Acceptable Loss

“I have sought out every possible alternative,” Odin says, low, and Loki’s heart clenches in his chest; he swallows heavily. “If we are to save Asgard—if this great kingdom is to survive at all, and to hold back the invaders that threaten all of the nine realms—then there is only one path to take, and you are the key to it all… my son.”

A sneer contorts Loki’s face at that, the greatest of all deceptions that his fath—that Odin has ever leveled at him. He pulls back his shoulders, back ramrod straight and chin high, cloaking himself in his oldest, fondest daydreams of being able to stand proud in the court of his father, heaped with praise and honor and glory, having finally gotten it right, finally proven that he was, after all, a true son of Asgard.

It’s the last time he will ever harbor such illusions.

“It’s true, then,” he says icily. “All I ever was—a useful relic, stolen from Jotunheim until you had need of me.”

“You are far more than that, Loki,” Odin murmurs, looking stooped and old, his face layered with sorrow. If Loki hadn’t had years to come to grips with Odin’s propensity for deception, he might have bought the act, felt some twinge in his heart; instead, his scowl deepens.

“How long have you known?” he demands. “When you told me that we were to defend the peace—that we were both ‘born to be kings’—was I a sacrifice even then? When you turned me over to the huntmaster for training, filled my head with tales of heroes, of glorious death in battle? Did you make me look forward to the possibility of Valhalla when you knew I was only to go under the knife?

“Or was it even earlier? Did it make you feel better, playing the role of the loving father, as if a happy childhood could somehow make up for the death that was to come?”

“Loki—”

“Did you know,” he spits out, seeking Odin’s eyes again and suppressing tears through sheer willpower, “when you first turned me into this? ” Viciously, he slices one hand down his cheek, at the false skin that makes him look like one of them, feel like one of them, but can never allow him to be like one of them. The one illusion that was never his choice, and the illusion he wishes more than anything else were in every detail as real as it seems.

“Brother—” Thor chokes, but can’t seem to get out any more words.

“I knew,” Odin says, holding Loki’s gaze as if Thor isn’t even in the room. “Before you were even born… I knew that one day we would need such a spell. I’d sought out the Sisters’ wisdom about various matters, matters of long-term consequences, and that was one of the details they provided, early on.”

Loki wants to crack down the middle and melt into the earth. It’s true, then: He was never meant for the throne. His father has raised him, from the very beginning, only to be a sacrifice. And the damnable thing is, even now, even knowing this, no matter how much he fights it, he can’t look at this man and see anything but his father. And still, somehow, yearn for his approval.

Odin pulls in a deep breath. “I was young,” he admits, “and naive, as so many young kings are. Lest you wonder why I was so harsh on your brother, once I realized that he was headed down the same path, and sent him to learn the lessons much earlier than I did. At the time I first heard the prophecy, the life of a frost giant did not mean much to me.

“But when I lifted you from the floor of that temple?” he continues. “No, my son. I was not thinking of the prophecy that day. Or, if it crossed my mind, it was for the giants I’d slaughtered in that war, and how pointlessly they had lost their lives. I did not think of it in relation to you. Even the wisest cannot see, at all times, how all things interconnect.

“And so I took you home, and raised you as my own, truly hoping that one day you could bring an end to the strife between our people. It was only later—decades later—that I stopped to consider what the prophecy could mean for you.”

Loki swallows heavily. “What… what made you…” He can’t finish the question.

“You were so proud that day,” Odin says softly, a mix of fondness and misery in his eyes. “So excited to show me a new trick that your mother had taught you. A spell… your first illusion.”

Blinking back the threat of tears again, Loki recalls that moment, little more than sleight of hand yet with the barest hint of magic to it. He’d managed to plant one of his drawings on his fath—on Odin’s parchments, while Odin was still admiring the illusory drawing in Loki’s hand for the few seconds that Loki could hold it together before it vanished.

If his father’s smile had faltered when the trick was revealed, Loki doesn’t remember that detail.

“In that moment,” Odin continues, “I knew, with ice in my heart, that you were to be a frost giant sorcerer… that your mother had unwittingly set you on the path to fulfill the terms of the spell. In trying to let you hold your own as a son of Asgard, she had, perhaps, doomed you to that fate. And still I hoped that I was being too morbid in my thoughts… and so I sought out the council of the Grey Sisters. They only confirmed it.”

Gut clenching, Loki fights to stay upright, to stay in charge of the little piece of this that he can still master, the reactions of his own body. Thin as the veneer of control might be.

Suddenly he can’t look at Odin anymore; he drops his head, shoulders trembling with tension. He doesn’t want to look anywhere else, catch anyone’s eye, have to deal with their emotions on top of his own, but dropping his gaze like this feels wrong. It goes against one of the earliest lessons that his father ever taught him.

You are a future king. No matter what weighs on your heart, no matter how heavy the sorrow, you must hold your head high and let the people see you unbowed.

Had Odin been thinking of this day, at the time? The day that Loki would be marched to the altar? All the many lessons that the All-Father has taught him over the years, entirely suspect in the light of today’s revelation; they had merely been ways to prepare the lamb for the slaughter.

A lamb is innocent. He’s far from innocent. But still. He was innocent, once, and, even then, his fate had already been decided.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell us sooner? ” Thor roars suddenly, making Loki jump; he’d almost forgotten that his brother was there. “We could have figured something out—come up with some other plan—”

“Do you think I have been idle, all these centuries?” Odin asks, low enough that even Thor shuts up to hear him. “Why do you think I have such a mastery of even the darker arts? Why have I collected so many tomes, sometimes retreated to my studies for years at a time? Dozens of times, I have journeyed back to the Sisters, paid whatever price they required, asked if there is some other course that I might pursue—some other way that Asgard might be saved. Any other cost to be paid. The answer has never changed, these thousand years.”

Loki’s mouth works briefly; he swallows. “You…” and he wants to hold onto that anger, that sense of betrayal; he wants to hate this man for holding him to this course. “You tried…?”

“You are my son; of course I tried. Do you think I’d leave you to such a fate without seeking out some other possibility? Time and again I varied the question, tried to find the loophole, the alternative. But there is none.

“You asked me once, when you had discovered your own heritage, why I did not tell you earlier. I hope, in this case, the answer is quite clear to you: I could not shoulder your burden, but I could at least ensure, for as long as the fates allowed me, that you were unaware of it, and so did not live in despair of your future any longer than you must.”

A chuckle bursts from Loki’s lips, dry and choked. Of course Odin would hide this truth from him, even more than the others. Because so long as he didn’t know his fate, he wouldn’t fight it. Wouldn’t run from it. If he had known—if he’d had more than a few months to work it out—would he have preferred to take his own life, by his own hand, just to escape the fear, the dread? Or to spite the ones who’d raised him for this purpose? If he’d known before the war was on their doorstep and the cost of refusal so undeniable—

Tears blur his eyes; the heat seems to be leaving his limbs, until everything is heavy and distant, his energy all but gone. It’s all so pointless, now, the struggling.

Dully shaking his head, Loki quietly asks, “Was there ever anything in your heart for me?”

He doesn’t look up to see Odin’s expression, but the words, when they come, are laden with deep sorrow that Loki wishes he could take for true. “I do not expect you to believe me,” the All-Father says slowly, each word carefully enunciated and sounding like a death-knell. “However I have wronged you, it cannot be cleared up in the space of time that stands before us. The fact remains that I do love you, and I have loved you… and not all of my love can spare you from this fate.”

Too weary to laugh or protest, Loki just takes that in, letting the words flow through him without taking root. If Odin wants to play this up for the crowd, so they can feel a little better about it, let him; Loki can’t fight it anymore.

“I must ask it of you,” Odin continues. “If you walk away, then Asgard falls.”

Loki scoffs, but it sounds hollow. “Walk away?” he asks, drawing a shaky breath. “As if you’d let me walk away, knowing the consequences if I don’t go under the knife.” Maybe Thor would hold the others off for a bit if Loki tries to run, but— “If this were optional, you wouldn’t have sent the nets for me.”

“The decision could not be delayed,” Odin says heavily. “And the full weight of it must be examined. Where else but in these halls could you face the warriors whose lives will soon be forfeit? The empty chairs of those who have already died?” He spreads his arms, and Loki closes his eyes, trying to stay aware of the manipulation, trying to let it burn bright in him still, because it’s all the strength he has left to cling to.

“We cannot hold back the sea of invaders indefinitely,” Odin continues. “Of all the men who stand in these halls, not a one of them would hesitate to claim his ground and die defending it. But it is not enough. Not against this foe. Our warriors fall, and those whom they were protecting—the men and women, children and babes in arms—are consumed.”

This truth, the full weight of the decision, is sobering enough that not even Thor can protest it. And Loki has known for a good three years that they weren’t gaining any ground. That slow march of inevitability—Iphigenia in different guise.

“My son,” Odin says, “if not even the Wyrddenning escaped your notice, then surely you have been studying this matter as fervently as I. And if you had come to any other conclusion, then we would not still be discussing this. This spell is the one possibility that offers any hope. And yet—”

Odin rises, not without difficulty, and strikes the butt of Gungnir on the ground, a cold fury in his eyes. Trembling anew, Loki cannot look away. “I would sooner see our people perish entirely,” Odin says, “and with honor, than win protection through an unwilling sacrifice. My oath upon it. So if you choose to value your own life over all of these, then that will be the end of it; you may go, and find some new place to hide, and perhaps win for yourself some few more years than the rest of us.”

Some few more years. Because after the last Aesir warrior has journeyed to the halls of Valhalla, then the shining ones will bleed out beyond the borders of Asgard, unchecked—a devouring horde, and no corner of the nine realms will be safe from them.

If Loki buys his freedom at such a price, he’ll win a petty prize indeed.

Sinking wearily back onto the throne, Odin sighs and shakes his head. “I do not know what is in your heart, my son. If you are willing to do this, then we shall start the ritual immediately; it should not be delayed. But should you choose to do otherwise, then do us the courtesy of saying so straight out. No more tricks. Not here.”

It takes a moment for Loki’s throat to work enough for him to swallow. “No more tricks,” he agrees, and takes a deep breath, straightening up to his full height. A fleeting thought crosses his mind—cloaking some other poor soul in his form, leaving them to take the knife—and he realizes that, because of his well-deserved reputation, there’s really only one way to assure Odin that he’s not trying to wiggle free. Besides, it might quiet the little part of him that still wants to run away, if even the freedom to change his mind is taken from him.

“If even the Norns are against me,” he says, “then so be it. I accept this fate. And for your peace of mind,” he adds, with a tilt of his head, “you might as well outfit me with those enchanted shackles that I found so fetching the last time I was brought here in chains.”