Before the Norns

As Thor’s coronation draws ever closer—no longer centuries away, nor even decades, but years and then months, closing in on mere days—his dreams have been of nothing but that final hour, the moments before he claims his destiny.

And he’s noticed unexpected guests.

Three of them, dark and terrible beyond measure, impossibly huge, their faces hidden in shadow. Threads looped heavily about their arms. Never speaking a word, simply watching him, waiting to see what he’ll do.

For months now, he’d been dreaming of the tests his father might require of him, the vows he might be called upon to make. Of fighting off hordes of monsters—bilgesnipes and giants and dragons—and standing before the throne, soaked in blood, finally proving himself worthy of his place. He’d dreamed of how his friends might react as he kneels before his father and rises with his blessing, the new King of Asgard, invested with unlimited power and authority.

But now, under the gaze of the fate-weavers, he’s begun to falter. In the dreams, he’s nervous, fumbling, uncertain. The monsters sink into shadow, chaotic forms he can't begin to fight. The great feasts rot on the tables, and the crowd grows restless, beginning to murmur against him. He tries some showy tricks with Mjolnir, only to watch her slip through his fingers and fall into a hole so deep that he can’t even call her back again. The murmurs turn to angry muttering, the court looking on him with nothing but hate in their eyes.

In the worst dreams, he’s cast aside as unfit, a failure of the highest order; his father’s implacable eye stares down at him until he slinks out of the palace and away from Asgard, out of the sight of Odin's twin ravens, retreating (and when has he ever retreated from anything?) until the darkness of the lost places consumes him.

And even there, the eyes of the fate-weavers are upon him.

More than a few times, he’s woken in a cold sweat, and stoked the fire and sat up until daybreak, hugging his knees and wishing he were young enough to run across the hall to Loki’s bed, as Loki used to run to his.

(Back when his dreams were far more pleasant, he’d be woken by Loki crawling into his bed, nightmares still fresh in his trembling lips and teary eyes.

Thor would hold him close and reassure him that the Jotnar couldn’t leave their homeworld, and certainly couldn’t break through Asgard’s defenses to get to the palace itself. Not past the palace guards. Not past Father. Besides, Thor would slay any number of Jotnar to keep Loki safe.

You’d really do that for me, Thor?

Of course! You’ll always be safe if you stick with me.

Assured of Thor’s love and protection, Loki would fall asleep in his brother’s arms.)

When Thor finally breaks, and runs to his brother—not over the nightmares precisely, but for a consult about the Norns’ presence—Loki simply laughs.

“Come now,” he says, busily grinding a fresh set of reagents, “you can’t be surprised. You’re to be the next Allfather; of course they’d take an interest in your life.”

“I know that,” Thor huffs, sinking down into a chair by Loki’s workbench and staring crossly at the flames dancing in the hearth. The thick air in here is giving him a headache, just to match his mood.

It would be hard not to know that the Sisters have invested their best threads in the ‘Golden Prince of Asgard’. Every possible blessing has been bestowed upon him, from physical health to social acclaim. The friends he’s attracted are the most loyal anyone could ask for, with great courage and fighting prowess as well. His mother is by far the most nurturing, along with being a skilled seer and shield-maiden; his father is the most powerful, the most wise.

And his brother by far the most intriguing.

There are many in the court who despise Loki; both boys are well aware of this. With neither the sheer physical might nor the straightforward mindset of his peers, Loki falls far short of the Aesir ideal. More agile than strong, he’s never been good at any warrior’s weapon; he fights with daggers, the choice of a woman, or perhaps a merchant, not a warrior of Asgard.

Yet Loki has proven just how deadly a small blade can be. When he wields them, he strikes with vicious precision, and those who underestimate him don’t live to regret their mistake. Overcoming his vulnerabilities, Loki has risen above his physical limitations to become one of the deadliest fighters in Thor’s little band.

That might have granted him some honor—but he also uses seidhr, the mystical arts that no man save Odin Allfather would deign to take part in.

Thor had been there as Loki agonized over the decision—back when Loki was young enough to seek his counsel, instead of the other way around. At the time, the thought of Loki being deadly in combat had been almost laughable. And if he could not wield a weapon in Asgard’s defense, how else could he help defend the Realm? So, rather than stay useless, Loki had chosen to shoulder that burden, harnessing his seidhr and accepting the lifelong shame of being accounted ergi.

For such great courage and self-sacrifice, Thor has ever been proud of his brother. And yes, there are times when Thor finds him infuriating, but is that not the way of brothers? Loki is clever, charming, courageous, insightful—yes, and eccentric, but Thor has grown to appreciate having access to a viewpoint so distinct from the Asgardian norm. Loki has long been the whetstone against which Thor sharpens his own mind.

Which is, of course, why he often seeks his counsel.

“What I can’t figure out is, why show themselves to me?”

Loki shrugs. “It’s a portent.”

“Of course it’s important. They wouldn’t—”

“No, no, not important.” Loki frowns, and taps his chin. “Although I suppose that would be true as well. A portent, an omen. A sign of some crucial decision that could drastically shift the weaving.” He picks at a stray thread from his sleeve. “They’re waiting to see what happens, as much as we are.”

Thor has to mull that one over for a while.

“I thought,” he begins, slowly, “that the Sisters were the ones who wove our fate. How could they not know what is to come?”

“Because the future isn’t that simple.” Compressing his lips, Loki starts pacing. “Most of our lives run in highly predictable patterns, in circles and cycles. A boy is born to a poor farmer, grows up a poor farmer, marries a girl in the same village and carries on in his father’s footsteps. Maybe he does a little better, a little worse, maybe the earth's really fertile or he’s a little more creative with his sowing, but the choices that he makes along the way are all but incidental to the overall design.

“Lives like ours may be even more predictable: From the moment you were born, the entire kingdom has known your destiny. Perhaps you’ll be a good king or a bad king or a completely forgettable king, maybe they’ll curse your name long after you’re gone, but you have always been meant to be king. That’s the future that the Sisters have woven for you, deep down into your very nature, even your desire to be king.

“But, in every life, there are moments where the pattern has the possibility to shift one way or another. And that’s the moment of true choice.”

Thor fidgets, hands clasping as if missing a weapon he could swing. Existential pondering has always been Loki’s forte, far more than his, but… he did come here hoping to understand what the Norns wanted from him. “So… beyond that moment of choice, even the Sisters can’t see the future they weave?”

“Oh, they can see many possible futures, all the different choices you might make. Different ways that the pattern adjusts to flow around that change. It’s just that, until you have chosen, they don’t know which pattern will fill the space.

Casually, Loki starts hunting through boxes and jars, comparing reagents and setting some few aside. “Some people,” he muses, “will face choices that affect a handful of lives. The choice of a profession, a wife or husband, a place to live. The choice to hold to your principles or break them for personal gain. The choice to risk danger to help someone, or to stay back and protect yourself; to return harm for harm, or to forgive and move on. Others face choices that affect whole regions, change the long-term destiny of an entire clan.”

“And as King…”

Loki turns to face him again, mouth pursed for a moment. “You’ll face choices that affect the entire Realm. Suppose you have the option to, I don’t know, avert a war. Many aspects of your life add up to who you are in that moment, and how likely you are to choose war over peace, what you’d be willing to sacrifice, but the choice is still up to you. And the destiny of the Nine Realms could hinge upon the choice you make in that moment.”

Thor slumps, elbows on his knees. “No pressure, then.”

The fondness in Loki’s chuckle makes Thor relax, just a little; he laughs along, but shakily.

Then Loki’s expression turns serious. “Truly, brother,” he says, “I can offer you no great insight. Some pivotal decision lies before you, a turning point upon which rests your own future and, quite possibly, the future of the Realms as well. The Sisters’ appearance suggests that without this awareness, you might make a decision too hastily, without considering all the factors at play.”

“Stop and think,” Thor muses, “as you’ve so often told me.”

“Indeed,” Loki says, cocking an eyebrow. “You know you can’t solve every problem by hitting it with a hammer.”

“Well,” Thor says, getting to his feet, “what comes, will come, and I shall meet it with courage.” He steps toward Loki, who startles, briefly, before Thor’s hand on his neck draws forth his characteristic smirk, softened by affection. “But I can’t imagine it being more than I can handle… not so long as I have your wisdom to guide me.”

Loki’s smirk broadens to a rare full smile, complete with an unconscious little tilt of his head. “Whatever help I can offer is yours for the asking. You have my faith, brother, and all my love; never doubt that. And whatever the Norns have woven for our lives, I dare to hope that my final breath will be drawn at your side.”

Surprised at Loki’s invocation, Thor recalls the first time he’d sworn by the Norns, and been soundly reprimanded by Huntmaster Tyr—who thereafter ensured that he kept his rash vow, for a vow made in their name must never be broken, lest it bring calamity upon the one who broke it and all around him. Even referencing their name calls their attention, which should not be drawn for any light or fleeting reason—hence the use of alternatives: sisters, weavers, the kindly ones, the hooded ladies.

And Loki, well versed in his studies, knows this better than most. Thor feels a swell of affection at the thought that Loki values their brotherhood enough to gently beseech the Norns for a blessing upon it.

Sudden pain shoots through his fingers. “Ow!” he cries, jerking back from Loki with a hiss.

“Ah, sorry!” Loki says with a wince. “That’s probably the acid crystals.”

Thor barely resists the instinct to suck on the pain. “Acid?! ”

“Kinda made a little explosion earlier. Got all over my clothes, but I’ve been too busy to change. I’m hoping to make something memorable for your—um, you’d best wash that off before it eats through any more of your skin. Sorry!” he adds again, grimacing.

“You are a menace!” Thor roars over his shoulder, storming out of the room.

“If it helps,” Loki’s voice carries after him, “my clothes are in tatters! I’ve just been hiding most of it with a glamour. You should see my hair!”

Thor replies with wordless rage as he stomps off toward the healers, his fingertips still shooting fiery pains.

That night, Thor dreams of childhood adventures: the two brothers running through the palace, fighting off frost giants with their wooden swords, and inevitably making their way to the kitchens to sneak hot meat pies from the ovens before the chefs could catch them.

When Thor notices the Norns again, he bows low, and respectfully offers each of them a savory treat.

Thor’s coronation is the biggest event in centuries; representatives from every corner of the Realm are in attendance, along with rulers from most of the other Realms. Not from Svartalfheim (the barren world) or Jotunheim (the ostracized), of course, nor from Midgard (still a child compared to the rest), but even Niflheim, land of the dead, is represented among the honored guests. They’re arrayed in a giant circle around the edges of the throne room, several layers deep, held back by a ring of fire pits that flicker in the relative darkness. The air is heavy with incense.

Within the circle are key members of the Einherjar, the only ones besides Odin allowed to bear weapons in the throne room. Also a group of seidhkona in their most formal robes, bowls in their hands and bags of reagents hung from their belts. There’s Tyr, the one-handed huntmaster, who presides over matters of high court and public oaths. And, of course, the royal family: Loki to the side, Thor at the center—at the foot of the stairs that lead to the throne, where Odin sits with Gungnir in hand.

Oddly enough, Frigga doesn’t appear to be in the room. Thor notes this, but his attention is mostly elsewhere.

Mjolnir lies at Odin’s feet, a new layer of enchantment on her. She will be returned to Thor once he has proven himself before the Allfather—before all of Asgard. Thor’s armor, too, has been stripped from him; he stands before the court in finery that he counts as little more than rags, for all the good it would stand him in battle.

And now, unexpectedly, Odin turns his attention from Thor to Loki.

“Come kneel before me,” he intones—all authority, no trace of the loving father they see outside the throne room.

Though clearly startled, Loki does not hesitate to obey. Your father does nothing without a purpose, their mother has told them often through the years, and that must be even more true during a ceremony like this. The knowledge doesn’t quiet Thor’s sudden anxiety; he didn’t realize that Loki would have any part in the ceremony.

And then Odin addresses the Einherjar. “Shackle him.”

The four guards nearest the throne have chains and shackles at the ready. They, too, do not hesitate to follow the order; they were clearly prepared for it.

Loki was—just as clearly—not prepared, and his expression says he’s trying to work out what the hell is going on. But he does not fight it, even when they fit him with an iron muzzle.

Arms and legs bound tight, Loki keeps his eyes on his father, as if he could find some reassurance in the impassive gaze of the Allfather on his throne.

“Seidhkona,” Odin says, “bind his seidhr.”

At this, Loki looks alarmed. The seidhkona bring forth bowls of reagents, and one woman traces runes on Loki’s forehead and cheeks and on the back of his hands. Loki closes his eyes and trembles, but still doesn’t move. When they activate the runes, sealing away his powers, he bears the pain stoically—likely under the same impression as Thor, that removing their key powers (Loki’s seidhr and Mjolnir’s strength) is somehow necessary for the ceremony.

When the seidhkona retreat, Loki is hunched over, breathing harshly.

After a moment, Odin rises, Gungnir in hand and a raven on each shoulder, and descends the steps to stand before his younger son, looking him over without expression.

“Thor,” he says, “my son and heir… come stand beside me.”

Resisting the urge to demand explanations, Thor obeys, and then they’re both looking at Loki in chains. And for all that Thor has been looking forward to his coronation, he’d trade it all in right now for the right to tear those chains to pieces with his bare hands.

You might make a decision too hastily, without considering all the factors at play.

Thor stays silent.

Then Odin turns to face him.

“Thor Odinson,” Odin intones, raising his voice so that no one could miss it. “My heir… my firstborn. For nearly four thousand years, I have defended Asgard, and the lives of the innocent across the Nine Realms. The day has come to pass that duty along to a new King. But the burden of the Allfather is never a light one. Are you prepared to bear it?”

Stop and think, Loki’s voice says in his head, as I’ve so often told you. But he can’t see where the catch might be.

“I am,” he says.

Odin motions to Tyr, who steps forward and squares himself with Thor.

“Tonight, we call forth the attention of the Norns,” Tyr intones. “Urdhr. Verdhandi. Skuld. It is time for Thor, trueson of Odin, to swear himself to uphold the good of Asgard.”

Then Tyr looks him straight in the eyes. “Thor, son of Odin,” he says, “before these witnesses and before the Norns, do you swear to guard the Nine Realms against all threats, whether from without or within?”

Thor considers the wording, but, again, cannot see anything wrong with it. “Before the Norns, I swear,” he says.

“Thor, son of Odin, do you swear to preserve the peace, no matter the cost to yourself?”

That one’s easier; for all his besetting arrogance, he’s never been a selfish boy. He’s known that the throne will require self-sacrifice. “Before the Norns, I swear.”

“Thor, son of Odin,” Tyr says a third time, “do you swear to cast aside all selfish ambition, and to uphold the good of the Realms?”

Selfish ambition. The desire to further his own cause, his own desires, in a way that could harm the Realms. From this day forward, he needs to put the Realms above every other consideration.

“Before the Norns, I swear.”

A hand on his shoulder startles him, and Thor turns to see Odin smiling grimly at him. “Then pass this one last test, my son, and take your rightful place as ruler of these lands.”

He pulls a black dagger from a sheath Thor hadn’t noticed, and presents it, hilt-first, to Thor.

It’s such a small blade. Delicately decorated with tiny circles and interwoven threads. Pretty to look at, but Thor’s used to real weapons—sword, axe, hammer—not this child’s plaything. Even Mjolnir, who hides most of her weight from those who can lift her, feels heftier than this.

But the dagger is, of course, ceremonial, and ceremonies require precision rather than power.

Turning to face the court, Odin proclaims, “Before you all, before the Norns who weave our lives, my son has sworn to preserve the peace, to uphold the good of the Realm and guard it against all threats, both without and within. Just as I swore, when I ascended the throne. And I have kept my oath, even at tremendous loss, even when it pains me greatly to do so. For I must always put the good of the Realm before my own selfish desires, and even my own heart.

“During my father’s reign, the greatest threat we faced, which would have destroyed the Realms entirely, was the Svartalfar—the dark elves—under Malekith. My father waged war against them, and destroyed them utterly, leaving their world barren, for they would have destroyed us all had he stayed his hand.

“During my reign,” Odin continues, “the greatest threat we have faced was the Jotnar—the frost giants—under Laufey. They invaded Midgard, and slaughtered countless innocent people before our armies drove them back. I did not hesitate to seize the heart of their power, that they might never again leave their frozen world—for their hearts are as frigid and loveless as the Realm that spawned them.”

The crowd might be too young to recall the time of the dark elves’ threat, but they rouse at the mention of the frost giants, and spit oaths at the name of Laufey, the monsters’ king. The war was barely over a thousand years ago; any who could not recall it would be accounted still a youngling, like Loki, not even old enough to join the court. Thor, not even five hundred at the time, still recalls the oppressive fear that had saturated the Realm while the warriors were offworld. Still recalls his mother’s prayers for his father’s safety—because Father, the strongest warrior in all Asgard, would be leading the charge.

Nearly everyone in the room has lost something to the war—those whose loved ones returned alive might still have known someone who lost an arm, or, like Odin, an eye. If there are any in Asgard who might think more generously of the Jotnar, they hold their peace; the general sentiment of the crowd is a step away from murderous.

Odin strikes Gungnir’s butt against the floor, and the crowd goes silent as the sound reverberates throughout the throne room.

“My son, as well, will stand between Asgard and its enemies. As he will demonstrate for you here, before this very court.”

Thor’s eyes meet Loki’s, neither as confident as they had been mere hours before. Whatever their father meant to do, they’d both thought they’d be ready for it, but now…

“Loki.” Turning again, Odin regards Loki with seeming indifference. “Since the day you joined this house,” he says, “my seidhr has been upon you. Today, I remove it, and reveal you as you truly are.”

Thor does not miss Loki’s brief confusion—before the pale color of his skin crumbles away, leaving behind deep blue, covered in raised lines and whorls, as his eyes turn red as blood.

Thor

can’t

breathe.

The court erupts into chaos.

Loki’s head jerks to the side, his eyes wide as he takes in the court’s alarm. Then he looks at Odin, at the horror on Thor’s face—and then, finally, down at his own hands, within the shackles.

Thor catches the moment when he realizes what he looks like—what he is, for surely this is no mere illusion—and Loki’s breath speeds to a panic. Yet, even in his terror, Loki looks to his father for support, for reassurance, still trusting.

“You have been raised together,” Odin says, “played together, fought at each other’s side—for a thousand years and more, you have known Loki as your brother. Yet he is not the son of Frigga, nor the son of Odin.”

Thor cannot tear his eyes away from Loki. The horror on his brother’s face could only be matched by the horror on his own.

“At the close of the war, I found him,” Odin continues. “Newborn. A Jotun runt—but it is the smallest of the Jotnar who possess the greatest talent for seidhr. And you have all seen how well he took to such a womanly art! In their hands, he would have been a weapon beyond measure—perhaps, in time, able to breach the walls between Jotunheim and Yggdrasil itself, and from there to bring the threat of frost giants back to the other Realms.

“Knowing this risk, perhaps I should have killed him. Instead, I decided to give him a chance. I brought him here, to be raised as though Aesir, though he could never share more than the surface appearance of his betters. In strength and stamina, in zeal, in combat skills, even with his most passionate efforts he has come up short again and again. And in temperament, you all have known his tricks, his pranks, his way of sneaking around problems instead of facing them head-on like any true warrior of Asgard. Raised alongside the crown prince, he was given the best possible chance to rise above his nature, and yet… this is, after all, the best that he can become.”

Tears are sliding down Loki’s cheeks, only to freeze before they can fall. Odin takes a deep breath, and sighs it out again.

“My son,” he says—to Thor, though he looks at Loki—“in truth, Loki is… the son, and heir… of Laufey.”

The murmurs swell to fury again, outrage that the spectre of their most hated enemy could raise its head once more in the heart of Asgard.

Gungnir strikes the ground again, and the murmurs quickly fade.

“Here, then, is an enemy of Asgard,” Odin says, heedless of Loki’s stricken face. “And no small threat. His seidhr itself could be wielded against a small army in any number of ways—shielding the frost giants from the naked eye, dazzling or distracting our warriors so they could not see the threat. Using astral sight to mark where our battalions lay, or attacking us directly with the very ice across which we marched. I have seen such tactics from the frost giants before, and their seidhkona were nowhere near as skilled or as powerful as Loki has become.

“Even were I to seal his seidhr for good, he has been raised among our warriors; he knows our combat style, our tactics, from the inside out. He has roamed through every corner of the palace, even to the chamber of our seidhkona, to our healers’ rooms, and to the weapons vault. He has studied the Bifrost, and might, one day, find a way to duplicate its power.

“So we cannot return him to Jotunheim,” Odin concludes, “and he has shown, too clearly, that he has no place among the Aesir. This, then, is your chance to prove that you will defend the Realm from enemies and monsters, that you value your responsibilities above even your own feelings. Prove your loyalty to Asgard, my son. Kill the Jotun runt and take your rightful place on this throne.”