Braid
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Loki sat on his bed. His old bed. The one he had slept in on the night of Thor’s coronation. On the night of his first true battle. On the night of his first journey to another Realm.
It was his bed and he’d missed it.
Not the object itself. The fact that it was his.
But there wasn’t much use or time for mulling over this simple fact. Because Thor would be knocking on his door soon. Or not. More bursting through without a second thought. He’d changed, but not that much.
For now, Loki had some important thinking to get done. About what had just happened.
Odin hadn’t immediately thrown him back in the dungeons. He hadn’t been forced to let everyone know about his skin. And now he had to tell Thor something. Everything, preferably. So that it didn’t come up again and he didn’t have to re-do the whole process. Because Loki was efficient - if he was going to pull out a splinter, best do it all in one go.
He ran a hand absently over his duvet. The fabric was incredibly thin cotton strands, crocheted by his mother and stuffed with soft wool. It was all compacted now after many, many years of use. Some areas had pulls spiking off in random directions, likely caught on armour or weapons. He smoothed them down.
Smoothed them down with his right hand, wrapped in a blood-stained cloth. Loki blinked at it, pulled it off automatically. Getting something Frigga had made dirty with her son’s blood was not right. Stood, walked to the bathroom and rinsed out the cloth, watched as rusty water dripped from it, swirled down the drain.
Loki wrung it out, then made to re-wrap his hand but paused. There were more options, now. Better ones than a days-old bandage. Quick rummaging through his cupboards revealed none of the usual medical supplies. Already taken for the troops, no doubt. Next would be all non-essential clothes; Asgard had advanced healing capabilities, but bandages were still a go-to for treating in the field when all the stones were used up.
Next was the wardrobe and he threw the doors open, only to freeze. Because those were his old clothes. They even smelled like him. The old him. Of books and ink and the permeating campfires of Asgard. Now, he probably smelled of blood and dirt.
He shook off whatever thought made him freeze, reached for a particularly scratchy tunic and paused again, fingers resting on the fabric. Loki sighed. He couldn’t. It felt like stealing. Ridiculous.
“No it's not.”
He turned to face Frigga, closed the wardrobe gently behind him, “It really is. They’re my clothes.”
“Yet you do not use them.”
Loki strode back to his bed, plopped down on it and wrapped his hand with the soggy bandage, gesturing to it once he was done, “This is fine.”
“For healing a wound or for covering your skin?”
He was too tired for this, “Mother…”
“There is nothing wrong with you, my son. Nothing.”
Incorporeal hands rested on his shoulders, lightly and barely there, “Can we not talk about that? I don’t know how many more times I’ll be able to speak with you…”
To his right, the mattress dipped and he felt warmth press against his shoulder and ghostly fingers rest comfortingly on his.
“Of course.”
“Thor… I promised to tell him something…”
“Important, I assume?”
He shrugged, “Probably, though it doesn’t feel too important when you compare it to Hela invading Asgard.”
“Which is not a measure of an event's importance. As well you know.”
“Did you know about her, mother?”
Quiet. Only the warm pressure on his side and hand indicated she hadn’t left.
“No. It was before I married your father and we knew of each other only across a battlefield at that time. Of course, I knew of Hela, but not that she was his daughter.”
Loki hummed softly then sighed, “You’re a figment of my imagination, why am I even asking you?”
“Because I’m not.”
He snorted disbelievingly, but then the soft pressure against his side turned into a firm grip on his shoulder.
“I am real and I am here, Loki. You are not imagining me. You are not mad.”
“Prove it,” He murmured. Let it hang for a moment, “Why should I trust you? You could be my mind finally revolting. You could be Th- the Mad Titan or the Void using whatever links remain between me and the Mind Stone. You-”
“Or, I could be me.”
“People don’t come back from the dead! Not even Queens of Asgard.”
“You are set on disbelief?”
He smiled a little, “Until I can trust I am not talking to my subconscious.”
“Your subconscious would not recreate me so well.”
“No?”
“No. And as for proof, if I am just imagined, then I cannot know what you do not.”
Loki glanced at her, but swiftly turned back to the wall when faced with empty space, “That’s how it should work.”
“Then I will tell you of things you should know, that I should have taught you long ago. Of Jötunheimr.”
He didn’t get a chance to protest, chided by a pat on the hand when he opened his mouth.
“Yours are a proud people, myson. Proud, but beaten down long before Laufey’s reign. During the Conquest, their magical ties to Yggdrasil were cut because they rivaled Asgard’s might, and so were handicapped to ensure victory. Unknown at the time, the Casket of Ancient Winters formed, through the broken and untethered seiðr of Jötnar coalescing in the ice. They managed to survive, only barely, without direct access to magic because of the Casket. It is what kept them from utter extinction, what allowed them to still use some forms of magic. Though that is only theory and conjecture, of course. The seiðr of Jötunheimr is complex and unlike anything elsewhere, because they were forced to adapt.
“You, my son, should not be capable of Asgardian magic because of your blood, yet are one of the most powerful of our sorcerers to have lived. And I am so, so proud of you, for so many reasons.”
Warm fingers against his cheek and Loki blinked out of his stupor. Felt soft tugging on the bandage about his right hand, but too lost in thought, processing, to protest.
“Some of that you may know. Some, in fact, you might have guessed. I wouldn’t be surprised, you’ve always been my clever boy…
"From what little we know of modern Jötnar, it is likely that seiðr is wound into their very cells, probably an adaptation to mitigate the effects of being cut off from Yggdrasil. And there are few rules in their magic, making the majority of it instinctual. When you fought the Hulk, you forgot to reject your heritage and used it instead. Did you not think it odd you could conjure a wall of ice without training?”
Loki thought back. To how terrified he’d been, blocking out everything else; the memory brought chills. “Yes,” He rasped, swallowed and tried again, a little stronger, “Yes.”
“You could try now, if you wanted-”
“I believe it’s you,” Loki interrupted, “Please…”
A soft grip around his right hand, now free of the bandage. At first, he resisted, then gave in and allowed her to bring it up, looking at it.
It was his hand. Missing a finger, with bone showing through the end but clean. And the wrong colour.
Ridges lined it, semi-circles along the back, like the ones on his forehead. Whilst locked in the dungeons, he’d run his fingers over them, a physical sensation to anchor him in the world of burning. His nails were black, sharp. A Realm away from his usual well-kept half-moons. Not that they currently looked like that - Sakaar, imprisonment before that and endless falling through the Void before that didn’t exactly offer regular manicures.
“It is important, Loki. I would not push if it weren’t…”
He nodded slowly, “I’m going to wash,” He got up, leaving the warm presence behind and entered his bathroom. Locked the door. Leant against it and sucked in a deep breath to try and calm his heaving stomach. Running from a ghost… It was almost laughable.
After a few moments, he no longer felt as if simply moving would cause him to vomit and Loki made his way to the tub, flicked a switch and stripped as slightly-above-freezing water trickled in, petering off at just enough to cover his thighs when he sat, legs stretched out. Hot water was useful for cleaning wounds and bandages. At least he didn’t feel the cold.
For the first time in too long, Loki began to scrub the layer of dirt off his skin in his own rooms on Asgard.
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Finally clean, Loki was lying, spread out, on his bed. He had redressed in the armour he’d been provided on Sakaar. Because it fit surprisingly well and he couldn’t bring himself to root through the clothes in his wardrobe. The dark green, silver and black were similar enough to his usual colours that he doubted anyone would notice. Except maybe Thor.
In his hands, he fiddled with the scrap of red fabric. It, too, was from Sakaar, but far more useless. He had impulsively picked it when selecting armour the first time and couldn’t leave it behind the second time.
Then, it had been a reminder of Thor. Now, he knew his brother was alive. Had seen him barely half an hour before, but Loki, again, couldn’t bring himself to discard it. Curse this sentimentality. With a sigh, he shifted around until he could reach to tie it on his belt at the small of his back. Not the most comfortable to lie on, but that solved itself as the thin fabric compressed under his weight.
Outside his door, in the long hallway beyond, he heard the soft pad of distant footsteps. Thor’s? No, too early. But since when had Thor let something like that stop him?
Closer and closer, loud enough that they were only metres away, through the thick oak door. He really shouldn’t have been able to hear them. Then they continued.
Not Thor, then.
Loki flopped back down from where he’d half-sat to crane his head towards the door.
He wanted to tell Thor about what had happened and simultaneously didn’t.
What would he think? Would he be ashamed? Would he accuse him of lies?
Loki knew himself to be a liar; knew that others were well aware, too. And none more aware than his brother. Being a liar was not a good thing, because it meant everything you said was scrutinised, and anything which was disliked could be written off as yet another lie, no matter how truthful or sincere.
Something bad about Asgard? Oh, Loki must be lying!
But there were worse things, of course. Things which he knew wouldn’t happen. Because he knew Thor, or at least thought he did. This didn’t count as betrayal, so he should be alright. Didn’t stop that little niggling doubt in the back of his mind.
What if he was so ashamed to have an ergi brother… A fight? Maybe not shame, maybe disgust? He couldn’t handle that. Disgust.
No point mulling over it. It wouldn’t happen! Thor would not do anything drastic.
Hopefully.
Loki scowled, turned onto his side, facing away from the door. And promptly twisted back, stared at the unmoving oak surface.
There were upsides, of course. Getting it out, so the unspoken words didn’t keep bouncing around in his chest painfully. And it wasn’t something to get mad over, especially with Hela laying siege to Asgard. More important matters to deal with.
Fuck it! If Thor had a problem, he could ignore it in favour of working to save his entire Realm. Better to tell him than to suffer on with indecisiveness.
Loki glared at the door, though not for long. His eyelids had been growing steadily heavier since Frigga decided to appear and the stern glower quickly morphed into a far less threatening yawn. He had time before Thor barged his way in. Time enough for a small rest…
Slowly, his eyes drooped closed, focusing instead on listening for anyone in the hallway. Until the nothingness soothed Loki into a light sleep.
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Just… soft, warm darkness.
No whirring thoughts, only calm. Blankness.
And a hand on his shoulder.
Loki shot upright, batted it away and dug a fist into where the torso of whoever had snuck in should be. It glanced off, didn’t land a direct blow but he was already swinging round to strike with his other hand. When it was caught and a familiar incredulous laugh sounded.
“I think a rabbit hits harder,” Thor said.
Loki sighed, tried to calm his pounding heart, “Or maybe you’re fatter than you look. Extra shock absorption,” He grumbled, putting distance between them automatically.
More laughter, though it petered off swiftly, leaving them in silence. Thor on one end of the bed, Loki on the other. He got up, moved to an armchair in the corner and sat, at first on the armrest, then slid into the seat, swinging his legs over the rest.
“You said you’d tell me…” Thor started, twisting to look at him, back slouched in a way suggesting he’d prefer to be stood. Or beating the shit out of someone, “Will you? Or was that another lie?”
Loki sunk deeper into the chair. He did ‘faked casual’ far better than Thor could ever hope to, made a show of crossing his legs at the ankle, “I didn’t lie. I haven’t lied to you.”
“Should’ve recorded that, could’ve made a world record.”
“What?”
“The least likely thing ever said.”
He stared and didn’t move an inch. Then consciously relaxed, dangled his feet, summoned the most infuriating and laid-back smirk he could, “Ask away.”
“What happened in the dungeons? What was so bad that father admitted a mistake?” Thor was facing him fully and had given up hiding the tension in his shoulders. Had stood, loomed over Loki despite being on the other side of the room, “He never does that.”
“So you’ve finally admitted he’s not perfect?”
“Loki…”
“Fine. I just-. It’s hard to say, Thor,” He didn’t manage to beat back all of the pleading. Norns, he didn’t want to whine!
Silence, instead of the expected command to ‘spit it out, coward’. Only an impassive face, softening round the edges. Fuck him and his pity.
“Since when did you learn to shut up?” Loki grumbled, swung his legs some more. Shuffled around until he leant his shoulder into the back of the chair and uncrossed his legs. Re-crossed them. “I burnt in the dungeons. Because your beloved father didn’t deign to allow me my seiðr, which you already know. Well. I had to eat. Apparently that was alright. ‘Yes, let him burn! But no food strikes, can’t have that’!” Loki smiled wide, ignored the heat behind his eyes and the boulder lodged in his throat, “So the Einherjar delivered me food. One Einherjar, really. He… Didn’t like me. Didn’t like this,” He held up his right, blue hand, splayed fingers, turned the palm to Thor. Stared impassively at the ridged back of it, “He… Wasn’t the nicest. And it wasn’t just words.”
Across the room, Thor began to crumple. He looked like he’d figured it out, “Who? What did he do?”
“Have I got to spell it out for you?!” Loki suddenly yelled, voice cracking. Stood, began to pace, “He was medium height. Had a large nose, bushy eyebrows and brown eyes. He beat me whenever he had the chance. Did-...” Voice dropped, quieter, “Did other things, too. I tried to make it stop, but it’s blurry. He laughed about it with his friends when they had joint guard duty. Sit out in the hallway. Laughing.”
Nothing but his heavy breathing, constant pat, pat of his feet on thick carpet. Thor didn’t speak and Loki didn’t look at him. Didn’t want to see the disgust.
“It’s nothing. Worse has happened. Will happen if we don’t stop Hela-”
“No. No, that is worst!” Thor was suddenly in front of him, hands hovering over his shoulders, though hesitant to touch, “You should have told me sooner. When I got you out of there-!”
“You would have thought I lied.”
“I will find him. And we’ll see justice. Will that… Will that help?” There was a hopeful look on his face.
Loki felt the stiffness in his entire body drain away. He hadn’t been expecting this. No disbelief. No disgust. Small amounts of pity, but that was bearable and a far sight better than what could have been, “Yes. Probably. But we need to focus on defending Asgard, that’s more important.”
“You’re important.”
“I didn’t know you cared,” Loki forced a smirk, flopped back into his armchair, let himself relax into it, a weight off his chest.
“I do,” He said seriously. Then it melted away into a teasing tone, “Better not tell anyone.”
“No. Wouldn’t want people thinking you consort with mad criminals.”
“You’re selling yourself short! I’d add ‘scholar’ to the list-”
“But then no-one would believe it if you talked to me. Someone who doesn’t whack all their problems with a hammer? The Oh-So-Mighty Thor would never even look at them.”
That got a snorted laugh and Loki grinned, “Is that really what I was like?”
“Pretty much.”
“Then I am sorry.”
“For being an oaf?”
“For making you feel like you don’t matter,” That seriousness was back. As if trying to make up for whatever it was that had just passed between them.
The laughter died away. Loki looked down, found his hands fiddling with that scrap of red cloth again. This was a… Volatile topic. Because it was the cusp of all this. His plotting at the coronation, the need to do something; show everyone he could be a good King! Just as good as Thor. He hadn’t been able to admit it at the time, not to himself or anyone else, but there was the issue. Plain and simple. Thor had made him unimportant, had cast him into shadow his whole life.
Somehow, thinking him dead had stopped all that. Brought everything into perspective. This… Inadequacy he’d felt was petty and childish, when thinking back. There were roots in things which mattered and things which didn’t. Not now, anyway. Strange how death, time and pain could change your outlook. All the old things faded away, until what was left were matters of life and death and happiness.
Wasn’t this what he’d wanted for so long? An acknowledgement and an apology?
Loki dipped his head slowly, met Thor’s gaze, “It’s alright.”
A slightly incredulous look, then a sigh as he plopped down on the bed, “You’ve changed.”
“It needed something a bit stronger than Midgard and some pretty mortal, but I suppose so.”
Then, as if attempting to throw any possibility of slightly serious conversation out the window, “Is that a red butt-cape?”
Loki started, immediately dropped the scrap he’d been fiddling with. When had he picked it up? “No.”
“It is.”
He shoved it behind him and smiled innocently, “I doubt it.”
“You got it on Sakaar?” Now Thor was grinning, “Red isn’t usually your colour, Lo.”
Loki crossed his arms, but didn’t say anything. His cheeks were burning hot, his ears too.
The grin became softer again and Thor sighed, sat back. Then ran a hand through his hair and pulled forth a braid but it wasn’t solely his blonde. One strand was black.
“I thought you were dead, too…”
“Oh,” Loki couldn’t help it. He stared at it and his eyes were stinging again. Because that meant Thor had cared. Had mourned. Mourned properly, not just played at it like he’d thought.
“A butt cape, though?”
He sniffled involuntarily, swallowed and swiped angrily at his face, “I couldn’t exactly wear it anywhere else.”
“Still.”
“You can’t say anything! Braiding my dead hair with yours,” If Thor noticed the frost rimming Loki’s eyes, he wisely didn’t mention it, “Where’s that Einherjar’s knife, I have an annoying brother to stab,” He made a show of searching, averting his face.
Laughter again.
Interrupted by four resounding knocks on his door.
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