Round 8
ROUND 8 IS CLOSED.
Welcome to norsekink!
Keep up the awesome, folks.
Attention:
M ind the new rules that have gone up over the course of the last round.
NOTE: We've noticed that some of the prompts being posted have Thor characters only making cameos or not featured at all. We realize that Thor is closely involved in the Avengers, but we're requesting that ( Read more... )
Welcome to norsekink!
Keep up the awesome, folks.
Attention:
M ind the new rules that have gone up over the course of the last round.
NOTE: We've noticed that some of the prompts being posted have Thor characters only making cameos or not featured at all. We realize that Thor is closely involved in the Avengers, but we're requesting that ( Read more... )
His new life, he muses, sighing. He helps Eira with the farming most days, performing any physical work she might need help with. They harvest all sorts of vegetables come the sweltering summers of Vanaheim, toiling under the sun. Loki is still pale despite the rays but now he’s all lean and wiry, bunched muscles thanks to the hours he spends on the field.
He fidgets absently with his neckerchief, a nervous tic he’s developed. It’s one of the only tells he possesses, or so he’d like to believe. In Jötunheim, Loki had devoured books through the hours when he wasn’t training for combat as a seidmadr, learning smooth words of diplomacy and ways to tell little white lies, spinning them to his advantage. Never for malice, only pranks and trickery, and he’d seldom been caught at it. He gets enough practice at lying even now; polite redirection when the other curious villagers ask about him and his past, his schooling his features into a warm mask when Eira asks him if all is well with him when he’s brooding. Loki has never really been able to shake the habit of thumbing his neckerchief when he’s worried, however; it’s like he’s drawn to it, seeking the comforting rough touch of the cloth to ground him in those moments. At least Eira can’t tell when he does it.
She walks out again, small feet echoing on the wooden floor as she sets two small bowls of broth steadily upon the table, handing him a spoon. Loki accepts the proffered bowl gladly. Eira’s porridge has been described as... unique, an acquired taste, but Loki has never really found it anything but delicious. She beams at Loki every time he does partake of her cooking, and glares at her neighbours when they continue to sheepishly decline her invitations to dinner, guilty looks written all over their faces. He takes a sip of the turnip broth and shrugs, wondering what all the fuss is about.
Eira’s thoughtful, spooning her own bowl without really eating anything, looking at Loki almost expectantly. “I’ve been thinking,” she says quietly, eyes flicking to his fingers as he gently heats up his bowl with a touch of seiðr. Eira’s always been concerned bout his magic; not afraid of him, but for him. “You should find a tutor for your magic. For your seiðr.”
Her suggestion takes him by surprise. It’s the first time she’s brought up anything of the sort. “Pardon?”
She puts down her bowl and reaches across the small table to squeeze his hand. “I think you were meant for greater things. Perhaps there is someone who can help you with controlling your seiðr, help you keep it in check while also helping you realise your full potential.”
He affects a petulant expression. “This is about the time I accidentally blew up the kitchen, isn’t it.”
Eira laughs and swats at him. “You impertient child! It’s not about that.”
“You’ve never let me step foot in it since!”
“You do have to be more careful.” She sits back. “Seiðr is for the wise, those who would venture beyond our world and what is in it to learn of the unknown. There is only so much you can learn of it in our small village; only so much that you can achieve.”
“Ah, the mother hen is shooing her chick away,” Loki remarks jokingly, though he does feel a little wounded at the implication that she seems keen on sending him away to look for a tutor. “That’s a first.”
“Don’t you agree, though? I know you spend all your free time with books.”
Loki can’t help it. He glances towards the city, and thinks of almost everything he’s read. Vanaheim has a treasure trove of books, it’s true, and he should know - he’s browsed so many shelves, taken so many books out of their dusty corners to probe and pore through the endless pages of words and pictures and knowledge. And yet, he knows it’s not enough.
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“Books aren’t really sufficient to learn more about seiðr, no,” he concedes, with some regret. How many times had he wished for a teacher to instruct him in his sorcerous ways, for a place to practice seiðr openly? While the Vanir were pleasan enough, they still regarded the seiðrmaðr with a level of suspicion and wariness. Loki didn’t understand it, but after Eira’s hushed warnings when he was but a child, he has come to understand that it always better to keep his seiðr a bit of a secret, something to guard and protect.
He looks down at his hand, wills the change to happen, thinks of frost and eyes darkest ruby red. The back of his palm blends into blue, Jötun-cold, delicate runes trembling into existence over his knuckles. He can almost feel the winter. A blink of a moment, and then his hand’s pale pink again, just like any other Aesir or Vanir. “I also need someone to help me with my shapeshifting,” he murmurs, realisation dawning.
“Yes, child,” Eira says sadly, her eyes a little damp. “As I said, you have to be careful. I don’t think I could bear it if anything happened to you.”
“When am I ever not careful?” Loki’s voice is warm, light, trying to diffuse the heaviness in the air.
Eira simply raises an eyebrow in response.
“Well, all right, a few times.” He admits.
“No one can discover you are Jötun. You have to strengthen your shapeshifting, to hold your form in place.” She’s squeezing his hand so hard now, it hurts. “You shouldn’t have to be ashamed of your heritage like this,” Eira rubs a thumb over the back of his hand, where his runes had flickered into visibility just scarce moments earlier. “But for your survival... you should seek out a teacher, a master, a scholar of seiðr.”
“In Vanaheim?” Loki asks, incredulous. He’s searched discreetly for someone, anyone that could offer some tutelage for seiðr in the villages, the city. Loki’s made inquiries, casually asked and tricked some librarians into revealing more information than they were willing to part with, slyly flirted with scholars, but to no avail. Vanaheim just didn’t have that much information on seiðr.
Eira shakes her head. “Asgard.”
That makes him sit up. “They’re not exactly accommodating when it comes to the seiðrmaðr either,” he says reluctantly, and then his thoughts waver. “Or am I wrong?”
“I have an acquaintance.” Eira folds her hands in her lap. “He’s dabbled with some seiðr in his youth, and he is extremely well-read. Stígr is also a court physician in the castle, and I’ve already asked him if he could look into job openings for you. Lodgings, too.”
A pang of hurt rushes through him at how she’d not consulted him beforehand. It’s petty, he knows, but Loki gives in to it anyway. “Couldn’t you have at least asked me beforehand as to whether I’d want to go in the first place, before making the decision in my stead?”
She looks stubborn, but he doesn’t miss the flash of guilt. “It’s what best for you, Loki.”
“Even so.” He tries to keep a flare of indignation at bay.
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Severed fingers and dark blood on snow so white it’s almost blinding, a stark image like a painting on a canvas. The painters are the Asgardians, Loki thinks dully, their swords their brushes, their art.
Eira stops, as if recalling the massacre. Word of it had even reached the Vanir all those years ago, a brutal and bloody tale that would strengthen Odin’s legend for years to come; his most successful and cruel campaign yet.
“I know very well what they’re capable of.” Loki says at last, and he is as shocked as Eira is by the dark edge of bitterness in his voice. He sounds like someone completely different.
“My boy,” Eira tries.
Loki stands up, willing himself to calm down. “No, I acknowledge that you’re right. Eira, I just... need some time. Leave me be a while.”
He doesn’t look back, even as she watches him walk inside helplessly, the door slamming shut with a frustrated wave of his hand behind him.
Sitting himself down on the messy gray sheets of his bed, Loki breathes in, deeply. He touches the books on the side of his bed, various titles mocking him and his ignorance. Loki floats one of them over, dipping gently in the air, pages rustling. “The Origins of Seiðr,” he reads, sneering. He flings it across the room, where it hits the wall with a satisfying thunk and falls to the wooden floor, yellowed pages falling open with words and words that speak of history and concepts but nothing of meaning, nothing of actual seiðr, nothing that matters.
It’s not that he’s angry with Eira, he knows that. Nothing about this messed up state of affairs is her fault, not in the slightest. Loki is angry at himself, mostly, for being able to truly temper and forge his seiðr into something that he can really manipulate and control on his own.
Seiðr is dangerous if he cannot handle it. If he should lose control one day, really descend into wildness with his magic, the consequences might be too distressing to bear. Loki knows he has considerable power, has felt it thrumming darkly and insistently under his skin ever since he was a child, and especially since a storm of shadows wrapped around him and deposited him neatly in the middle of Vanaheim, saving his life. But Loki has set fire to things involuntarily and wilted crops when he couldn’t reign in his touch of ice, leaving them with a less than ideal harvest one dark fall. He’s slowed time, his heart beating painfully in his chest as Eira looked at him, her eyes wide while he was both excited and terribly afraid at the same time: what can I do, he’d wondered, and he’d then closed his eyes. What can I not do, and what happens when it all slips beyond my grasp?
It is then that he decides. A teacher it is, to help hone his craft.
He gestures with his hand, and the door swings inward softly, creaking as if in greeting. Eira is just outside, the back of her knuckles hovering inches from where the door has just been a few seconds prior, preparing to knock. She clears her throat, smiling weakly. “I’ll never get used to that.”
Loki offers her a smile in return, genuine and apologetic. “You do try.” She does, Loki knows. She tries, oh, how she tries. She loves him like her own, despite what he is, for who he is. Loki knows as much, and loves her all the more fiercely for it.
He takes a deep breath.
“I’m going to Asgard.”
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It's also crowded and uncouth in the square, where the hustle and bustle is at its busiest and most obnoxious. Honestly, Loki's rather taken aback, because he didn't expect Asgard to be this full of people. Despite the cheerful chaos he's been somehow sucked into by simply setting foot into the marketplace after his long, long journey through the mountains, Loki finds he rather likes it.
Smiling, he accepts some bread a young girl with an apron hands him, telling Loki earnestly that her family makes the freshest and most delicious pastries in all of the Nine Realms. "Go on," she urges him. "You don't have to buy this, but really, give it a try!"
He relents, and it really is pretty good; Vanaheim has fresh wheat and everything, but Loki's never tasted anything quite like it. "Thank you," he laughs, and presses a quick kiss to the back of her flour-dusty hand, letting his green eyes shine earnestly at her. She blushes and stammers, averting her gaze from his amused expression.
Loki later walks away with another few hot, fresh pastries in his arms. He grins to himself; he's never really had a problem getting free things from impressionable young women (or men), and he never says no if they're offering. Still, the Asgardians here are nice. He's unfamiliar with their accent, more posh and melodic compared to the roughshod tones of the Vanir, but he thinks he could get used to it.
"What's the occasion?" He asks brightly, when he's charmed another young man into conversing with him and parting with several meat skewers he's very keen for Loki to sample, on top of "anything else you might like to try any time, only because you're stunning." Loki ignores the blatant flirtation but accepts the skewers anyway.
"You're not from around here, are you? It's nothing much," the man scoffs, waving. "The market's always busy, but it's crazier than usual this time of year. I've never seen the point of it, personally, but the Asgardian royalty make the celebrations over the fall of Jötunheim a really big deal. There's fairs and everything."
Loki's smile feels frozen on his face. "Do they, now."
"His Majesty started the annual celebrations about ten, fifteen years ago. I wouldn't know, I was but a child at the time. I knew we were at war with the Jötnar, but having festivals to celebrate our victory over another realm seems a little over the top, don't you think?" He smiles at Loki winningly, unaware of the turmoil flashing behind Loki's carefully guarded expression. "It draws a crowd, though, so I'm not complaining."
He leaves the stall later, contemplative, looking up at the giant monument of Odin in the square. He's never really seen how Odin looked like, so the face plastered onto the figure riding the unmoving, rearing horse is foreign. His seiðr stirs within him, restless, as Loki tamps down on the urge to destroy the statue to smithereens, for all the good it would achieve.
A festival, he thinks dully, keeping his eyes downcast. Rejoicing in the slaughter of hundreds, thousands of people. Senseless war, senseless strife, all for the pretense of a greater but ultimately hollow crown. If Odin hadn't invaded Jötunheim then, if Loki remained the young heir to the throne, he thinks he wouldn't have made a good ruler. Loki snorts gently to himself at the thought: conquering kingdoms, hurting people from different realms along with their own to further their influence... how utterly pointless.
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"All hail Odin-Allfather!" Someone shouts from the crowd.
There's a whoop of agreement, and then an old woman croaks, "Down with the Jötnar!"
"And so Asgard triumphed over Jötunheim," the leading minstrel of the troupe declares loudly, frowning at the interruptions. "Gungnir in hand, Odin snatched victory from the maws of the barbarians, and the realm of ice fell to the Aesir, proud and strong and eternal."
Loki grits his teeth; there's a roaring in his ears. He tightens his hands into fists and narrows his eyes. The little wooden puppet of Odin catches on fire, and then the puppeteers are shouting and panicking as they scramble away from it, rushing to gather everything else up in their arms. Loki turns his back on them, the anger an unwelcome rush of heat in his body, unheeding of the cries of dismay as the crowd disperses and they fail to put the small fire out.
The small burning, bearded face of the doll with its eyepatch mocks him. Loki leans against a wall to catch his breath. He can burn all the small puppets he likes or cause trouble for bards of troupes who sing and regale tales of Odin's greatness, but that won't change anything.
Jötunheim is still lost to him, to his people, and Odin's a war general who rode home in glory after he defeated the ruler of the frost giants and slaughtered warriors and babes alike. Loki's just a lost and fallen prince in a realm that would reject him and his heritage at the merest hint of his true nature, a prince whose pride and culture counts for nothing now.
The fire's being put out now, the smoke stark and black against the warm colours of the market. Loki can't even muster satisfaction at the sight of the minor destruction he's caused. He's young, but he feels old and weary and bitter all at once.
Loki pushes his conflicted emotions to the back of his mind, focusing on the here and now. There's laughter coming from his right, near an open space with what look to be knights and a small gaggle of spectators crowding around them, inquisitive and noisy. He needs a distraction, anyway, so he quietly slinks over, unnoticeable in his dull brown tunic. Loki's not worried about his Aesir guise giving him away, but he doesn't feel really in control of his emotions at the moment.
"Oh, come on!" There's a young man laughing, his voice low and rich, flanked by other youths in armour, weapons at their side. "That can't be all you've got!"
He studies the smirking stranger with interest, even if his laugh grates on Loki's nerves just a tad. Arrogant the young man might be, with his grin cocky and condescending as he moves in a circle around something - or someone - that Loki can't see from this angle, but there's no denying he's really rather handsome. Loki's seen (and seduced, though he'd deny it to Eira's face if she ever asked - there are some things he'd never confess to her on pain of death) his fair share of comely maidens and good-looking rogues in Vanaheim, but this man surpasses them easily. He looks like an illustration from scriptures of legends come alive, beautiful and proud.
That being said, he does sound like a right prat, though.
"Please, sire," a quivery voice sounds from somewhere behind the warrior. When he moves away from the source of that voice, red cape flourishing behind him as he throws and catches what looks to be a rotten fruit, Loki sees a scrawny boy scarcely his own age crouching behind what looks to be a magical barrier.
Confused, intrigued and feeling somewhat indignant on the boy's behalf, Loki inches closer, murmuring half-hearted apologies as he elbows his way through the crowd. He peers over the shoulders of a few girls, grateful for his height.
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Loki wonders just how long he’s had to endure this.
A maiden with her dark hair in a severe ponytail next to him coughs pointedly, and the man pauses to look at her. “Don’t you think that’s a bit much, my lord?”
“Are you questioning me, Sif?” The golden stranger’s grinning at her, too, but there’s a hint of steel to his words. He’s someone used to obeisance. Sure enough, the girl, Sif, lowers her eyes, although not without a flash of frustration in them before she murmurs, “No, sire.”
Loki feels some admiration towards her, for at least attempting to stand up for a commoner in the face of this man - probably a senior fighter among their ranks despite his age. She called him my lord, Loki recalls; he must be a nobleman’s son, then, someone of the court. It can’t be easy being a female warrior and having to constantly prove your worth to the other warriors. Sif is the only girl there, slim in build but looking every bit like she belongs with them. She doesn’t look angry at the man in a way that would imply her pride is stung, though; her gaze that rests on the boy who’s being bullied is concerned, helpless almost.
“Right,” he says to no one in particular, making his decision.
When the bully - there’s no other name for scum like him, no matter how high-born, in Loki’s opinion - picks up another fruit and readies his aim, Loki steps forward, gently pushing the curious spectators in front of him aside. He clears his throat, and the man’s gaze snaps to him.
“I do believe that’s enough,” he begins, taking in the man’s appearance fully now that he’s closer to him. There’s a faint dusting of light stubble on the man’s face, he notices, right before said man’s face breaks into a disbelieving grin. “You’ve had your fun pushing someone around already, haven’t you, my friend? That’s enough,” Loki repeats.
The man throws his head back, and for the briefest of moments, he takes Loki’s breath away; damn him, the smug bastard really is attractive, all hard lines and chiseled features. It irritates Loki, and he feels his irritation climb when the man opens his mouth. “Have we met, stranger?” His voice is so thickly layered with disdain that Loki suddenly finds himself wishing he’ll choke on it.
“No,” he forces out, really irritated now that someone so beautiful could be such a jerk.
“You called me a friend, though, didn’t you?” The man steps closer, moving around him slowly, and Loki’s heart is thudding furiously in his chest from the proximity. He’d slap himself if he could; he reminds himself fiercely that there’s nothing appealing about this man in any way whatsoever other than in the physical sense. “Eh, peasant?”
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The stranger stills, completely, almost as if paralysed for a few seconds, and then he’s bursting into raucous laughter. “My word!” He gestures at his lackeys. “Did you just hear what this fool said to me?” He turns back to Loki, looking really amused, now. Loki doesn’t understand why, but neither does he really want to. He’d rather not have anything to do with someone like this.
“I called you an arse,” he bites out, emphasising each word, “Because you are one. And a bully, to boot. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”
“I can’t believe it,” the man crows, still. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
Loki snorts, notes the glint of battle-hunger in the other man’s eyes, and prepares himself mentally for a fight. “I don’t care who the fuck you are, you’re a swine who puts others down just because you can. You’re a noble, I suppose, being well-dressed and everything, surrounded by fellow fighters and warriors who trust you and look to you for leadership. And this, this, is how you treat your people?”
Interestingly enough, guilt flashes quickly over the man’s face, but it’s gone almost immediately. “That boy,” the man says slowly, as if rummaging for an excuse, “Is a seiðrmaðr. He’s not exactly powerless, and I’m entitled to my fun when I see one of them cowards around here, hiding behind their magic.”
Well, that’s about the dumbest thing that Loki’s ever heard. “He’s a child, you fool! And if you think magic is cowardly, then…” Recklessness rings through him, rough and wild, and his seiðr sings with it, restless around this impossible and infuriating stranger before him.
Loki doesn’t stop to think how his magic has never reacted to anyone like this before, doesn’t stop to think, really, which is the only explanation he’ll have later for why he acts so stupidly within the next moment.
“Well, you should take on a seiðrmaðr your age, who matches your capabilities in turn! Or are you more craven than I?” Loki hisses, letting fire flare to life in his hands. The boy’s looking at him with wide eyes now, admiring and fearful, flicking his gaze between Loki and the blond warrior.
“You,” the warrior starts. “You’re one of them!”
“Aha.” The other man’s voice isn’t exactly full of wonder or even disgust, it echoes oddly of eagerness. Still, Loki recognises an opportunity to shame and embarrass when he sees one; he’s too skilled with arguments and words to not use it. “So you admit you’re too cowardly to take on someone like myself in combat, then, when you’d gladly push around a skinny boy who can’t defend himself against you?”
“I could, too,” The boy mumbles, but Loki hushes him.
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“You’ll regret that,” Loki bites, and then there’s no warning for him as the man shoots out a hand in a deft punch, making to grab for him. Loki sidesteps him neatly, having participated in his fair share of brawls in the village, reaching out a hand to singe the man’s armour. He smiles as the man yelps from the heat, drawing back.
“What’s the matter, my lord?” He teases, in a completely different tone from what the girl, Sif, had used to address him. “Am I too much for you to handle? We’ve barely started, I don’t want to get bored of you, yet.”
A snarl, and then the man kicks out at him. He’s swift; Loki ducks, but it grazes his cheek and cuts him, there’s the smallest line of red on his face, he’s sure, but then he’s opening his palm so that light bursts in front of him to distract his opponent. The man really is a good fighter, because he notices the first blooming explosion of light Loki’s cradling in his palm and closes his eyes before Loki’s trick can do much damage, whirling around with his fist again to try and catch Loki off-balance.
He succeeds, unfortunately, and Loki’s thrown to the ground with all the breath knocked out of him from that powerful blow. Loki barely has time to pull himself to his feet when the man’s hauling him upright and yanking his arms behind him in a tight grip, threatening. He flinches in shock from the unexpected pain, his eyes blazing, and then he’s meeting the man’s gaze; he looks triumphant, with a spark of curiosity.
“I ask you again.” His breathing is even, as if Loki really didn’t give him much of a fight. Loki hates him so, so much right now. “Do you not know who I am?”
“No.” Loki gives the same answer. He still doesn’t care. “You’re not the king, that much I know, he’s got an eyepatch. Do I look like I give a damn?” Prats are prats, no matter how blue their blood, no matter how high up, no matter how attracti-
-well, that’s a dangerous line of thought.
The blond smiles. It’s almost genuine; Loki fights to keep a blush from rising to his face. It drops back to amusement shortly after, and right on to smug-as-fuck territory when his smile widens, showing a hint of teeth. “My name is Thor.”
Loki groans quietly.
Of course.
The prince of Asgard.
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