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( a dry rot to take the weight off )
[ A thousand years ago, Laufey-king and his consort the storm-bringer Farbauti created new life between them. The child was to be the herald of a new glorious age for the Jotnar, the firstborn heir to the throne, with laurels curved about his horns from the moment of his conception. It was a time of great merriment even amidst a winter so cold that even the Jotnar feared the icy winds — for long had Laufey and Farbauti loved one another, and long had they wished for a jewel to set upon the lesser throne of Utgard.
Many months hence, Laufey gave birth to the child on the coldest night of the year, when the third green-ringed moon hid behind the sallow second, and when the first moon was lost in a shroud of gray clouds. For many an hour did Farbauti wolf-slayer range the cold plains, killing two score white falcons to feed his mate and his firstborn child the blood-rich hearts.
But the merriment died that night in the birthing chamber, for Laufey-king delivered a squalling monster into the night — a runt, smooth of feature and black of hair, the curl of his stunted body no larger than a pebble upon the banks of Ölfusá. Tradition sought a ritual killing, as those too weak to withstand Jotunheim's cruel storms would never grow to adulthood, much less prosper amidst the demands of the Jotnar warrior-code. That he was born a prince mattered little; the House of Laufey was of royal, proud blood, and no half-formed monstrosity would mar its name.
But little Loki breathed flame into his dam's face before he could be thrust to drown in Ölfusá's currents, and so Laufey-king named him seidrmadr of the court, and saved his firstborn from an early end. When Helblindi and Byleistr followed soon after, Loki was removed from succession, and left to play with flame and spark, with magical herb and salve; he was not treated poorly, but neither was he given the respect that warlike Helblindi and clever Byleistr both received without needing to demand it.
On the eve of Byleistr's birth, when Loki was still a child barely weaned from his dam's arms, the great golden horn of Asgard sounded through Utgard's echoing halls. It was to be the first of many of the Allfather's visits, where Laufey-king and Odin-king sat in the council chambers for hours upon hours and busied themselves with whatever it was that kings were meant to do. Loki, who had learned to outsmart his servants from a very young age, flitted through Utgard's halls, eager to look upon Odin-king's retinue of pink-faced goblins from Asgard's shores. This particular visit had been steeped in importance beyond Loki's childish understanding, but he had heard one interesting tidbit: that Odin-king had brought his own son to Jotunheim this day.
So Loki met Thor.
It took several more visits for Loki to love Thor, for they were all too much the same in their obstinacy and unyielding pride. But perhaps it was always an inevitability that sunlight limned the storm of their friendship, and that their clasped hands would be stronger than each of them alone. So the Norns writ truth upon Yggdrasil's branches, and so it sprouted into a stunted Jotnar princeling and his apple-cheekd Aesir companion.
The diplomatic events were long meandering mazes from which Laufey-king emerged full of black fury, from which Odin-king rallied his Einherjar soldiers to him and hurried again to the Bifrost site. But in the scant moments of the interim, Loki and Thor fought under the skeletal trees bordering Utgard's walls, they stole snow-peaches from the kitchens and ate handfuls until they grew sick and bloated, they raised a white valdyr from a pup and clutched at one another when the Jotnar soldiers killed it when it grew too great and fierce for Utgard's halls.
Had they known each other into adulthood, perhaps the brotherhood they had forged might have anchored them to one another in a very different way, but such things never came to pass — for Laufey-king and Odin-king loved each other not, and the night always comes sooner than the morning beyond it. The diplomatic meetings ceased. For a century, an uneasy peace reigned; Helblindi-prince and Byleistr-prince sharpened their weapons and learned to hate the Aesir as their father did, and soon the Great War spilled blood over Jotunheim and Midgard and Asgard too. Another two centuries passed, thick and heavy with death, and Jotunheim was left a charred ruin. Byleistr was dead, and Farbauti of the Clan of Blooded Ice too, and Odin the Betrayer took the Casket and left Loki's people to suffer and perish.
An eternity ago, Loki had looked into Thor's eyes and found them unutterably lovely: like blue-glass mirrors of the sky, clear and sweet and stricken through with silver. Now, a servant leans to cover Loki's skin with draping gold: bangles to his elbows, rings and whorls of gold in his ears, a circlet draped with delicate jewels to set upon his dark head. A collar of gold, too, a melody of clinking necklaces, each one longer than the last, gold anklets and strings of emeralds about calves and thighs. He has always been less of a prince and more of a jester — seidrmadr are no more prized in Jotunheim than they are to the Aesir infidels — and so Loki has never known such finery. He is to be made a gift to Thor-prince, son of Odin, and he must look his best.
His heart has been twisted by the war. Thor-prince will not find in him the same fool of a child who had clasped him and shared tears alongside him.
When Loki entered Utgard's throne-room dressed in finery, ready to offer himself as a whore, Laufey-king had looked upon him with grief crowning his bowed head; he had reached out with one great scarred hand and pressed two crooked fingers to Loki's cheek. Go in peace, my child, he had said, and even silver-tongued Loki had known only the vastness of silence in his own heart, so great was his answering despair.
Go in peace.
So Loki dons a fur-lined cloak of white, and he leaves his Jotnar escort searching the halls whilst he slips to the Bifrost site alone. He is dry-eyed and brittle-boned, and he does not look back when the shattering power of the Asgardian magic pulls him from his homeland for the first and final time. ]
Many months hence, Laufey gave birth to the child on the coldest night of the year, when the third green-ringed moon hid behind the sallow second, and when the first moon was lost in a shroud of gray clouds. For many an hour did Farbauti wolf-slayer range the cold plains, killing two score white falcons to feed his mate and his firstborn child the blood-rich hearts.
But the merriment died that night in the birthing chamber, for Laufey-king delivered a squalling monster into the night — a runt, smooth of feature and black of hair, the curl of his stunted body no larger than a pebble upon the banks of Ölfusá. Tradition sought a ritual killing, as those too weak to withstand Jotunheim's cruel storms would never grow to adulthood, much less prosper amidst the demands of the Jotnar warrior-code. That he was born a prince mattered little; the House of Laufey was of royal, proud blood, and no half-formed monstrosity would mar its name.
But little Loki breathed flame into his dam's face before he could be thrust to drown in Ölfusá's currents, and so Laufey-king named him seidrmadr of the court, and saved his firstborn from an early end. When Helblindi and Byleistr followed soon after, Loki was removed from succession, and left to play with flame and spark, with magical herb and salve; he was not treated poorly, but neither was he given the respect that warlike Helblindi and clever Byleistr both received without needing to demand it.
On the eve of Byleistr's birth, when Loki was still a child barely weaned from his dam's arms, the great golden horn of Asgard sounded through Utgard's echoing halls. It was to be the first of many of the Allfather's visits, where Laufey-king and Odin-king sat in the council chambers for hours upon hours and busied themselves with whatever it was that kings were meant to do. Loki, who had learned to outsmart his servants from a very young age, flitted through Utgard's halls, eager to look upon Odin-king's retinue of pink-faced goblins from Asgard's shores. This particular visit had been steeped in importance beyond Loki's childish understanding, but he had heard one interesting tidbit: that Odin-king had brought his own son to Jotunheim this day.
So Loki met Thor.
It took several more visits for Loki to love Thor, for they were all too much the same in their obstinacy and unyielding pride. But perhaps it was always an inevitability that sunlight limned the storm of their friendship, and that their clasped hands would be stronger than each of them alone. So the Norns writ truth upon Yggdrasil's branches, and so it sprouted into a stunted Jotnar princeling and his apple-cheekd Aesir companion.
The diplomatic events were long meandering mazes from which Laufey-king emerged full of black fury, from which Odin-king rallied his Einherjar soldiers to him and hurried again to the Bifrost site. But in the scant moments of the interim, Loki and Thor fought under the skeletal trees bordering Utgard's walls, they stole snow-peaches from the kitchens and ate handfuls until they grew sick and bloated, they raised a white valdyr from a pup and clutched at one another when the Jotnar soldiers killed it when it grew too great and fierce for Utgard's halls.
Had they known each other into adulthood, perhaps the brotherhood they had forged might have anchored them to one another in a very different way, but such things never came to pass — for Laufey-king and Odin-king loved each other not, and the night always comes sooner than the morning beyond it. The diplomatic meetings ceased. For a century, an uneasy peace reigned; Helblindi-prince and Byleistr-prince sharpened their weapons and learned to hate the Aesir as their father did, and soon the Great War spilled blood over Jotunheim and Midgard and Asgard too. Another two centuries passed, thick and heavy with death, and Jotunheim was left a charred ruin. Byleistr was dead, and Farbauti of the Clan of Blooded Ice too, and Odin the Betrayer took the Casket and left Loki's people to suffer and perish.
An eternity ago, Loki had looked into Thor's eyes and found them unutterably lovely: like blue-glass mirrors of the sky, clear and sweet and stricken through with silver. Now, a servant leans to cover Loki's skin with draping gold: bangles to his elbows, rings and whorls of gold in his ears, a circlet draped with delicate jewels to set upon his dark head. A collar of gold, too, a melody of clinking necklaces, each one longer than the last, gold anklets and strings of emeralds about calves and thighs. He has always been less of a prince and more of a jester — seidrmadr are no more prized in Jotunheim than they are to the Aesir infidels — and so Loki has never known such finery. He is to be made a gift to Thor-prince, son of Odin, and he must look his best.
His heart has been twisted by the war. Thor-prince will not find in him the same fool of a child who had clasped him and shared tears alongside him.
When Loki entered Utgard's throne-room dressed in finery, ready to offer himself as a whore, Laufey-king had looked upon him with grief crowning his bowed head; he had reached out with one great scarred hand and pressed two crooked fingers to Loki's cheek. Go in peace, my child, he had said, and even silver-tongued Loki had known only the vastness of silence in his own heart, so great was his answering despair.
Go in peace.
So Loki dons a fur-lined cloak of white, and he leaves his Jotnar escort searching the halls whilst he slips to the Bifrost site alone. He is dry-eyed and brittle-boned, and he does not look back when the shattering power of the Asgardian magic pulls him from his homeland for the first and final time. ]
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It is now as he never thought he would be, when he was a younger man who courted battle, and a far more foolish one. Brash, unafraid, as beautiful with Mjolnir in hand and blood splattered across his armor as he was lying in verdant fields under golden sunlight, laughter writ in his eyes; so he was once, and still now there is joy in honorable battle, in the glory of a righteous stand against an enemy who would destroy all that Thor holds dear, here in Asgard or in Midgard, his adopted realm: but the great war between Aesir and Jotun sickened his heart. He saw friends cut down, saw Odin grow old and gray and weary with it, to fall at last, on the eve of the hard-won peace, into the Odinsleep, perhaps the eternal one. Frigga, in her grief, does not show her face, and the golden throne sits empty.
And so does Thor-prince ascend the steps and become Thor-king, without celebration, without fanfare: a mantle taken up and worn for the sake of duty, with the weight of heavy responsibility on his shoulders. Peace has been won; now it is up to Thor to maintain it.
And so on the eve when Jotunheim is to send its token of war, its first-born heir to be Thor's own, he stands waiting with Heimdall and the honor guard he has chosen, resplendent in all the golden finery of a king's armor, with the rich crimson cloak around his shoulders. Mjolnir, not Gungnir, is his symbol of might and rule, hung upon his belt. None of the others carry weapons, aside from Heimdall who ever guards the path between the realms: Loki comes to them as an offering of peace, and so Thor would offer peace in return, and the gentleness and honor due to him, to the one who is to be his own consort, to be seated at the right hand of the king of Asgard.
His heart leaps in his breast when the shattering light clears and Loki stands upon the bridge, clad in white as a bride.
He is as Thor remembers: strange and utterly lovely, his skin the hue of ice, his eyes the deep crimson of blood, and yet he is different, for now as Thor looks upon him there is something more in him than innocent love and liking, more than the sweet tenderness of one young boy to another: now there is desire. This is his own consort, his own mate, given not only to be an ornament to his court but the jewel of his bed, and Thor strides forward to take both of Loki's hands in his, and lift them one after the other to his mouth. ]
Be welcome. [ he says, and his voice is a little rough with emotion. Does Loki remember him, does he remember the love there once was between them, does he see beauty in him as well? Does he despise his fate, that he is given as a spoil of war, or does he see a future with Thor where they might, perhaps, in recalling the love and trust of older days, find happiness? ] We are honored by your presence. There is a feast prepared for your welcome; will you come to eat and drink at my side?
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And then — the king of Asgard comes forth.
Loki has had several centuries to weather the buffeting tides upon his heart, and he has grown cold and mean in recompense. Jotunheim's icy plains fester war and fury, hunger and thirst, not kindness, not the warmth of sentiment and love, and yet Loki has known all of these. Yet Thor's star-bright eyes had once saved him from the laughter and the condescension of his brothers, and straightened even the bent and bowed spine of Utgard's stunted firstborn.
Such things have fallen into the shroud of the past, into history meant for dusty pages and forgotten libraries. Loki has been made a sacrifice for his people, but he had vowed upon looking into the grief of his true king's face — Laufey-king, crowned by the ice and the snow, once master of all — that he would never again submit to the warmth of these Aesir half-things, grotesque in their pinkness, wretched in their untempered lusts. His childhood friend is a shadow, and nothing more.
Yet the blooded sheen of Loki's eyes have forgotten hatred at the sight of Asgard's new king; for a moment he simply stands amongst his new retinue of hoplitic Aesir, and gathers the sight of Thor-king near to his heart.
Beauty, terrible beauty, and all of it now pledged to a marriage bed between them. A perversion of what had once been a friendship that Loki had held above all. ]
As I am honored by your welcome, my king. Indeed I would sit by you wherever you would set a place for me, and I would do so with a heart bowed with gladness. [ murmurs Loki in reply, and already he has mastered himself, already his tone is steeped in icy etiquette. This golden king is the same who murdered Farbauti, the same who left Byleistr's entrails to cool upon the snow — if not by the edge of his sword, then by the command of his words. ]
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Oh, he is glad they never met upon the battlefield, during the long war: that their weapons never crossed, that he never raised a hand against this sweet prince who was the love of his heart when he knew nothing but innocence and laughter and wonder in the worlds.
And because he cannot sequester himself away with him like a fool drunk upon desire, Thor leads him to the feast hall where the nobles and the warriors wait to honor them, and seats him at his right hand at the head of the long table, and tries to ignore the thrum of his blood or the wish to take Loki's hand and bring it to his mouth, to twine his warm broad fingers with those cold ice-hued ones. It is an excellent feast, and he may take no shame in their plenty, at least: the meat succulent, the mead overflowing, the fruit and cakes and loaves laid everywhere within reach. The rounds and toasts circle the table and circle again, and the skalds stand and recite, singing of older legends and battles, heroes far gone from life, or else mourning the dead of the past war.
Only one moment besmirches it, a snicker and a comment muttered too loudly about Jotnar whores; and Thor, flushing darkly, rises from the table and goes to the offender and takes a fistful of his hair, banging his head once down upon the table and flinging him to the floor, ordering him begone from court, and fate help him if he shows his face again. The storm of thus passing as quickly as it comes, he returns to the head of his table and resumes his seat, and the gathered company collects itself after a moment, shrugs, and begins to offer toasts again.
And at last in the darkest hours of the night the feasting and drinking winds down, the revelers drift away in singles or in pairs, and then by trickles, and then streams; and at the head of the table is left Thor and the prince-consort of Jotunheim, one flushed hotly with mead and desire; he has given over his former reticence and has Loki's hand in his, calloused fingers stroking gently over the long narrow wrist, the tender palm, and he is perhaps a few breaths from taking Loki into his lap here beside the darkening fire, taking his mouth. ]
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Thrym himself, long acquainted with the ways of the treacherous Aesir half-men, had warned Loki of the dangers incumbent upon his arrival — before the handfasting ceremony can be completed, Loki is no more than a dumb beast granted temporary entrance past Gladsheim's golden gates, without the right to invoke law or justice or even the protection of his own people. Any one of the men gathered about the table grinning with gormless cheer could strike him down and pay but a paltry price for it.
That Loki has read the sincerity of feeling in Thor's eyes means nothing, at the end of it, for even Thor would not take upon his entire kingdom for the sake of his Jotun whore.
So Loki is wary as a coiled snake, answering with grace and poise any questions put to him, and asking his own with the same care, but he drifts above and apart from the raucous warmth of Asgard's people. If at times the gentleness of Thor's hand upon his own seeks to undo the knots of Loki's heart, he need only remember the sight of his sire's blood blackening the snow beneath. ].
You have my gratitude, my king, for silencing the man that spoke out against my people. [ Loki says, when the hall is emptied of all others, his fingers a loose curl in Thor's hand. My people, not me. His face is tilted forward in carefully wrought modesty, the fan of his dark lashes obscuring the red gleam of his eyes. ]
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But he looks at Loki and the surge of fury ebbs; tenderness comes into him in its place, and Thor lifts Loki's hand and lays it against his own stubbled jaw, turning his lips to the palm. ]
It shames me that such an insult was offered you at my own table. It should never have been spoken. It will not be spoken again.
[ Oh, he longs for Loki to show some softening towards him, some sign that he has not put aside all the memory of the childish love between two boys and the yearning they felt towards one another when they were apart. Had they been but a little older, Thor thinks, before the great war began, he would have taken Loki by the hand and gone away with him into the snow and the ice, and called Heimdall to open the way home: he would have brought Loki into the warm sunlight of Asgard and laid him down in the soft verdant grasses and there known him in desire as well as love.
He cups Loki's chin; the pad of his thumb lingers at the corner of lips he longs to kiss, and he lifts his consort's face until their eyes meet. A few stragglers yet remain in the hall, drunkards sleeping on the table, a maiden giggling in a warrior's lap, a pair of old men toasting one another and singing at the far end of the enormous hearth, while servants clear away the great platters and innumerable empty tankards, but Thor has eyes only for Loki, all his body a longing towards him, a flush of heat and want and tenderness.
He speaks low, murmuring. ]
Will you come now to my chambers, prince?
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Wise that Thor does not give voice to the thoughts that fetter him to the memory of sweeter days — for Loki may have cast off his icy etiquette in the wake of his ire. Indeed, the king of Asgard may believe his own golden halls to be a sanctuary for Loki whilst the war raged without, but Loki Silvertongue is no songbird to be caged and cossetted. No verdant fields or sweet honey mead would have compelled him to leave Jotunheim behind on the brink of war. Not even the burgeoning sweetness of innocent love between them would have convinced him otherwise.
For loyalty is a strange, kaleidoscopic phenomenon, changing in hue and shade with the passing of each day, and yet Loki's has been a constant in his life. Loyalty to Loki above all — once that had meant loyalty to the one who begat him, and to the one who bore him, but now he is left to languish in the golden arms of a man believing himself a king. Loyalty is self-preservation alone, in the end.
Loki cups the curve of that rough cheek with gentle fingers, but he offers neither soft word nor caress to sweeten the moment. ]
It would be untoward, my king. We have not yet been bound in the ways of your people. Patience and forbearance are thus paramount, lest I lose your gentle affection before it has opportunity to blossom.
[ Soft, pretty words, delivered from the yielding curve of a mouth, but Loki's mind is a series of ill-fitting cogs, struggling to fit together to draw thought and reason into unity. Thor's blatant and mawkish affection can be used as a key to later dissemble the lock holding Loki prisoner, but he knows well that he must bide his time. ]
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[ Soft longing in his voice. Loki speaks to him as though he is a stranger, his voice sweet but his eyes distant, looking upon him without recognition. Thor knows he has done nothing to earn his trust anew: that this will come with time and with patience, with affection and tenderness. But he is drunk and hot and wanting, and Loki is beautiful in his white splendor, dripping gold, and tenderness and affection may be things which Thor has in spades, but patience is not; he would have Loki tonight and every night after, spread beneath him in his vast bed, his cold flesh warmed between his body and the rich furs.
He toys with his long graceful fingers, laying them at his lips, his tongue touching the pads. He takes Loki's ring finger between his teeth and nips softly at the first knuckle, just below the nail, his lips closing to suck. Loki's beauty is a strange and distant thing, but Thor sees in him still the face of a young boy who laughed to him, who fled to him for protection, and perhaps someday again Thor will represent to him such sanctuary: they are now bound to one another, after all, not only Loki to Thor but Thor to him, for the sake of the infant peace. To tire of him and cast him away would be a sure path to another war. ]
I have longed for you all these years. [ And that is the bare truth: not that Thor takes him for duty or for sport, but because he loves him, he has loved him, and would that he could love him entirely, as one heart given to another. He kisses Loki's palm again. ] Come here, then, my prince.
[ And he draws Loki into his lap, in the darkening light of the feast hall: the two of them nearly alone, and unwatched by those who linger lost in their own haze. He lifts him close as though the weight of him is nothing, and cradles him across broad, hard thighs; and Thor's fingers sink and grip gently in Loki's dark hair and draw down his head until their mouths meet, one soft and warm and possessing, the other beguiling and cool. ]
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The Aesir see Yggdrasil as a tree made eternal, its branches separating reality from reality. The Norns bathe themselves in the rivers of perpetuity to bolster the strength in their arms, and to thus continue their task until Ragnarok drank of their blood and tears.
The Jotnar, at odds with Asgard in all things, had always rejected Asgardia's golden tree, their scorn made infinite when the half-things stole their Winter Castket. No, Yggdrasil was not a tree — but a great roiling sea, where towering wave and rain-wrought ripple spread and spread until all were touched and changed by all others. Half a millennia ago, the first princeling of Utgard had cupped his fingers around a snow-peach fat and ripe with sweetness. Thor had already bitten a great chunk from it, as he was wont to do; juice spilled onto Loki's hands, trailing cold and sticky down his wrists. Loki's smile had softened into a something frail, something brighter than Jotunheim's blue-glass sun across the snow. He had leaned down and set his teeth where Thor's had already been, and so he'd eaten of the same flesh that sweetened Thor's tongue in that moment. Firstborn of Gladsheim and Utgard alike, with the future rolling out over Jotunheim's barren plains.
Loki had been caught and thrashed vigorously for the theft of the peaches, after Thor had already been spirited away back to Asgard. But something had changed beyond the narrow clasp of Loki's hands. He'd seen past the life Utgard had laid for him. He'd seen peace, wrought not by Laufey's faded glory, but of the rising golden spires illuminated by Thor's eager tongue; by the brilliant promise of strength borrowed and, one day, kept.
This is the Yggdrasil of the Jotnar: that Loki may reach out with a steady hand and cool eye, that he may now take Thor's sunlit face between his palms, and that pain cleaves down to the bone when he realizes that all he had once seen has amounted to naught but falsehood. There is no peace to be had in this. ]
You must not take my reticence as repudiation, Thor. [ he murmurs, using the name rather the title with specific intent. He draws away, but not far; his words drift forth upon a shared breath. Let Thor believe him softened by his fumbling affections. Let it never be true, though Loki's teeth set against each other for want of sweet peach-flesh long since lost to war and death.
He will tear Asgard to shreds, even if it takes his own heart-blood to accomplish it. ] Much must be done on the morrow, and I am weary from my travels.
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[ And Thor leans his cheek into Loki's hand, for but a moment satisfied. For at last Loki speaks his name, and holds him with a gentle touch, and so Thor knows it is not all forgotten after all; together they have peace and pleasure and plenty, in the past, and here now perhaps they may find so again.
And there is indeed much to do, he knows it; tomorrow begins the great feasting and festivities that will prelude their marriage, lasting until sundown on the third day, when at last their vows will be sealed. There is not so much plenty and joy now in Asgard, in the wake of the war and the Allfather's fall, but the ceremonies cannot be neglected; he must show Loki before all his court and do him honor, or he will forever be branded in more than one Aesir's mind as their king's Jotun whore rather than the king's own consort, his lawful spouse, and perhaps someday the bearer of his heirs.
Still-- ] I will give you thralls and servants, and a retinue of your own, and they will see you well-prepared. Your place is at my side.
[ Not only at his right hand at the feasts and ceremonies, he means, but in their private moments as well, in the intimacy they had once as young boys, taking pleasure in nothing so much as one another's company.
He looks at Loki, fingers brushing along dark strands of hair bound and knotted in a complex braid at the side of his face, and hung too with gold; and Thor's thumb caresses his cheekbone and his expression turns to puzzlement, and a yearning which borders pain. ]
Is it that I am unwelcome to you now? [ His voice low, very low, and this cannot be the right moment to ask, and yet--Thor must know, he must know if Loki would not have him near, for there can be no marriage if it is so, there can be no hope that love may someday bloom; all should turn to ash in his mouth if the prince of Jotunheim bears only hatred towards him now. ]
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He sees it now in Thor's low murmur: drink has lowered the pride of a king and softened the strength of his arm; he is as a fruit fat upon the branch, ready to be devoured. And this time Loki is no child to savor the sweet flesh of winter-fruit, this time he will chew and tear it to pieces.
Yet —
Go in peace, Laufey had said, with the love of a father in his eyes — and so Loki does not strike, though even the excruciating ache of familiarity would not have stopped him from doing so. Loki would slit his own throat, if he would finally know the taste of triumph in his last moments.
Yet he understands best of all what his marriage will mean to Gladsheim and Utgard both, to all of Asgard and Jotunheim; two ancient realms bound then with love as well as blood, the voices of their people raised in concert.
So Loki takes Thor's hand in both of his own, setting it upon one palm and stroking it with the fingertips of the other. He waits, for a time, letting the warmth of his silence and the curl of his gentle smile answer the offering of vulnerability. That, more than the promise of thralls and servants, has Loki winding a thread of sincerity into his bearing. ]
We played together, once. Many times, you named yourself the brother of my heart, and never did I scorn even the grandest of your proclamations.
[ Once. ]
I have not forgotten.
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At last he shifts, kisses Loki's brow and then rises out of his great chair with his Jotun prince cradled in his arms, as though he is a maiden who has had too much wine and must be carried to bed; in his arms there is fathomless tenderness, yet he holds Loki with an unyielding possession. His. His sweet consort, his mate for all the rest of their years. ]
I have held you in my heart all these years since those days, my prince. It is a joy greater than any I had ever hoped for to hold you now in my arms.
[ To cradle him, to bear him through the dark and quiet halls to the bedchamber which shall be his. ]
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Why not war, instead? Why did he not arm Loki with a blade and tell him thus to tear the golden breast open, and to finally hold that great beating heart in his own hands?
Instead, now the king of Asgard carries the weight of his ancient enemy into the heart of his castle, and does not think to protect himself against the violence of treachery. How easy it may have been, if Laufey gave the wars into Loki's hands; if the wicked seidrmadr had been given the right to strike his enemy down from within, as the worst of cowards.
(Still, the cradle of Thor's arms is no cage.) ]
You have changed little in our time apart. [ whispers Loki, and it is neither compliment nor insult. ] Did the wars not teach you to hate my kind?
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Perhaps Odin saw this. Perhaps he looked upon two young boys playing in the snow all those centuries past and saw in them the seedling, the peace which might someday take root. Perhaps that was why Loki was his price. ]
If that was all the lesson I had learned from the slaughter of both our peoples, to live in wrath and vengeance till our swords should inevitably bloody themselves again, I would be as unworthy of my father's throne as the lowest criminal in the dungeons.
[ His voice is sober. He sets Loki upon his feet again in the chambers prepared for his use: suitable for a prince, for one who might have been a king in his own right had fate spun differently. The colors are red and gold, the room hung with exquisitely woven cloth, the furnishings carved and beautiful; the tapestries and furs are piled thick underfoot, the hearth crackling merrily with flame, and fat beeswax candles burning on the surfaces of tables and stands so that the chambers are softly aglow, scented faintly of honey.
It is warm, and in the close, private quarters Loki is lovelier than ever, the firelight limning the gold at his his hair, his throat, his wrists, his ankles...Thor's eyes follow the gleam of gold down and down, and wonders what the furs hide, where else he is so ornamented. He had never known the Jotnar wore gold. Is this how they dress themselves to greet their spouses, their consorts, their husbands and wives? Or was he so decorated only to be pleasing to Thor's eyes?
He stands close, his thumb brushing at Loki's mouth; and he steals a soft kiss as though stealing a bite of fruit, drawing back to look at him with hot, wanting eyes. ]
They have decked you like an idol. [ His voice is a little rough. Thor steps back, sitting down, slowly, on a narrow couch at the foot of a great bed heaped with furs. ] Let me see where else you are so decorated.
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His seid is a transparent corona about the curl of his body, conjured now only to soothe the ache borne of warring desires. And yet it could sharpen in a moment to flame or to ice, and thus reduce king and consort both to ashen corpse.
Still, Loki holds his silence near to his heart for the remainder of the short journey to his chambers, his forehead tilted against Thor's chest, his horns flaring in a silver arc above Thor's shoulder. He knows the sight they must make to the servants and the guards that watch their passage: the king, flushed with victorious desire, and the dark alien beast tamed and caged in his arms like a maid to be kissed and cossetted.
Loki's quarters receive but a perfunctory glance — they will warrant closer examination when his isolation is guaranteed. For now, he stands like a living spire before his promised, the dusky blue of his skin given undue warmth by the light banishing all shadow to naught.
Drunkard, Loki thinks, his mind a malicious beast, his fingers curling at the edge of the stiff leather khanga strapped about his waist. Because Asgard had taken the entirety of Jotunheim's treasury as its spoils, leaving little else but bone and parchment in the vaults. Laufey-king and Farbauti storm-slayer's own gold-tribute from their marriage of old had been melted and reformed to drape upon Loki's limbs and turn him from sorcerer-prince into a gilded whore.
Loki wears enough gold to gild two full-size Jotnar warriors — indeed, he has been reduced to nothing more but a false idol set upon foreign shores.
So Thor lounges before him like a sun throned upon the earth, with heat and desire enough for a hundred lesser men, and Loki's grip upon the pleated leather finally loosens. Thor is a king, but first Thor is a man, and Loki knows how best to play the hearts and the loins of men like no more than the ivory horns and stringed lutes of Jotunheim's court. ]
You must promise not to lay a hand upon me. [ says Loki, his own voice lowered in response. He leaves the lacings of his skirt of leather, and instead reaches up in one long stretch of limb and torso to run his fingertips down the black spill of his hair, flicking away the tie keeping the plait modest. His dark hair thus falls about his shoulders, twinkling with a thousand golden beads that have been knotted into the shadowed curls. His teeth worry at the swell of his lower lip, and his gaze sweeps forward and away again. As if he moves with hesitation instead of careful calculation. ] I would ask only this of you.
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He does not want to make such a promise. Does not know that he can hold himself to it: yet Loki hesitates, and Thor aches to see him bared entire, so he sinks back and watches the silken fall of hair and the bite of his lip and the dark red sweep of his gaze, and instead of reaching for his prince he reaches instead to the fastenings of his own armor, undoing them like a man lost in dream. ]
As you like. [ he answers, his voice hoarse.
His own garments he fumbles with, sharing none of Loki's strange poise or dexterity, at least not here, not with this beauty before him dripping with gold, gilded and bedecked for his own pleasure. He does not strip himself, anyway: only parts the pieces of his own raiment and undoes laces enough that his fingers might grasp his own turgid cock, swelling all the more at his touch, though the heat in him is not for the contact but all for the sight of Loki in the firelight before him. ]
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If his own gaze catches upon the golden skin bared with inelegant haste, he knows Thor will take it as a compliment rather than an impudence. Loki has only seen Aesir flesh bared in death, skin grayed by the frost, dressed in the rich color of their own blood. Thor is a creature unparalleled even by those strongest of the warriors marked by death's curse, and so Loki finds no shame in the path that his gaze takes.
He tilts his head, one hand following languidly the curve of his throat, his fingertips pressing pale lines into his own skin. The golden chains are dragged forth, dragged taut, and Loki looses a sigh when finally he draws his hands away, and the chains fall in a chiming melody. His lashes have fallen forward, revealing the barest gleam of crimson beneath; Loki strokes his hands down his flank, slowly, every so slowly; he catches his gasp between his teeth when a fingernail scrapes against his exposed skin.
He wears but a length of fur and a heavy strip of leather about his hips. When he shifts, his golden accoutrements swaying with the motion, the white fur falls away, leaving him bared above the waist. Again he repeats the slow ripple of motion as his hands draw up over his naked chest; this time he plucks at his own nipples without shame, one and then the other, and then both at once, his head thrown back in a dark wave as his gasp gives way to a low, rasping moan. The morning before he was to travel to Gladsheim, his nipples were pierced and threaded through with golden hoops set with green stone. Loki's attendant had been quick and efficient with the task, but they are tender still. ]
You have the patience of a hundred men, my king. [ says Loki, and a faint hint of an unkind smile tilts his mouth; his eyes are closed against the simple pleasure of his hands upon his own skin.
Underneath the skirt of leather, he has begun to slicken and to swell.
This is vengeance at its most meager, but it is vengeance indeed. ]
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He wishes to do him honor, yes, to love him as he would love any Aesir given him in marriage; but there are darker longings in him, too, for Loki yielding and slick beneath his hands, opening for his cock, to fuck and use him thoroughly until he knows nothing so much as how he is Thor's, now and for all of their days.
He draws breath into lungs gone tight, his own cock thick and aching in his fingers. His eyes are unblinking, unwavering; they rest greedily upon Loki, the blue of them darkened and shadowed beneath his golden lashes. ]
I do not, my prince. I have no patience at all.
[ His voice comes thicker, rougher, more guttural than before. ]
Turn. [ Thor commands him, the word softly breathed, his fingers stroking steadily his own swelled shaft. ]
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So he tells himself.
He turns, graceful upon the torque of one bared heel. And his hands rise to draw the spill of his hair over his shoulder, handful by handful, with agonizing indolence. The lean muscle in his back moves under the cloak of skin with each reaching movement of his arms, with each undulating shift of his hips. ]
You have patience enough tonight. [ says Loki. His left foot slides up along the calf of the right, leaving his myriad of anklets in a musical chaos, before drawing down again, widening his stance. He darts a glance over his shoulder, the innocence in his face carefully laid: the widened eyes, the sweet slow curve of his mouth. ] I have known men that have not shown your forbearance.
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I would not... [ He struggles for words, struggles to remember words, his hand moving over his cock. Strong, broad fingers stroking the shaft, his thumb circling the head now and then to gather the slickness of pre-spending, to torment himself with calloused pressure against the aching slit. ] I would not fall upon you as though I were a ravening beast and you the deer in the forest.
[ Oh, but it is a lie, and not a convincing one. He would love to fall upon Loki now, to bear him down to the carpets and furs, to have him upon his knees. Gilded, decked like a concubine, beautiful between his hands. The way he strokes his own cock has a determined air; he will not change from man to beast tonight if he can help it. Let him find his pleasure in watching and be satisfied. His hungry graze could scald, wandering from the top of Loki's head to the soles of his feet, and over every inch of strange, lovely, naked skin between. ]
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A deer in the forest, he thinks, and rue shades his blooded eyes gray. ]
Of course not. [ comes the siphon of a whisper, as if Loki draws every silk-lined word from the increasingly rough choppiness of Thor's voice. As if his own composure is built and secured further as Thor loses grasp of his own.
Another tinkling ripple of his jewelry, and Loki draws away the traditional knot of cloth tied between his legs to keep him modest. And then it, too, flutters to the floor, landing atop the rest of Loki's discarded garments.
Without waiting for the command, he pivots slowly upon his heel, his arms crossed over his belly, settled over his hips. His cock juts half-hard from the juncture between his thighs, and his cunt is hot and damp with expectation, but Loki does not move to touch either.
(Yet the drape of his indifference is proved to be as flimsy at the walls of Utgard upon the day of the rout — for the sight of Thor curled over himself, cock in hand, bestial in affect and in tone, is more temptation than anything else Asgard has shown him since his arrival.)
So Loki stands, as still as a deer in the forest, his head tilted just enough for the shadow of his hair to cascade over one of his shoulders.
He speaks softly, gently. ] You are a king of gods, not of beasts. What next would you ask of me?
omg i just realized this is a month late, sob
Breath catches, his cock twitching with a little spurting of seed, warm and slick over his fingers, and Thor gathers it and strokes himself still firmer, quicker, his gaze lifting to where Loki's strange crimson eyes gaze at him over his shoulder, beneath the shadow of a splendid black fall of hair. ]
Kneel down, my beauty.
[ The endearment comes easily to his hoarse, wanting voice. Thor stands all at once, his hand covering the thick upswell of his cock, caressing the length of it as it gleams wet with his own spending, coming a half-step nearer and then stopping, shuddering with the effort towards control. ]
Get upon your knees and bend yourself down to the carpets— [ A catch of breath, his voice turning rougher still. ] And spread your thighs. Let me see you wanton.
aw we've done lots since, we coo'!
One day, he will have Thor spread and speared for his own pleasure, and the fool will not know it for the recompense it will be.
So the king's consort levers himself slowly to his knees, his lashes fallen over his eyes until only the glimmer of red remains. His gaze is focused with unflickering intent upon Thor himself, for even in the rise of his anger Loki knows the sight of king and glory to be as a plate heaped full. He need not close his eyes and think of former lovers to will his cock to firm.
Loki arranges himself with careful hands, lowering his body to spread knees before shifting slowly until his hair pools like shadow about his bent head, and his spine is a gentle inviting arch. He plucks again at his own nipples, and looses a soft breath when he takes his cock in hand. ]
Come near, if you wish. [ says Loki, and though his body trembles with the facsimile of hesitation, there is no mistaking the challenge in his voice. ] Only remember that you have vowed not to touch me.
;3; <3
I remember my vow.
[ So he does not touch him, but looks, and looks, greedily, hungry eyes upon him, upon the sweetly upturned hips and the sway of balls between his thighs, upon the gold which binds and ornaments him, and the dark hair which parts like a curtain at the nape of his neck. He leans close, a hand hard now around his cock, breath rushing through his teeth; the other hand braces upon the floor as Thor bends low over his back, upon one knee, close enough to kiss, to caress, to mount, but he does not touch: they are so near that the fine hairs upon his body lift to the presence of cool Jotun skin, but he does not touch.
Heat rushes and torments him for this shadow of a lover upon his knees before him. It does not take long. His hand is slick and swift upon the swell of his cock, hips jolting forward, breath tight; a few more thorough strokes, and then Thor jerks and grunts and hisses through gritted teeth as his seed spurts and stripes warm across the small of Loki's back, the thick fluid beading and dripping across his dark skin. ]
C: <3!
Thor is close, too close; so Loki works his own cock without shame, his body canted so that his gaze is Thor's, just as everything from which he was wrought is now Thor's. ]
—my king.
[ he murmurs, the fingers of his free hand snaking down to press against the soft skin behind his balls. Oh, he would name himself whore and varlet now if only Thor would cast off his vow and press hand and mouth to the body splayed for his pleasure — and then Loki would claw those blue-glass eyes out and set his own teeth to the beat of Thor-king's heart, if only to quiet his own humiliation.
Loki twists in the gentle cage that Thor's body has become, careful to keep the chastity of distance between them — yet there is nothing chaste in the open spread of Loki's legs, in the working of his hand upon his cock, and in the slash of a smile pulling his lips taut.
Soon enough his own release catches him and flings him hence; he spends himself with his hand clasped about the base of his cock, directing the fall of his seed.
As Thor stained Loki, the favor has now been repaid. Spurts of white sink into the fine embroidery of Thor's open britches, over his balls, upon the length of his half-hard cock. ]
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You are beautiful. [ Thor murmurs to him, shifting to an elbow, so close now as to nearly be lying atop this lover forbidden to him; he trails fingers across his own belly to catch some of that pearlescent seed, beads of it slick and gleaming, which he lifts to his mouth to suckle from his own fingers.
And then at last does he shift away, drawing back with a long sigh, a release of pent-up breath and tension; he sits back gazing at him, thinking of all that he will gift his consort, all the generosity of a king poured forth in homage to his beauty, the jewels of the treasury, the tomes of the library, servants and thralls, wine and delicacies. But the greatest joy will be serving him with his own hands: bedecking him, bathing him, pleasuring him, any service that might be permitted him, king to consort, spouse to spouse, lover to lover. ]
May I wash you? [ he asks him hopefully, meaning may he clean the stain of his own seed from his skin, bathe away the sweat and slick of pleasure. ]