

Loki sighed and waited for her return. He knew enough to know that she'd just called him stupid with her rhetorical question about being left out at night, but he'd never understood why it meant that. He didn't take it personally. It was all a game, though not one played in jest.

A few minutes later she came back. "Ready to pay? Svartlin is a two hours' walk away. They might rent you a room for a hundred. If you make it there alive."

"How many of your patrons might put me up in their own chambers for far less than what you're asking?"

"Not many. But all right, I'll give you a special travelers' discount. One hundred fifty piras."

"Because I grow bored, fifty, and that's my final offer. I'll start asking among the patrons and I'll offer them the same."

She paused in her rinsing to look hard at him for the first time. "One hundred. Clean linens, fresh water, breakfast included. Accept this offer or leave."

Loki stared back at her. He could tell she was close to if not already at her limit, but he thought he could knock her price down a little further yet. She had come down more than he had gone up. It would be a gamble, though, and he wasn't willing to gamble…not on this, anyway. He nodded; she set down her tankards and held out her hand for payment. Loki, of course, had precisely zero of the Svartalf piras to place there. "Give me a moment," he said.

"Village lords, I've traveled a long distance and seek respite in your soil," Loki said, after stepping up between two of the Dark Elves at the largest of the round wooden tables. "Would you grant me the honor of joining you? Perhaps we could engage in a few rounds of Skulls and Swords along with the mead?"

The others were all in various states of inebriation – some of them had to have been drinking since midday – and all seemed in high spirits. Loki was welcomed into their ranks, more mead arrived including a fresh tankard for Loki. He eyed the glass warily; with this he would have to take care. He began with a generous swallow, complimented the brew, then launched into a story that soon had the entire table guffawing and not noticing that he took only tiny sips henceforth and asked for refills when his tankard was still nearly full.

It was not long at all before the oval-shaped painted wooden chips were brought out, Loki playing poorly, and after a few rounds someone suggested wagering without any prompting from him. Loki's play improved steadily but not dramatically, and even were he not a master Skulls and Swords player, he would have easily beaten these drunken louts. One of them passed out over his chips in the middle of a round. "Like candy from a baby," as Barton had once said, when Barton's sole reason for living was to do his bidding. Loki had liked the phrase.

When he'd won all that he'd need, he excused himself and soothed any hard feelings by buying another tankard for everyone in the tavern. He paid the barmaid for the room and the mead – which was also costlier than expected but to a lesser degree – and allowed himself to be shown around to a door set out a few feet from the wall opposite the entrance. He'd been here before of course, but nodded politely as he was shown down the steep stairs and torch-lit corridor to his room, four doors down. The door was instructed to respond to him, the woman disappeared, and he was alone.

He opened the door, and somehow, irrationally, expected to see his chambers at the South Pole. This room looked nothing like the other. The bed was wider, made of sturdy natural wood, covered with a colorful quilt stitched together of perhaps a hundred unrelated scraps. The room itself was larger, though not by much. Everything from the furnishings to the quilt to the thick brown rug spoke of warmth and comfort. To Loki it felt cold and empty.

He went into the small but functional bathroom and returned with a glass pitcher of water. He sat on the bed, removed his tunic and bandages, and began to work on healing himself properly. It took more effort than it should have; Loki hoped it was because he was tired and had drunk perhaps three tankards of mead – not nearly enough to make him drunk, but possibly enough to interfere with his control of magic. But even if it was Odin's curse in action, that ultimately wouldn't matter. He only had to last until tomorrow. Tomorrow he would visit Brokk.

/


/

After volleyball, Jane showered and got ready for bed. Back in her room in her pajamas, robe, and slippers, she shivered a little from a chill caused by her wet hair and nudged the room thermostat up a little. She'd found that once she had a chill here it was sometimes hard to get rid of. She didn't want to climb into bed with damp hair, so she pulled out the chair at the desk and sat down, thinking perhaps she'd type up a response to Erik's last e-mail and have it ready to send when she got up and the satellite connection was open. She opened up a Word document, typed "Dear Erik," and had no idea what to type next. "Dear Erik, So, the funniest thing happened, you'll never guess who's been here at the South Pole with me all this time…" She thought about various jokes she could make at her less-than-stellar performance at volleyball tonight, about how friendly and supportive everyone was anyway, about the movie that would be shown tomorrow afternoon. It all felt like a lie.

To tell him any of those things and not tell him about Loki…it would be a form of betrayal, in a sense. She closed her laptop in annoyance. Today was supposed to be the day her life stopped being about Loki. But it seemed like she hardly thought about anything else. One of the best things about the volleyball match was that at times she actually had been distracted from wondering where Loki was, if he was alive and well, how she was going to explain Lucas's absence, when she should make a VOIP or sat phone call to SHIELD. Slamming the ball into your own teammate's face and hoping to God he doesn't have a broken nose will do that for you.

Jane sighed. At least there'd been no broken noses. Not even any blood, actually.

She thought back to what had happened in New York, what she'd watched unfold on TV from Norway. The Loki who'd wiped out SHIELD security in New Mexico. Who'd tried to kill his own brother there, earlier. Who spoke lovingly of his mother, and so hatefully of his father. Who'd shouted like a madman for a crowd of people to kneel. Who lived here for nearly two months constantly manipulating her but without hurting anyone or demanding anyone kneel, until choking her in a fit of rage over deaths he denied any responsibility for. Who had occasionally joked with her, who seemed to genuinely enjoy learning the science and basic engineering she had to teach, who gave her a sound wave light show to demonstrate the workings of his sound barrier.

Who are you, Loki?

She remembered the mythology book Darcy had sent, back in those first few days at the Pole when mail could still be delivered. She'd always meant to go back to it again, but never had. She opened up to the table of contents, where she'd stuck in a piece of paper to mark the place, then turned to the overview of Loki in the book's first section. It began with a quote from a translation* of The Prose Edda:

"Also counted among the Aesir is one whom some call Slanderer of the Gods, The Source of Deceit, and The Disgrace of All Gods and Men. Named Loki or Lopt, he is the son of the giant Farbauti. His mother is named Laufey or Nal, and his brothers are Byleist and Helblindi. Loki is pleasing, even beautiful to look at, but his nature is evil and he is undependable. More than others, he has the kind of wisdom known as cunning, and is treacherous in all matters. He constantly places the gods in difficulties and often solves their problems with guile. His wife is Sigyn and their son is Nari or Narfi."

Jane reread it three times. Some parts reminded her of the Loki she assumed she knew from his earlier actions on Earth. "Deceit" certainly fit the Loki she knew here. Good-looking, yes, he was certainly that. Jane had never really looked at him in that way, but it wasn't like she was blind. Whoever drew the illustration of him from the 18th Century Icelandic manuscript on the facing page – in which he looked so creepy and malevolent that looking at it made Jane's skin crawl – obviously hadn't read that part of The Prose Edda.

And then there were the parts that made no sense whatsoever. He was taller than average, and certainly towered over her, but she'd hardly imagine him to be the son of a giant. Thor was taller. Besides, she already knew his father's name was Odin, and she'd never heard of Byleist or Helblindi – Thor hadn't mentioned them and they didn't come up in what she'd read of Erik's library book. She remembered then that Darcy had said there wasn't any mention of Loki and Thor being brothers in the book. Loki, as Lucas, had mentioned a sister but never said anything else about her; Jane suspected he'd made her up. Darcy had also told her he had three or four monster kids – she could only remember the one that was supposed to a serpent encircling the planet – but Sigyn and Nari or Narfi sounded like normal people, or at least she figured if they weren't the passage would say so. Maybe Sigyn was a monster and Nari was a serpent. But Jane couldn't imagine that Loki was married. "No woman in her right mind would put up with him," she said out loud, then wondered if maybe there was a Sigyn, and she was just as into world-conquering and world-destroying as Loki was.

She thought about Thor, and wondered what it must be like to have a brother known for being "the disgrace of all gods and men." She thought about Loki, then, and wondered what he'd first done to earn him such horrible titles. The Prose Edda was written around 800 years ago. Thor had made it seem like everything had been fine until very recently, but Loki had clearly earned a reputation a long, long time ago. Giant parents and monster children notwithstanding, there seemed to be at least a grain of truth in these myths. Maybe the giant parents and monster children were added to make Loki seem even more evil.

Jane's eyes dropped back to the book to skim the rest of the overview. It said that Loki was a shapeshifter and had taken the form of a mare, a falcon, and a salmon among other creatures. She was just feeling grateful that that one didn't seem to be true when she remembered what he'd said about changing the structure of the pen, and how she'd seen him do the same thing to his jacket right before leaving. If he could change the structure of other objects, maybe he could change his own structure, too.

Then came the monster kids Darcy had mentioned, and apparently changing into a mare hadn't worked out so well, and Loki would up giving birth to an eight-legged horse. Jane shook her head in complete disbelief. On the other hand, if something like that happened to me, I'd be pretty cranky, too, and maybe develop a temper problem.

Then came Baldur's death. It was only briefly mentioned here, with no more detail than what she'd read in the children's book in New Mexico. "Beyond all boundaries and against every law," Thor had called it; she remembered his exact words. That was centuries ago, he'd said. Wondering if it was what had earned Loki his unflattering titles, she flipped directly back to the story.

Baldur had been having nightmares, so Frigga had made people and even inanimate objects – maybe they're animate on Asgard? – swear not to harm him, except mistletoe, which had been deemed too young to have to swear. So everyone apparently thought it was marvelous good fun to shoot arrows and throw stones at Baldur and watch them bounce off or fly over his head. They must be hard-pressed for actual entertainment. Loki was annoyed for whatever reason, and went off and made an arrow out of the mistletoe. He gave it to a blind man named Hodur, whom some texts also said was Thor's and Baldur's brother, and Hodur, not knowing what he'd been given, shot the arrow and killed Baldur. "This misfortune was the worst that had been worked against gods and men," the book quoted from The Prose Edda.* "The Disgrace of All Gods and Men," Jane breathed aloud. "No wonder." She felt awful for this Hodur, who must have been consumed by guilt, although he was blameless in what happened. How awful for Baldur's family. How awful for Frigg, to know she'd gone to such great lengths to protect her son and overlooked the one thing that was used to kill him. She wondered how – or if – the woman had ever really managed to forgive Loki. Thor had said they didn't talk about it anymore. He'd also said his father punished Loki harshly.

She read on.

There was Baldur's funeral, involving burning ships put out to sea, and someone named Hermod – another brother? – rode into Hell, or "Hel," to get Baldur back from the dead. Hermod asked Hel, one of the monster kids, to let Baldur go, and Hel agreed, but only if every single person wept over Baldur's death. Everyone did, except one giantess who refused, and whom people believed was actually Loki.

Loki fled, and turned himself into a salmon, and after a few tries, the other Aesir caught him and took him to a cave, apparently now in normal form. Jane's stomach churned violently when she read the next part, full of details that unsurprisingly had been left out of the children's book. The Aesir also captured Loki's sons, Vali and Nari, who apparently had nothing to do with Baldur's death. They somehow turned Vali into a wolf, and Vali disemboweled Nari, and they used Nari's entrails to tie Loki to some rocks, while a woman named Skadi secured a poisonous snake above his head to drip venom onto his face. Sigyn held a bowl over him to catch the poison, but when she had to go empty it and the poison reached him, he shook so violently that he caused earthquakes.

By the end of it Jane's hand was in a fist, the knuckles in her mouth where she bit down hard to keep from getting sick. That bit about the sons was an image she could have done without ever having pictured. If it were true…Loki would need to be in the Asgardian equivalent of a padded cell, with a straightjacket on. At least that's what she figured she would need if something like that had happened to her. The phrase psychotic break flashed into mind; she didn't really know what it was, she was hardly a psychologist, but it sounded like something that would happen after a punishment like that. "Father punished him severely," Thor said. Loki pretty clearly detested his father. Maybe this story was true…

But Thor didn't seem to think Baldur was the issue, she reminded herself, as more and more of that conversation in Tromso came back to her. He'd said he broke the bifrost to stop Loki from doing something terrible, and that he'd found out some things, but unless she was forgetting something, he'd never said what Loki was trying to do that was so terrible, or what Loki had found out. Then she remembered what he'd said yesterday morning…and could it really have just been yesterday morning? He thought he'd destroyed Jotunheim. He'd tried to destroy Jotunheim. The metaphorical lightbulb went off and Jane would've bet her meager bank account that that was the terrible thing Loki had done, what had happened after Thor and his friends left New Mexico for Asgard, the thing that had resulted in Thor being unable to keep his promise to return…at least in a timely fashion. But what did he find out? she asked herself. Something bad enough to make him attempt to destroy an entire planet, apparently. When Loki gets mad, Loki gets mad.

Jane closed the book and put it away, finding yet again that she could only take its contents in small doses. She reminded herself again also that it was mythology, that much of it, perhaps even the majority of it, had no basis in reality. Earthquakes, for example, were caused by the shifting of tectonic plates, not Loki getting poison dripped in his face, and the shape of a salmon had nothing to do with Thor catching Loki by the tail when he was flopping around fish-shaped.

She wished she'd been able to Loki about these things, but he wasn't exactly forthcoming, and even if she had, some of the questions would surely have been hazardous to her health. The chance to ask him had passed. She hoped she'd get the opportunity to ask Thor. In the meantime, she decided it would be better to forget. Especially the part about the kids. A bad case of the heebie-jeebies hit her, and she realized A Rose by Any Other Name wasn't going to be a sufficient distraction. She changed out of her pajamas and into cargo pants and her light green New Zealand T-shirt, added a sweater, ran fingers through her hair and found it already dry, and set out to find someone awake to chat with about absolutely anything other than Loki.

/


/

Hair again parted down the side to cover his ears, Loki emerged from his rented room rested, healed, and energized for the day ahead. He decided he should act with greater caution, after a dream in which he kept falling toward the blade-lined bottom of a pit. Just as his eyes crossed to converge on the blade he was headed for face-first, he'd woken up. Did you manage to start a war in Svartalfheim, too, Thor? he thought. He didn't know what was wrong with him, that it had never occurred to him, even as he'd remembered their discovery of the gateway, that Thor knew, not just Thor of the past, but Thor of the present. Thor could have gotten bored and gotten some bright idea to come through it to Svartalfheim. I thought you'd changed. Perhaps not so much, hm, Brother? Still so easily angered, still so quick to raise Mjolnir or your fists. You've changed selectively, when it suits you. When it allows you to paint yourself as better than me. It fit the facts, the unexpected guards at the cave on Asgard, the unexpected trap at the tree on Svartalfheim. You came here and did something stupid, didn't you?

He took the time to have breakfast – the meat was dried and heavily salted, but the eggs were fresh and the best thing Loki had eaten in months. He paid for his meal and left, headed for the tailor's shop he'd been told about. There he purchased a ready-made rough brown cloak – not nearly as warm as Big Red but plenty warm enough for the chilly mornings here. The cloak fell around his back and over his shoulders in front and down to his knees, for it had been intended for someone of lesser height. The hood obscured his face nicely, and a simple cloth knot-and-loop closure at the neck kept it all relatively secure.

Where Loki was going – commonly known simply as "the city" though formally sharing the name Svartalfheim with the entire realm – he risked being recognized, unlike in the village of Marheim.

The city was far away, too far to walk, at least for Loki's timetable. His next stop, then, was the stable at the edge of the village, by the black dirt road, where he and Thor had rented horses after their first unexpected visit here. "Village lord, good morning," Loki said to the man hammering nails into a wood plank at the front of the long narrow building. "I seek the stable-keeper," he said with a small tremble in his voice, coughing at the end. He had little money left, and hoped that if he projected the image of a poor, sick man, his required deposit might decrease.

"You've found him, traveler. But if you also seek a horse, you're out of luck," the man said, glancing at Loki but continuing his hammering.

"I have money, I assure you," he said, wondering if he'd perhaps overdone his appearance of poverty.

"All the money in the realm won't buy you what doesn't exist. Some things are simply unattainable." He finished securing the plank and turned to face Loki.

"You…you mean to say you have no horses?"

"Not a one. Otherwise engaged now, I'm sure you understand."

"But I must have a horse. I have a long journey ahead."

"Then you should have timed your journey better. I can't help you."

"What-" Loki was distracted by a young girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, listing to the side under the weight of a full bucket. "If you have no horses, then why is that girl taking water inside the stable?"

The man turned to see what Loki was watching. When he turned back his dark face had softened. "My granddaughter Motta. She…it's difficult for her. We do have one horse. A mare. There was an accident, and she went lame. Hasn't been able to stand under her own weight. I'm going to have to put her down, but…Motta…"

"Don't you have an animal healer who can treat her?" Loki asked. The Svartalf loved their horses as much as the Aesir; Loki couldn't imagine they would put one down simply because of a bad leg.

"Otherwise engaged, of course. Where are you from?"

"No matter," Loki said, putting aside all thought of further questions. It didn't concern him, and he was in a hurry. "I have some modest healing ability myself. If I can heal her, I could take her off your hands, save you the effort of putting her down."

The stable-keeper considered it, absently tapping his hammer against his left palm. "A hundred piras and she's yours, assuming you can heal the leg."

Loki's jaw fell open. "You must be mad. You were going to put her down. I will pay nothing."

Whatever had been soft and friendly in the stable-keeper's face disappeared. "If you take ownership of her, you'll sell her and make a profit. It's only fair I should have a cut of it."

"Then I'll rent her. I don't need to keep her."

"Same cost for the deposit," he said, then continued before Loki could protest, the man's hard exterior fast giving way to the softness of a moment earlier. "Look…it's not for me. It's for Motta. Her mother, my daughter, died when Motta was a baby, and now her father's just been killed, and I have no more horses to rent. I'm ruined. And she-" He paused and cleared his throat. "I'll take seventy-five, not a pira less."

"I only have fifty," Loki said. He had eighty-four.

The man looked at him hard for a moment, then his expression shifted again and Loki saw him relent before he voiced it. Loki remembered this man, and remembered him as a much tougher bargainer. He followed the man – Vander, as he introduced himself – through the gate and into the stables, where only two bales of hay were stacked followed by stall after empty stall. In the last stall Motta was brushing out the coat of a brown mare with the small diamond of white between her eyes. The horse was partially supported by a white cloth sling suspended from the ceiling.

Vander explained the situation to Motta, and Loki sat on a stool by the mare's front right leg, in case he should be punished for healing the horse. He hadn't been punished for healing himself, but he would be using this horse to get to Brokk, to end this humiliating analysis of his actions and the resulting pain when his intentions were deemed less than noble. I am attempting to heal an innocent creature, and providing funds for a poor orphan, dear Father, can there be anything more noble? It hadn't worked before, but it was worth a try, and there was truth in it, after all, he told himself.

Loki felt for the injury in the mare's joints, first without magic, then with, and his tentative efforts grew more assured when the pain didn't come. He breathed a sigh of relief and began healing torn tendons and ligaments – no wonder the horse couldn't stand on that leg. He had little experience with healing animals, but while this injury was severe, it wasn't anatomically complicated. It took him a little over half an hour before he told Vander to loosen the sling. The mare started to collapse down on her knees, but soon righted herself, and Vander then released her from the sling altogether.

"How did you do that?" Motta asked, and Loki turned to see her staring up at him with dark eyes widened in amazement.

"She was living in the city before. She hasn't seen this," Vander explained.

Loki barely registered his words. He saw Jane, staring in wonder at the representation of his sound blanket. And then he saw Jane, waking up in a healing room, her sick aunt telling her that her parents were dead, Erik Selvig stepping in to care for her.

He frowned and turned away from the girl to give the mare a final check of her leg. He didn't owe this girl any explanations. He hadn't owed Jane any explanations. "She's well now, as you can see," he said to Vander, ignoring the girl.

Vander nodded. "She's all yours. You can give your payment to Motta, for taking care of her."

Loki nodded reluctantly and reached into his pocket, while Motta thanked her grandfather and grabbed a small burlap sack from the nail in the wall it had been hanging from.

"I've been calling her 'Star,' for the white star on her face. These are some root vegetables she likes," the girl said, handing him the sack.

"Thank you," Loki said, his stomach twisting as he took the sack. "I'll take good care of her."

"I know you will. I can tell," the girl said with a confident smile and a hint of sadness in her eyes.

Loki fought to keep his smile open and sincere. He wanted to jump on the horse's back and escape this place immediately. But he had to do this properly; he couldn't afford to attract any attention. He reached into his pocket and felt around until he'd separated five of the ten-pira notes there. The girl was still looking at him. He grit his teeth behind his smile and pulled out all eight notes and handed them to her neatly folded, then gave the four coins to Vander. "I trust this will cover the reins." It wasn't like he needed the money, anyway, he'd only wanted to keep some for emergencies. Better to be rid of it; it would strengthen his motivation to ensure there were no emergencies.

The horse was prepared with the simple reins, the girl said her goodbyes to the animal while Loki studiously ignored her, and then he was on his way, pushing the mare hard as soon as he cleared the village.

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Loki had a grudge against Star by the time the outskirts of the city came into view. The mare had proven reliable and fast, but she had left him never wanting to sit again. Saddles were standard in Asgard; in Svartalfheim they were typically used only in battle. The road grew wider and traffic heavier, so Loki veered off into the trees until the road was no longer visible, then dismounted and left the horse to her own devices. He had no registration papers, just a bill of sale, so boarding her wasn't an option, not without far more time and effort than Loki was willing to give, and he didn't think he'd have need of her again anyway. Someone would probably claim her soon enough; Loki had noticed there were more elves on foot and fewer on horseback than was typical, and he surmised there was currently a shortage of horses beyond just one little village. He rejoined the road on foot.

Loki had been here many times, though less frequently in the last century or so. Still, he knew the main streets, the central structures, the main entrances to the underground lairs, and some neighborhoods he knew as well as he knew Asgard. He chose his route carefully, avoiding those areas where he was more likely to be recognized, despite his hooded brown cloak. He watched for security patrols, and showed great interest in something on the other side of the street when he passed one. They appeared a bit more vigilant than he recalled them being, but no one showed any particular interest in him.

Brokk's dwelling, in the outskirts of the city on its opposite side, was typical of the area, though larger than average. Three large, open rooms were above ground, and a long winding staircase circling along the wall starting near the door on the inside led down to two underground levels, both larger than the upstairs space. As he approached it, Loki noticed that the sealed bark-strip exterior appeared new, as did the tan thatched roof.

He lifted the brass knocker and banged it against the plate, adrenaline coursing through his veins. A minute passed and he knocked again. Someone passed by – the home was off of the main street and partially secluded by a large leafy tree, but he couldn't stand out here forever. He knocked a third time, nodding to the passer-by. By now, though, he was confident Brokk wasn't home. Loki's heart sank at the thought, and then he frowned and chastised himself. There was no reason to assume he would be home. Although he did most of his work from here, he could be off on any number of errands now.

Then a truly harrowing thought struck. What if he were out traveling? Roaming the realms, seeking new magic, or simply visiting an out-of-town family member. Loki began to grow angry. First at himself, for his planning had never taken into consideration the possibility that Brokk would simply be gone, and then at Brokk, because he had no right to be anywhere but where Loki needed him to be. Loki's second choice was a hermit who lived in a dense rain forest a good five or six days' ride from here. And he'd set the horse free in the woods.

No. He would remain focused on Brokk. He could return home at any moment. But it wouldn't do for a stranger to be seen loitering in the area. I wonder… Loki put his hand on the doorknob. It turned. He pushed. The door opened.

Brokk had never locked his door, whether with key or magical seal. Most people feared him far too much to even consider entering his dwelling without permission. Loki was not most people. He glanced casually around, found no one watching, and entered.

He stopped just inside the threshold, closing the door behind him. Brokk had to be in the area; even he would not leave his door unsecured if he expected to be gone for days or more, Loki suspected.

The ground level was much as he remembered, simple, minimally furnished, mostly with wicker furniture. The enormous, tightly hand-woven and patterned earth-tone rug, however, was new. Loki had bought a similar one for Odin and Frigga once, and knew how costly they were. Brokk, it seemed, had come into good fortune at some point in the last forty years or so, the last time Loki had visited.

The polite thing to do would be to wait on the ground level for Brokk to return. Loki had at one point in his life been a very polite person. Now he was merely skilled at pretending at politeness whenever it suited his purposes. He saw no need for it here, and descended the steps.

Along the corridor leading out from the first landing, swords, axes, and daggers were displayed along the wall. These were collector's items, Loki knew. Brokk occasionally made weapons, all of them enchanted in some way, but he found actually using them distasteful. Magic was his weapon, and he wielded it as well as anyone wielded a sword. His eyes roamed the display, and he selected two matching daggers, tested their weight, examined their blades, nodded, and slipped them through loops on both thighs, where they dangled by the guard. They were a little long for his taste, about elbow to wrist, but they would do, if the need arose. A large sapphire was embedded in each guard, and faint magic hummed along the blade's length. Loki wasn't sure what the enchantment was – Brokk neither made nor collected items that were that simplistic – but he wasn't terribly worried about that, either. If he reached the point where he actually needed to use them, he would have failed already. Brokk was no good to him dead.

Loki made his way down the corridor, pausing to look into each room as he went, not looking for anything in particular, but simply following instincts honed by centuries of battles real and simulated, and even more adventures, many of them ill-conceived, at Thor's side. In Thor's shadow.

The room at the far end of the corridor, Brokk's personal library, gave off a little more illumination than the others, he realized once he was about three-quarters of the way there. He kept a careful eye on it while taking quick looks into the last two rooms, each of which had a single magical candle flickering in a holder right by the door.

Five steps further and he was taking his first cautious steps into the library. The room opened up to the left, long and narrow, the walls lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves. Loki took minimal notice of them, or the additional bookcase that had been added since his last visit. His eyes were instead drawn immediately to the center of the room, where an old cushion-lined wooden bench, its back to him, was surrounded by perhaps fifteen white candles with tall narrow blue flames that didn't flicker, in shining silver holders. A head with pointed ears and topped in short white hair was just visible over the back of the bench, and not reacting in the slightest to Loki's presence. He'd approached in silence, but someone of Brokk's caliber with magic – and surely this was Brokk – should have sensed his approach regardless.

Loki's hands moved to rest lightly against the grip of the daggers at his thighs.

With slow, even steps he circled around the outer perimeter of the candles, Brokk coming into profile view as he went. His eyes were open, staring straight ahead. Loki continued, occasionally glancing away from Brokk to the rest of the room, and the doorway, to avoid any unpleasant surprises. Brokk was completely expressionless, his eyes open but unseeing; Loki stood right in front of him and Brokk still gave not the slightest reaction. He eyed the candles. Powerful unknown magic leapt from their flames, and Loki tried but failed to recall blue flame being used in anything Brokk had shown him in the past. The Dark Elf used candles for many things, and Loki had no idea what he was using them for now. Assuming he was alive, considering he hadn't so much as blinked.

He wasn't sure what the consequences might be, but after what seemed an interminably long time of standing there and staring into Brokk's empty eyes, he decided he would take the risk to find out. He drew a dagger just in case, and stepped carefully over the invisible line between the blue flames to get closer to Brokk.

He lowered his hood and pushed his cloak over shoulders to hang over his back more like a cape, then leaned in close, closer, closer, until his nose almost touched Brokk's and he could feel the other man's warm breath.

Brokk's eyes snapped open. Loki jerked back slightly and brought his dagger to Brokk's throat.

"Well. This is a surprise," Brokk said, his lips pulling slowly upward, his eyes steadily on Loki's as if the dagger did not exist. "I was just talking about you."

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*Please note this is indeed a translation; I didn't write it, or translate it. It's a very readable translation. I recommend it if you're interested in Norse mythology. Citation: Sturluson, S. (2005). The Prose Edda. (J. L. Byock, Trans.). New York: Penguin Group. (Original work published approximately 1220). (And yes, "namesarehardguys," that is APA.)


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Previews from Chapter 46 "Escape": Loki continues to be on the move...but not necessarily by choice; Jane tries to work things out with Selby...and as you might guess it doesn't go exactly as she'd thought.

And excerpt:

"What dark magic are you toying with these days, Brokk?" Loki asked, merely as an indulgence. Brokk had always cultivated an air of mysteriousness around himself, so Loki tried to ignore the voice in the back of his head that whispered that there was something suspicious going on here, particularly with this supposed conversation about him, which was possibly no more than Brokk's idea of a jest. [...]

"A relatively recent discovery. I would call it…escape. Escape from the body, escape from the physical realm, into the slippery pathways of the spaces in between. It's…life-changing, what one can find out there." Brokk looked back down at the idle white candles between them for a moment, then back up at Loki. "Would you like to give it a try?" he asked, his eyes narrowing and his mouth drawing into a smile that looked positively sinister and every bit the stereotype of the dangerous and crafty Dark Elf.