Beneath
Chapter Forty-Eight – Investigation
Loki shook his head in frustration and yet another round of disbelief. Pathfinder worked. He knew it did. It had brought him to Asgard – fanciful novels aside, the one and only Asgard – and the probe before him. And it had brought that probe back. So it should bring him back.
Unless Jane had turned it off.
He'd been gone more than a day now; the South Pole's artificially determined nighttime lined up closely with nightfall here in Svartalfheim's capital. If Jane had waited at all – and she probably had, for a while, he grudgingly admitted, even if not out of enduring concern for him then out of scientific curiosity – she was no longer waiting now.
Another idea came to mind. Pathfinder had sent him to Asgard, and it had successfully brought back a probe from Asgard. Loki had left Asgard and was no longer anywhere near it. If that was the case, then he would have to get back to Asgard somehow before he could return to Midgard via Pathfinder. But there was no reason to attempt such a route; Pathfinder could only send him back to Asgard anyway, unless he figured out how to change the routing through Yggdrasil.
Loki settled on his next goal: get back to Asgard. From there, he should be able to reach Alfheim with little trouble. Getting to Asgard itself could prove difficult. He had no way to make it there tonight, so he needed to find someplace safe to stay until morning; by then he should be able to come up with a plan.
He came up with and discarded several possibilities, and was about to settle on transforming his appearance and trying again to gamble his way into a travelers' lodge, since apparently now that he was evading capture he wasn't being punished for using magic, when a much simpler but much more audacious plan occurred to him. Audacious appealed to him.
Slowly, carefully, making sure he remained invisible, Loki made his way back to Brokk's dwelling. The last place on Svartalfheim anyone would ever look for him.
/
/
A ram's horn sounded two notes to the east, just minutes after Heimdall's initial warning that he'd seen the beginnings of a portal opening through to Asgard there. This was a traditional army, a traditional attack. This Asgard knew how to respond to. The portal was a large one, allowing 30 or even 35 warriors – all from Svartalfheim – to pour through and onto Asgardian soil. Their attacking force was far larger than any of the earlier individual attacks, based both on what Heimdall had seen developing on Svartalfheim and on the area they'd chosen to launch their attack – an expansive clearing just beyond Asgard's wall. There was no place inside Asgard's walls where this scale of battle could take place.
Asgard's warriors were shifted around to move greater numbers into place to meet the Dark Elves, and Thor arrived as the first warriors emerged from Svartalfheim. Those first few were immediately struck down by the Aesir, but their numbers soon reached a critical mass that permitted Dark Elves to emerge unscathed and begin the real battle.
Thor quickly turned to the task he alone was best suited for, taking to the sky and calling down lightning onto the portal. This portal was much larger, though, and much more resistant to disruption from electrical current, perhaps simply due to its sheer size. He brought down bolt after bolt of lightning and watched as the edges of the portal crackled under the onslaught, occasionally felling a Dark Elf as he ran or rode through, occasionally causing the portal to contract in on itself to a degree, but each time he had a measure of success the portal would rebound and grow back out to its previous size.
He kept trying longer than he should have, probably, out of stubbornness and frustration, but eventually he abandoned the effort and dropped back into the melee on the ground. This, he thought, hurling Mjolnir through a line of emerging warriors, was ultimately less effective than forcing the portal to close, but imminently more satisfying.
"Thor!"
He kept his hand in position to catch Mjolnir upon its return, but swung his head in the direction of Sif's voice – for though he could barely hear it over the roar of battle, it was clearly a woman's voice, and there was only one woman on the battlefield. He found her, and saw that she didn't need his help; she, Fandral, and Volstagg were atop the crest of a small hill, holding their own against a dozen Dark Elves at a time. She met his eyes briefly and lifted her sword, pointing it somewhere off to her right. One of the elves got in a hit to her arm in her distraction, but went down shortly thereafter, as Mjolnir's grip slammed into Thor's palm.
Thor fought the urge to go to her now that she was injured; she was still fighting well. But her sword had pointed toward another small cluster of Aesir who were being overwhelmed. By the time Thor got to that group, three of the five Aesir were down, two of them clearly dead. He slammed Mjolnir to the ground in anger, knocking the attackers that had been converging on them off their feet and some of them unconscious, then began working his way through those who clambered up to stand.
/
/
Loki made it back to Brokk's dwelling around half an hour after setting off for it. The door was unlocked. Loki let himself in again, and if he was cautious before, he was highly vigilant now. He went through the entire dwelling, lingering in and inspecting each room on each floor, and Brokk was nowhere to be found. The body of the warrior Loki had killed had been removed, but the smeared bloodstains on the floor of the library remained. He found nothing else of note in the home.
In one of Brokk's bathrooms he removed first the useless electronic devices on his wrists, then his black tunic, revealing the long shallow cut Terek had made as his heart beat its last. He stared down at his chest. In the earlier adrenaline rush, he'd barely registered the existence of this minor wound, and hadn't realized the significance of it at all. Thankfully, the blade somehow had not sliced through the thin gold chain around his neck. His mother's gift, red but dull here in the low light, was still there. He was relieved, and not just because he would need it if he ever wanted to make use of the potion in his satchel.
He removed the bloodied strips of the gray tunic, and set about cleaning yet another stab wound, making both the entry wound and the exit wound bleed a little again where the flesh was abraded from the cleaning. He held his left hand just over the entry wound and concentrated on repairing the damaged muscles that had left his arm barely functional. Something was wrong. He removed his hand and inspected the wound. Nothing had changed; there was no sign of any healing at all. He tried again, with the same results.
Loki's breathing sped up and his chest began to ache. Could this be it? Could he already have been bled dry of magic? But he'd made himself invisible not so long ago. He checked the magic he used for it; it was still in place. He looked down at his chest, and the thin diagonal line of dried blood. He cleaned it, found the two areas where the blade had gone a little deeper than a scratch, and discovered he was perfectly capable of healing that wound. Just how many things about your lovely Ljosalf daggers did you forget to mention, Brokk? Instead of feeling for damage to his body he felt for magic in the shoulder wound, and he soon found it. Magic to prevent the use of magic to heal. Perfect, he thought with a scowl. He hoped it only prevented him from using his magic to heal it, anyway.
He found a spool of proper bandages in a supply cabinet in the bathroom and properly dressed the wound, then struggled and groaned over getting his tunic back on. He turned off the transmitter and opened the satchel to put all three of the devices away, then noticed the silver-wrapped food items Jane had sent him to give to Thor. He'd meant to throw them away, but had never really had the chance. Now he was actually hungry. He'd been tempted by the food in Brokk's kitchen, but for all he knew they were enchanted to make anyone who ate them besides Brokk violently ill.
With a sigh he pulled out one of the little packages and opened up the wrapper labeled "Pop-Tart" and "Blueberry." Inside was something resembling a flat rectangular pastry. If it were served freshly made in Asgard, he could imagine it being presented on a dish topped with warm fruit, perhaps with a fresh lightly-sweetened cream. He carried it back upstairs to the above-ground floor so the door would be nearby if he needed it, and settled down in one of Brokk's wicker chairs. It was far from fresh, of course – he wondered how long it had been stored in its thin crinkly package – but he was used to that from his time at the South Pole. He bit into it and found himself exactly as unimpressed as he'd expected. There was something in its center that seemed to be trying to imitate blueberries, at least in color. How infinitely better it would be if it were topped in actual blueberries, of which he was quite fond.
"Thor likes them," Jane had said, he remembered, rolling his eyes. Of course, Thor would. Thor was just as happy eating plain food cooked over a firepit in the woods as he was indulging in the creations of Asgard's finest cooks. Loki used to be able to say the same. In some ways, he actually used to prefer the things they made as field cooks, he recalled, as he polished off the first of the two pastries and absently went on to the second. But things had changed. He had changed. He was no longer satisfied with anything less than the best. An odd thought occurred to him – would even the best satisfy him now? The Chief Palace Cook, with the best, freshest ingredients all at his fingertips, serving him and him alone, everything prepared and seasoned precisely to his tastes…the idea brought him a certain amount of pleasure, but satisfied? No. He wouldn't be satisfied even with that. Perhaps if Odin and Thor served him. He pictured Odin carrying the dishes to the table to set before him at the head of the table, Thor filling his glass… "Thor likes them. They're for you to share with him."
He wished he had an off-switch for Jane's voice.
Thor can have them. He crumpled up the empty wrapper, watched it revert right back to its original shape, then pushed it back into the satchel. Leaving trash from Midgard behind in Brokk's home might create unforeseen problems for him later, and it was time for him to start thinking more about the unforeseen.
It was time to plan. He had to get away from Svartalfheim as quickly as possible. There was still Mador, but Loki had already given too much away. Brokk knew about Mador, and every other magic-wielder of renown, just as much as Loki did, and Brokk would know he was likely to go to her next. He only knew how to get to one realm from Svartalfheim: Asgard. Svartalfheim had the ability to forge its own impermanent gateways with a golden talisman and the help of someone with sufficient talent with magic, but the talismans were kept hidden away in secret locations. His other two options were the tree outside Marheim – now likely heavily guarded and layered with new traps on both sides – and the cliff nine or ten days' ride from here, leading to mountains in Asgard. He'd discovered that one only a few hundred years ago, and thankfully had never told Thor, so hopefully it remained known only to him.
To get to that coastal village to the north, he would need money for a horse and for lodging along the way. He wondered if he would be punished for creating money now. He needed it for escape as much as he needed it to get the curses removed on Alfheim. He stood to search for some paper to try repurposing, then wondered if he might not simply search for money in the first place and save himself the trouble. Unless Brokk has enchanted it to poison the fingers of anyone who steals it.
Someone has too much time on his hands, Loki thought as he began opening drawers and cabinets. When you learned your little blue flame trick, did you just go wandering the cosmos until you stumbled across him? Or did he seek you out? He almost laughed at the thought that Odin had actually been right about Brokk.
"I forbid you to see him ever again, Loki!"
"But he's my friend, Father!"
"You don't need friends like him. I don't trust him, and you shouldn't either. Why can't you have friends like Thor's?"
And oh, how that stung. But Loki didn't want friends like Thor's. He was his own person, and he had long since tired of trying – and failing – to emulate his brother in everything he did. And so partly he liked Brokk because they both enjoyed mischief-making and magic, and partly he liked Brokk because his father and brother didn't. "I'm not a child. You can't tell me who I can and can't spend time with."
"Watch your tongue, Loki. You may be grown but I am still your father and your king. My order stands, but since I suspect you will ignore it, I also forbid him from ever setting foot on Asgard again without my express permission, and Heimdall will enforce this command."
Full of childish spite, Loki had snuck away to Svartalfheim at his first opportunity and promptly taught Brokk how to hide himself from Heimdall's watchful eye. He froze, his gaze on the inside of Brokk's liquor cabinet. That might not have been the best idea I've ever had, he admitted. He wasn't yet sure what Svartalfheim and Vanaheim were up to, but if anyone was going to conquer Asgard it would be him, not Brokk. And he himself had given Brokk the means to plot against Asgard unseen. What a revolting thought. He put his right hand gingerly over his stomach. Perhaps it's just that substance that masquerades as food on Midgard.
He was about to head downstairs to continue his search when he heard the doorknob turning. He made a quick check of his invisibility and added all the other layers to the magic – dampening any sound he might make, counterbalancing his weight. Since Brokk wasn't looking for him here and he now had nothing of Brokk's on him, Brokk shouldn't perceive any hint of his presence here.
He came in muttering under his breath and locked the door behind him. A much nicer sand-colored version of the cloak Loki had left behind at the tavern swirled around his ankles as he hurried into the center of the room. He fingered the ornate bronze clasp, but instead of unhooking it as Loki expected, he parted the cloak and pushed it over his shoulders. There against the dark blue of his tunic, on a short chain around his neck, Brokk wore one of the oval-shaped golden talismans that Svartalfheim used for portal creation.
Loki smiled. His run of miserable luck was turning. All he had to do was get the talisman from Brokk, and he could go anywhere within the Nine Realms, perhaps even beyond. And he now had the element of surprise on his side. He would have to be careful of his use of magic – assaulting Brokk would surely cost him – but if he crept up behind Brokk, hit him hard in the side to daze him, then wrapped an arm around his neck and applied sufficient pressure in the proper way, he wouldn't need any magic at all before Brokk would be dead on the floor.
He took a step forward, then halted when Brokk touched his left hand to the talisman and reached out with his right. Silver strands of energy formed and crackled together, then grew. To Loki's rather deep surprise, Brokk was opening a gateway right inside his dwelling. Loki took a few careful steps toward Brokk, to the other side of the growing portal, and saw trees and grass and nothing particularly identifiable. Definitely not Jotunheim, probably not Muspelheim. As soon as it was large enough, Brokk stepped through.
Loki wasn't sure why he did it – he supposed it was simple curiosity, or perhaps the need to rectify his earlier mistakes – but he hesitated only for a few seconds before ducking his head and stepping through himself.
/
/
Loki had been walking for nearly twenty minutes through patchy late afternoon sunlight, his bouncing, slightly awkward steps keeping him a half an inch above the highest part of the ground – in this case wild-grown grasses. He'd known exactly where he was after the first two. At first his smile had spread wide to realize he was back on Asgard and Brokk had saved him the hassle of obtaining funds and making it to the other gateway he knew of on Svartalfheim. But it had quickly faded in the face of unanswered questions. Questions he could no longer ignore. Loki needed only to get to Alfheim. He could still kill Brokk and take the talisman, or he could simply leave and start testing the various means he knew to reach Alfheim. But why was Brokk on Asgard, the realm with which Svartalfheim was at war? Why was he creeping around through a light wood toward a little-used park that lay just outside the wall? So Loki put his own plans aside for the moment and followed.
A few more minutes and they reached the park. Loki noted that it appeared unkempt – grass that hadn't been trimmed, bushes that hadn't been shaped, stone paths that hadn't been cleared of leaves. All of Asgard's many gardens and parks, even those less frequented, were immaculately tended. Loki wondered now if it was a sign that Asgard had more pressing matters to deal with, such as a war against two other realms, or three if Jotunheim was somehow involved. How many such signs had he missed in his single-minded walk through Asgard the day before? He remembered thinking there were more Einherjar out on sentry duty than usual. The closed market that he'd bitterly and half in jest attributed to Thor's second attempt at a coronation. The damaged forest he'd assumed had been struck by a storm. Perhaps it had been struck by Mjolnir. How many other things had he never even seen, though they were right before his eyes? How could he have been so oblivious? Thor strolled around oblivious; Loki stood loyal as a dog at his side, aware of everything around them and informing a so-called brother who ignored him, told him to be silent, to trust that Thor knew best, to know his place. But Loki had never stopped noticing, even if he sometimes stopped informing. Until recently. It troubled him greatly.
He had no more time to dwell on it, however, because a figure was approaching from the distance, draped in a pale blue cloak that concealed the person's identity. Brokk stopped behind a tree whose trunk was easily five times his width, and would conceal him from anyone else approaching. Loki stopped at the side of the tree, all the while taking care that no sign of his presence betrayed him. As the figure came steadily closer, Loki realized it had to be a woman, perhaps one not even fully grown, for her cloak had a feminine cut and her size was somewhat small for an adult.
It wasn't until she reached the tree herself and walked right past him to stand before Brokk that he was able to see enough of her face to confirm it was a woman. A long wisp of red hair had curled down the side of her face and was visible despite the hood she had clasped tightly around her head. Her eyes were puffy and as red as her hair and her hands clenched at the edges of her cloak and pulled it more tightly around her. Loki didn't recognize her.
"What have you learned?" Brokk asked without any preamble.
"I don't know. I don't understand half of what they say. Please, can't you just make this stop? I've done enough. I can't take it anymore."
"Don't be a child. You don't have to understand what they say. You simply have to repeat it back to me, and I'll do the understanding."
"They…they wonder why no new attack has come. They think…the other realms want to make us the aggressor. So we don't attack. A few of them want to fight with magic. A few of them…or, one of them, I suppose, I only heard one, he wants Prince Loki to fight with us."
"Isn't that ironic," Brokk said, and Loki had to agree, though he would probably have put another word to it. Whoever thought that was obviously far out of touch with the new reality. "Who said that?" Brokk asked, and Loki would have thanked him if he wouldn't still prefer to kill him.
"The large one. Volstagg is his name."
A small piece of Loki's heart warmed just a fraction – of all Thor's friends, Volstagg had generally been the friendliest toward him. But it just as quickly iced over again. Volstagg had also belittled him, and betrayed him along with all the rest. He would sooner execute the man for treason than pick up a sword to fight alongside him again.
"Have they made no mention of wanting to capture him?"
"Prince Loki? No, not that I've heard. They hardly ever speak of him, at least not in my presence."
"And their strength?"
"Their…their strength? Oh, the warriors…some of the more seriously injured are able to fight again now. Others are still healing. I didn't hear any numbers, and access to the Healing Room is restricted."
"I'm sure you can find an excuse to get in there. A small injury would do it," Brokk said with a mocking grin.
The young woman took a step back and wrapped her arms even tighter around herself, pulling the cloak so tight Loki could trace the lines of her slim figure despite the shapeless garment.
"What else?"
"That's all. They don't hold all their meetings in the Feasting Hall, or even in the palace. And…I wasn't there for all of it." She fixed her eyes firmly on the ground at the last.
"Why not? Your task is simple, Vigdis. Are you telling me you can't accomplish it?"
"No, I mean… I made a mistake and I was dismissed. I wasn't able to hear anything else. And they won't let me back. It wasn't my first mistake, but it was my worst."
Brokk stepped forward and grasped the girl's – Vigdis's – wrists, yanking them away from her body. "You will do whatever you must to get that job back, you piece of filth. Do you understand me?"
Vigdis whimpered and struggled but she couldn't free herself from Brokk's grip.
"I don't care what it takes. Tell them your mother is old and in poor health and your father has died a war hero and you need that job to provide for her. Tell them you have three fatherless children with hungry mouths. Tell them you have a husband who'll beat you if you don't bring home some money. Offer to be flogged instead of dismissed for your mistakes. Whatever it takes, whatever story will work. You will get that job back. And you will not make further mistakes."
"All right! All right, I'll find a way. I'll figure something out. Please, let go of me!"
Brokk did, with a suddenness that caught her off guard and sent her tumbling backward onto her rear. She cried out, more from the shock than any pain, Loki suspected, feeling nothing but contempt for this pathetic creature, and seeing in her his own weakness from several hours earlier. And then Brokk was taking her hands again, but gently this time, and helping her to her feet.
"I'm sorry, Vigdis. I didn't mean to lose my temper. You don't deserve that. I know you're doing your best, and that you're going to fix everything. I know it isn't easy, but you know you're only doing what you must, don't you?"
She was crying now, and nodding. Brokk put his arms around her and she let him embrace her. He rubbed one of his hands in a circle at the small of her back, and she let her cheek fall against his shoulder. Loki took two steps to the side, just in time to see Brokk rolling his eyes.
"Good. Good girl. I have to hurry back now. You go, make things right. Right now."
"I…I don't think I can right"—Vigdis hiccupped – "now. Svartalfheim is attacking to the east, and no one will take the time to listen to me."
"Make them take the time, Vigdis. Use your head. Tell them you're desperate. You'll do anything. They must have a supply line set up; volunteer to take food out. Do whatever you must."
She started to cry harder again, but she was nodding again as well. Brokk urged her on, and she turned to retrace her steps.
"Stupid girl," Brokk muttered. He glanced around, and, seeing no one, he opened up another portal – back to Svartalfheim, Loki presumed – and stepped through. This time Loki did not follow him. Instead he followed Vigdis, trying to think through everything he'd just heard. He couldn't imagine that any of Asgard's warriors seriously wanted to use magic in their battles; it was unheard of, so dishonorable it was deemed. In the last real war – the war against Jotunheim – as far as Loki knew, the only magic the Aesir had employed was through Odin's own Gungnir, and that was accepted because he was Odin All-Father, king of Asgard, and Gungnir was the symbol of his kingship, much as Mjolnir was the symbol of the expected heir. As for Volstagg, he'd probably been making a jest when he'd said he wanted him fighting alongside them. Volstagg knew enough to know that would never happen, even if no one had managed to inform him of Loki's true birthright.
And then there was Vigdis. Vigdis the Traitor, selling out Asgard to Svartalfheim…for what? Brokk had never referred to anything she might be getting out of this deal, and it didn't even quite sound like Brokk was threatening her with anything in particular, despite his threatening tone. Perhaps Thor had grown weary of being apart from his mortal love and taken up with this servant, only to break her heart when she realized he had no real interest in her; perhaps she was betraying Asgard to get revenge on him. Perhaps she'd just gotten in too deep with something she hadn't understood – she was young, after all, probably just barely of age, with a little growing yet to come – and then been unable to claw her way out of the mess she'd made of her life. He wondered, on a strange tangent, if this traitor would have sold him out as well, or would have sensed in him a kindred spirit and served him truly when all others disobeyed.
He followed Vigdis into the city and down streets even quieter than they had been the day before – no one was out except for her and the Einherjar, several of whom scolded her along the way for being out alone, one of whom finally stopped scolding and escorted her to the palace, where Loki ceased trailing her. He would gain nothing from seeing her beg for her position back except a greatly increased risk of his own detection. He glanced around him, trying to come to a decision. The pull of Alfheim was strong, but he'd been willfully ignorant of what was going on here before, and he'd found himself in unexpected danger because of it. This time he would first learn everything he could before leaving Asgard.
He left the servants' entrance on the west side of the palace and hurried down the empty street in front of it, looking up several times for some evidence of a recent explosion, but he found none. It was unsurprising, really; repairs would have been made swiftly. Appearances must always be kept up, he thought bitterly. As he reached the east side of the palace and the Healing Room came into view, he decided to stop by this newly restricted structure. He rounded the corner to its east side, where the public entrance was – the royal family usually used a private entrance on the corner of the west side – and suddenly the streets were not nearly so empty. A trickle of Aesir warriors were making their way toward him, toward the Healing Room, some under their own power, some being carried.
It was oddly unnerving – for over a millennium he'd considered himself one of these men, even if they hadn't always fully accepted him, and he'd never questioned his assumption that if they fought, he would be fighting with them. With Thor. Thor had been injured, the Aesir on Svartalfheim had said. And not even in battle, but in an explosion he'd had no chance to lift Mjolnir at. A good lesson for him, Loki thought, watching the warriors continue their approach and turn into the Healing Room. Not every problem is solved with a hammer. He crept far enough forward that he could look in though the outer doors held open to permit the injured warriors' entry, and wondered how badly Thor had been hurt. He didn't really care; if the storyteller said "injured" and not "dead," Thor would live. The idea of Thor being killed by such a thing, though, that was an unwelcome thought that left him feeling empty inside. If anyone's going to kill Thor, it's going to be me, he thought, and then immediately realized that that was not right either. It shouldn't matter. It couldn't matter. He had no claims to Thor's life or to Thor's death. Thor was nothing to him now. Part of the lie. Part of the past. The past that Loki kept trying to forget, and kept failing to do so.
The past wasn't letting him forget, now. For his own safety, for his own future, he needed to know more. And if Vigdis couldn't get into the Healing Room, he could. He glanced down at his shoulder. He even had the perfect excuse.
He skirted the flow of warriors and stepped behind the corner of another building, making himself visible, calling a light version of his armor over his plain attire – and what a strange sensation it was to wear even this much of it after all this time – and giving himself curly blond hair and a full blond beard. He was braced for the pain but it didn't come, and when he thought about it, he realized he was only there for information and a healed shoulder, and not for any mischief. He stumbled out from behind the tree as though he'd stopped to rest there, and eased his way into the pedestrian traffic. Just inside the entryway two youths were directing the men where to go based on the severity of their injuries; Loki was disappointed to be directed to the left, to an area where most wounds were simply self-treated with a healing stone fresh from the fire pit. The chamber was fast filling up, though, and even here he might learn something.
Loki took a stone from the pit and was annoyed to find there was nowhere to sit. He removed the metal band over his right upper arm and pulled the material of his tunic down to expose the shoulder, then crumbled the stone over it. He should have felt and seen it working, but he saw nothing and felt only continued low-level throbbing pain. He'd hoped it would work, but he hadn't really expected it to. Healing stones healed certain types of wounds; they didn't undo or overcome magic.
He stood behind one of the benches where he ought to have been sitting, had these people only recognized that their rightful king was standing among them, and listened, though he wasn't sure for what.
A young brown-haired boy, probably not yet a man, wearing the light blue patches of a healer in training, approached and stood before him. "The stone didn't heal your injury?" the boy asked.
"It did not. It is a vexing injury, caused by an enchanted dagger," Loki said. There was no need to lie; he hoped in fact he could actually get it healed while here.
The boy looked impressed, his eyebrows jumping up to his shaggy hair. "Really? Since when are the Dark Elves fighting with weapons imbued with magic? Let me take a look."
Loki nodded, then started to protest when the boy brought a pair of scissors out from his satchel and reached up for his sleeve. He held his tongue and sighed. He supposed he could wear the tunic he wore to bed.
"How long ago did it happen?"
"Perhaps…three hours ago. Or four."
"There's no sign of any healing at all. I…I'm just a trainee," the boy said in preface, but Loki recognized the look on his face – he was desperate to attempt it. "But I'd like to try."
Loki held back a grin. Now wasn't the time. And this boy was as much a fool as any Aesir. Loki wore an even heavier disguise than normal; of course he was accepted. Of course they wanted to assist him. "Go ahead," he said with an indulging smile.
The boy smiled, then frowned as he concentrated hard on trying to heal the wound. Loki could feel him trying, but could also feel him failing. "I don't think I can heal it," he finally said, obviously disappointed. "You're going to need a trained healer. Actually, this is unusual. Let me take you to Eir," the boy said, putting a hand to Loki's back to guide him away.
"No," Loki said immediately. If anyone could recognize him through any disguise other than Odin, it was First Healer Eir. "There's no need for that. It may be unusual but it isn't life-threatening. Let Eir tend to those who need her more urgently. Besides, you've barely tried. You're trying to heal the wound, when what you have to do is remove the magic that prevents it from healing." And, like the marks on his wrist and foot, Loki himself could not extricate this magic from his own body.
Loki stood there for nearly half an hour while the boy worked and worked on his shoulder, and little by little the layer of magic preventing healing was being removed. Then a girl with similar trainee patches came by and harangued the boy for spending all his time on one patient – I am your king, Loki thought, scowling at her – and he apologized and left, directing him again to see a trained healer. Under other circumstances Loki might have asked for his name; the boy had promise. But it was highly unlikely Loki would ever see him again.
His black sleeve now hanging detached over a gold bracer, Loki swept the removed arm band from sight and turned his attention to the conversations around him. Three warriors stood against the wall, one leaning heavily on one of the others and speaking in hushed tones. Loki drifted their way, made sure not to look at them or otherwise draw their attention, and listened.
"Jotunheim? No one cares about Jotunheim. And no Frost Giants have attacked, as far as I know. Where did you get such a foolish idea?"
"Not Jotunheim itself. Loki used the bifrost as a weapon against them, and it broke the truce."
You're a few deeds behind, Loki thought bitterly. The Frost Giants broke the truce themselves. I hardly forced them to come for their casket at knifepoint. And of course Thor had no part in any of it whatsoever, perfect son of Odin that he is.
"-want it back. That's all they've ever wanted. They're so lazy they just sit around on their ice floes all day pining over it, while their realm falls to ice chips around them, the blockheads."
"As if you knew anything about it. You've never been to Jotunheim."
"I've heard. And I'll tell you what else I heard. They want the Ice Casket, and they want Loki handed over to them."
Do all the Nine Realms want to see me handed over to Jotunheim? Loki thought, mostly in jest at the absurdity of it.
"This is all about Loki and the Ice Casket?"
The man leaning against his friend scoffed. "We should hand them both over. Even if they had the casket back, they're no match for us, not on their own. And Loki…he's a traitor. I say let them have him."
Loki took a sudden interest in the injury to his shoulder, to avoid revealing the rage he was not quite able to contain. He was no traitor. He had sought a new order in the realms, one that would have made Asgard's supremacy unquestioned. Yes, he had let Frost Giants into Asgard not once but twice. But both times had been for the good of Asgard. At least that was what Loki vehemently told himself.
One of the other men was glancing around nervously, and Loki felt his gaze on him, but it didn't linger. "Watch your tongue, Dagg," he whispered. "Loki is still a prince, and technically you are speaking treason. Besides, I heard they want the tesseract, too."
"I don't know what that thing does, but the way they protect it, it must be powerful. If the other realms want it, too, it's probably the only reason we don't just give them Loki and the casket. That price is too high."
"Why are you so quick to want to cave in to their demands? That's not our way. No one's going to take something from Asgard that the All-Father doesn't want to give, not while I'm still alive."
"If we don't find a way to make a truce, you won't have to worry about that too much longer. I'll stand and fight as hard as the next Aesir, but don't be naïve. We're fighting seven realms. If they all came through those portals they keep making, they could just trample us to death without raising a weapon."
"Don't be an idiot. The Fire Giants and the Frost Giants, perhaps they could trample us, but the rest will in fact have to raise a weapon," one of them said, the others chuckling in response.
Loki barely heard the last, and never heard whatever was said next. His mind was reeling. Seven realms? How is that possible? That means every realm except Midgard. Seven realms?! Alfheim, too, then. Anywhere Loki went throughout the realms, with the sole exception of Midgard, he was wanted. Seven realms? Seven realms have never united over anything, ever, in the known history of the realms, and now they unite against Asgard? Asgard, which has friendly relations with all of them except Jotunheim? How could such a thing happen? It's not possible…
And then he knew. Thanos. Brokk. His failure to win Midgard and deliver the tesseract. He didn't know how, but he had no doubt about who, what, and why.
/
BTW, Any Other Child won in the informal polling, by a narrow margin, over Slow Poison, with Eighteen in third place. So what did I do? I wrote something entirely different on Mother's Day. Ha. (But otherwise I'll try to prioritize Any Other Child as my backup or "notebook" story.) This one's called Better Than Jewels...unless I change my mind. But I can't decide if I want to put it up, because it's kinda spoilery (though not in a plot way) for Beneath, which will also eventually include a telling of this tale, of the "Odin brings Loki home" story. I came up with a second Mother's Day themed Loki/Frigga story at the same time, and the sudden Loki/Frigga inspiration I blame on chats with Sietha. ;-) But probably many of you contributed because several reviewers mentioned liking the fact that Loki's instinct was to go to his mother when he feared she might be injured. My brain doesn't stop with this stuff. It probably should. Sleep is good. My lack of it is why you're getting this particular somewhat rambling message here.
Yet again, thank you for reading, thank you for reviewing, thank you for giving me more and more story ideas. ;-) I am so glad to have made so many of your acquaintance. Speaking of, someone mentioned a fanvid to me...and in my disorganization from the travel I can't find that message anymore, or who sent it. Please remind me!
Previews from Ch. 49: Loki further explores the Healing Room and sees something, and someone(s), that bothers him; I got to write another flashback, which always makes me happy; a tipping point is reached in which Loki now knows more about everything going on than any one person in Asgard; Lucas gets an invitation to a celebration he might have a wee bit of trouble attending; Loki re-evaluates his plans again; and he's really going to need to visit a tailor and pick up some new tunics.
And excerpt:
"Get yourself treated," said a gruff-sounding heavily muscled warrior matching their pace, holding a red-stained cloth over a gash just above his ear. Loki immediately recognized him as one of his former trainers. "The Dark Elves sent us an army, but we've moved in reinforcements from the northern and western sectors. We can handle them."
Loki kept his head down and nodded; the veteran warrior soon broke off and entered a chamber to the left. He lost track for a moment of where he was. Something bothered him about what the man had said, something just on the edge of consciousness, just out of reach.
