Archive of Our Own ^beta

Black Spot on the Sun

. . .

“I think we should wait.” Loki shifted on the rock where he perched like one of their father’s ravens, dour and doubtful in his crisply black field armor. The boot of his heel scraped the stone, a low and gravelly sound that mated in odd harmony with his still-youthful voice. He had a good, high vantage, at the cost of possibly being seen by an enemy scout… but with his gifts and training, he knew he would not be. He looked over at Thor, whose fingers still thrummed against the scabbard of his greatsword. The other hand scratched at the fumbling growth of his scruff.

Thor thought it made him look older, a full warrior grown though they were yet a few years from that milestone. Loki was doing his utter best to not disavow him of his belief too cruelly, if for no other reason than his own attempt to grow a mustache like the older Fandral’s ended with one bitter morning put him in mind of sad, dark worms dying in sad, over-watered soil. To Hel with that particular Asgardian style, he’d decided promptly. So any attempt to pick on Thor for this was probably going to backfire.

Loki shoved the thought away and looked again down at the tell-tale signs of the decamping forces hidden in the far tree line. Goblin forces from the exiled reaches of Nidavellir, led by rock troll captains and a handful of those in higher command. What traces and whispers in the wind told him were dark mages. Probably sold their souls to Muspelheim demons for their power, he reckoned disdainfully. “Did you hear me, brother?”

“I heard you, Loki.” Thor sighed and let go of his face. The scabbard still carried the haphazard drum of his fingertips. There was a hammer destined for him, but that day had not yet come, either. The hands knew, fidgeting for a greater power against their enemies. “They’re preparing to move.”

“Obviously.”

“Vanaheim’s most outlying villages are not well prepared for an assault, not in this season. The crops and livestock need their attention more than harder fences. And we do not know why our enemies chose to act now.”

“Motive is oftentimes less important than one might think, Thor. Food or advantage or simple mayhem - it does not right now matter. We can mull on such particulars after the danger has passed.” He watched the displeased look fade from Thor’s face as quick as it came, hiding his own annoyance. Nothing would thrill Loki more than to see Thor act with more introspection and careful thought as a rule, but he picked the oddest damn times to practice it.

Loki did not have high hopes that would change much as they grew older. So, very well. That made such things his problem. A knife found its way to his hand so he could flip it casually as he thought. There were a great many enemies in that tree line, and two young princes of Asgard between them and the village.

Not favorable odds, and still, given opportunity (this much a speciality of Thor’s), there was going to be one Hel of a fight coming. He flipped that fine little blade, and he thought. It would be a scant couple of hours until the rest of Thor’s warrior friends would arrive, and just behind them would be the Asgardian regiment deployed to the area. Backup would have been quicker, but there had also been a feint far to the north. It fell to the brothers to scout what the damage would be, meanwhile. The plan had originally been to be envoys, sent to evacuate or rally the village before they realized what was coming and panicked. They were too late for any of that.

Too much damage coming, Loki reckoned grimly. One way or another.

flip. flip. Sometimes he paused, feeling the sharp bite of the knife’s edge against his gloved fingertip. No way to funnel the enemy into a killing tunnel, where their strength might hold a while. The field between where they hid and where the enemies gathered was broad and clear, a sunny-lit wash of green and small flowers destined to be trod to mud and blood soon enough.

flip. The two of them. Their horses. The field. The village. The surrounding forests. A muscle jumped in his jaw while Thor muttered to himself, doing his own kind of planning. Above, a bird rustled and broke free of the tree-line, making a ruckus of feathers and chirps. The knife danced one more time through the air, and then Loki caught it by the handle, his fingers gripping it tight. “I’ve an idea.” He looked at the side of Thor’s face. “Will you follow my word?”

“Will it work?”

“It’s just clever enough that it will buy some time for our warriors to arrive, no matter what. And what time it can’t buy, we might have to fight for. I expect you’re fine with that much.”

Thor grinned, young and light and full of summer’s wild thunder. “Then I’ll follow, Loki. What have you in mind?”

Loki told him his plan, and Thor grinned wider yet.

. . .

Loki finished his agile scramble over the far wooden wall of the village, his hands catching on the wooden planks with ease, not even gasping for breath after the hard run he took around the low forest path. He’d gone unseen by the enemy, just as planned, and now he landed lightly on his booted feet in the corner of what his nose told him was the horse paddock. He looked up as the frightened stableboy dropped his pitchfork with its load of soiled straw at the sight of the tall Asgardian prince dressed all in hard leathered blacks and with a handful of silvered knives hung at his waist. “I need the village elder, and all your fowlers and poulterers,” he said to the boy, straightening so that the small crest of the royal house of Asgard could be seen on his belt.

“What?” asked the boy cleverly, not getting the hint at first.

“Your leader, and your bird men,” said Loki with more than a little unnecessary force, annoyed at the need to repeat himself despite the boy’s obvious shock. “I need to be taken to them. Right ruddy now.”

“Yessir,” said the boy. “Right away, m’lord. This way. For the elders. We can ring for the birders. Um.” He bent for his pitchfork, and then, thinking better of it, left it there before popping open the paddock gate and taking off towards the center of town at a goodly pace himself. It was not clear if he was running towards the elder’s home or away from Loki, but regardless, the prince judged it was a useful result and got him in the direction he needed within the time he wanted.

Time. It always came down to time. He got moving again, a sleek shadow in the boy’s wake.

. . .

Another flock of birds took flight above Loki as he banged with real force on the borrowed old steel shield. Hoary jokes passed between the birders with their charges fluttering ahead and noisemakers of their own clanging a ruckus - don’t look up with your mouth open! and other such weak wit.

Loki ignored it all, focused on chivvying around the distressingly large and raucous birds that were such livestock in this part of Vanaheim whilst the fowlers spent time harassing the wilder ones that lurked in the bushes. The large ones, he knew, often sounded like clusters of talking men and women when they got together to cluck and to kick at each other with their sharp talons. Winding them up like this made for an even better effect - shouting noises and bickering and all mixed with the rattle of steel and sword and those primal claws to further the scene he wanted. All so long as the birds, currently flustered into doing his bidding, didn’t turn around and kick at him.

As the sparrows and finches took to the air, irritated with the invasion of their quiet forest, Loki knew exactly how all this would look to the other side of that large field. As if a great arriving military force had disrupted the greenery, just as the goblins and the trolls had done. A scout would see the unhappy birds, hear the rattle of steel and the mimicked shouting of ready warriors, watch the leaves of the trees wavering as the rallied villagers followed Loki around and did as he told them.

For the final act of the game, Loki looked up and jutted with his chin to tell Thor it was time for his part. With a mighty yell and the unfurled pennant carrying Asgard’s golden colors set against his horse’s armored saddle, Thor rode out of the forest into the field at a hard and regal trot - the voice of the front line, set to parley with the enemy as propriety and honor dictated.

All now rested on Thor’s patience with the one sent forward by the enemy line. Loki did not have high hopes, but every minute stolen was one they could use to get the rest of the village’s people deeper into the woods and away from the impending fray. The herdsmen and fowlers would withdraw last, taking the sound of the ‘army’ with them. By then, Loki hoped, the real force would be within galloping range.

. . .

Thor waited, already annoyed with the hesitation the goblin forces showed in sending forward their man. He was annoyed even further with the appearance of the enemy leadership - an older moon elf of Alfheim, wearing the dark ribboned robes of an exile, and whose bare arms were scarred with the sorcerous tattoos of a demon’s bargain. Loki no doubt would have a few things to say about such matters, and would do so at great length given opportunity. The elf was further flanked by two of his rock trolls, brought up somehow from the Below and bound to his service by marks of their own.

A good fight, they’d make. Rotten for bargaining, a weak attempt at intimidation. But for Loki’s sake, he thought to at least try and bite off most of what gurgled in his throat. He tried also to not grip at his broadsword to show his readiness. “I am Thor, son of Asgard. I come to palaver on behalf of the All-Father, for the sake of the village you threaten.”

“Threaten? We have been merely camped here.” The fallen elf grinned, white teeth stained black between them by, Thor wagered, his cursed ritual herbs and that inner corruption of Muspelheim’s vile forces. “Have we raised sword against your allies? Have we taken a single prisoner or stolen a single child to feed our goblins?”

“I could not say, Elf. Have you?” He couldn’t keep the disdain out of his voice.

The elf reddened fit to match the ribbons that marked him as a blood-worker. “Straight back to bitter accusation. Is this your honor, your parley, your herald, young prince? Who taught you manners, boy, the stablemen and the pig ranchers?”

. . .

Oh, this is going just beautifully. Loki watched Thor attempt to be about as political as a sharp studded mace in a berserker’s hand, his already pale countenance bleaching an extra shade of aghast as the fell elf shot right back at the war-born Thor. He looked over his shoulder to watch the scurrying of villagers down the hidden forest paths, wondering if they could move maybe another three dozen people in the, he estimated, eleven more seconds it was going to take for all Hel to break loose on that open green field.

His calculations said probably not. Loki tossed aside the dented old shield and raced back towards the village fences as insults filled the field, looking to triage his way through the worst of what was going to come for those lagging behind. He dodged around women tugging treasured belongings in straw bins and men dragging their one or two truculent cattle that served their homesteads down the shadowed paths, pausing only to slap one of the softly lowing beasts sharp on the arse in an attempt to help move them along. The moo of deep offense and the muttered curse in his wake said he’d done something helpful, if not entirely welcome.

Then the worst hit him with a crawl of chilly fear. A handful of children cluttered the village’s back gate, no doubt ordered to be helpful and move quick towards safety, but still dawdling with youthful blindness as to what was about to happen to them all. That rapid mental calculation that was his good and reliable tool was no friend to him in that moment, tallying up for him just how fast the children were going to be mowed down when the demon-bound elf decided he was done playing with Thor and gestured for his creatures to pour over the area.

He could smell the sulphur and heat in the air already, those old goblin slaves of even older dwarves from times where the chains of hate had been forged deep. They were waiting. No one on either side had any illusions about the intent of the parlay - all Loki and Thor had in their favor, however, was his bluff.

That bluff was going to be called at any moment, and when it did, Loki was going to have to get in that field to try to keep his brother from diving in too deep. First, though - the children.

Loki’s breath came deep and low into his abdomen, a trained orator’s voice preparing itself to be weaponized. He was still a young sorcerer, but he already knew that the right word and the right tone could be stronger than any spell. “Shall you die today?” he spat at the children with what could easily seem like cruel heat. He had no actual cruelty in his heart for them, only the cold, calculated horror of what their bodies would look like when the goblins were through. But his kindness and fear wouldn’t save them. They froze as one, looking up at him with startled hurt. He tried to ignore how that felt. “Your mothers and fathers run ahead, knowing the Gods will keep you safe and close behind. Do you want to look upon them from beyond death’s door, seeing that trust betrayed?”

One young boy hicked his breath, hot and ready to cry. “No time for that,” Loki snapped at him, eyes glinting. “Get on the paths, fast now!” He reached out and wrenched - gently enough but quick enough to startle in the moment - at the boy’s shoulder, hustling him on. “Go!” was his last word to them as they broke and ran, all but a roar of irritable fury.

He couldn’t spend time watching after them to be sure they found the right trails. In the distance, the faint but harsh sound of steel rattled through the air.

. . .

The elf didn’t take the long knife fully out of its scabbard yet. He kept his scarred fingers taut around its handle, letting the sun glint its edge while he kept Thor’s furious eye on himself. Their ‘parlay’ was on its final thread. That was just fine with Thor. The elf’s words rang against his ears. “Your father is a brute cur, as was his before him. Cowards in the mock furs of warriors. You, then, are the son of curs, and you would one day breed only curs.” The elf grinned, hateful. “If I let you.”

The rock trolls shifted behind the elven sorcerer, ready for the word of unbinding.

“If, mage. If. A small word, and a weak one.” Thor did not believe in overdoing his speeches. On his own last word, the greatsword was in his hand and cutting through the empty air and the glint of red magic where the elf had sat astride his horse.

An illusion. Of course it was. Thor took a half second to feel annoyance and dismay, knowing Loki would have spotted this simple trick. Then he got on with what needed doing, tumbling off his horse with brute ease and going for the troll on the right as he slipped some invisible leash and roared alive and ready for the fight.

The trees began to rustle and wood and steel began to clang and clatter. In another few moments, the field would be full of this small war, and the hopefully empty village too. But for now, it was only Thor and the two trolls, and all his attention was focused on the one closest before him.

He lopped off the beast’s right arm with a mighty swing of the greatsword, knowing he was leaving himself open but also knowing he was faster than the lumbering creature. The troll bellowed and shoved in with its remaining limb, catching nothing but a scrape of Asgardian armor. Then the tip of the broad blade thrust itself up through the belly of the beast until it hit not its heart, but the fragile stone core that bound its life to the mage’s. One of Frigga’s wise lessons, well-recited by Loki. Thor shoved until he heard the crack, didn’t bother to watch it fall. The second troll was already on him, the first squabble taking only a few seconds.

He went for the head this time, a high and hard swing that sang through the air on its way to stony flesh. The bulky hands came up, scrabbling for the lost skull that now tumbled across the grass, giving Thor plenty of time to dig the blade in for that one’s stone soul, tool.

Thor stood astride the field between his first two kills and bellowed a warrior’s roar of delight and fury, waiting for the rush of enemies, the rough leather handle of the sword in his hand feeling finer than any tankard or silken scarf. And they obliged.

Dozens of goblins, small and snarling and ferocious, poured like black rain’s overflow into the field towards him. Their size and speed made them potentially even more deadly than rock trolls in the numbers they ganged in, and being goaded on by the fallen elves was going to make them a greater threat. The stubby knives in their hands glinted green with fell poisons. If Loki had done his part, and Thor believed fully that he had, none of these weapons would touch a single villager so long as they held this field a little longer.

Thor roared again, unafraid. He would easily make space around himself to fight them all, the greatsword raised in his hands and ready to tend his field of righteous murder.

A handful in the first line of goblins fell as if from nothing and Thor felt a momentary disappointment at their weakness until he realized he had seen something in that blink of nothing after all - a handful of small, silver blades picking out their targets and pinning them down through to the green earth and into death.

Loki.

Thor seldom fought alone. He could, and was nigh as glad to do so. But a field of war with company was a far finer kingdom. His brother’s blades made it a gleaming one. He hoisted the greatsword once as he grinned, a jab of gratitude and a salute to his brother, no doubt already moved on and skimming through the trees to pick his next targets. And then he swung, low and swift, cutting apart the shrieking goblins as they flung themselves towards him.

In the trees, a bleak shriek from a reedy, high voice. Loki chose his targets carefully and moved only when he saw the worthiest opening. Thor did not always understand that tactical chill in his brother’s heart, but he could appreciate it. One of the scant handful of elven mages that had stayed back when he and the leader parlayed was already dead. The tremor that ran through the forces showed the worth of the attack.

Thor caught sight of another fallen elf mage strapped to a grey horse entering the field, no doubt a weapon in its own right. A thickly muscled destrier carrying the mage in deadly safety until either it died or the mage did. He had no arrows, so he focused on the groundling horde instead.

The whisk of blacker shadow against the darkening trees didn’t make him pause. Loki’s thrown knife stumbled the horse, his cry of alert telling Thor he had an opening. Without hesitation, he jerked away from the brace of goblins to decapitate the mage as he and his broken steed slid across trampled grass. One more mage, perhaps. The deadliest. Loki would handle him.

And now flowed more goblins, and trolls among them. Thor paused to catch his breath, and then re-entered the fray, his gaze seeing nothing but the seeping blood of his enemies into the dirt and the next combatant to appear before him. And the next. All would fall. All of them. He heard sounds in the trees.

The red veil took him, and there in the gloaming light, Thor fought on.

. . .

Volstagg didn’t pause at the the sight of the scattered goblin forces and the corpses staining the harvest field. He yelled and rode on into the continuing fray, the sun reaching for twilight and falling with each moment. His weapons caught a troll and stumbled it, and in the corner of his vision he found the sight of Fandral’s slender rapier digging down through its throat for its vital core.

Sif brought arrows a plenty, riding an expert archer’s circuit to drop those roamers dodging away from the flagging Thor, and with her rode Hogun, his mace stopping any who might get close enough to her to stop the hail she put them under. A little more, just a little, and the marching warriors of Asgard would catch up and the matter would be well ended.

Volstagg took Thor’s side, not to prop him up for the young warrior needed no such help, but to finish a few that thought to play dead and catch the berserker unawares. In the trees, still a rustling. And then one more reedy, terrified scream.

The lithe black shape rejoined the company a moment later, and after that, the rest of the warriors plunged into the field, the sun still just high enough to set their armor alight with liquid gold.

There would be nothing more.

Volstagg panted and clapped Thor on the back as the prince heaved himself into the eerie calm after a battle. “You young pup! I see you had a hell of an evening!”

“Better than any ale, Volstagg. Fandral, Hogun. Lady Sif.” Thor wiped blood from his face with the back of his gauntlet, seeing his brother approach and grinning wide. He hoped the last mage had died painfully under his brother’s blade. The way Loki sheathed the weapon, he thought he might be right.

Volstagg jutted his chin at the blacker prince, teasing in a way he considered gentle. “And here you are, all but untouched by the gore.”

“He did aplenty, my friend. The village stands and the mages that led these fools are gone.” Thor’s defense of his brother was immediate, his hand reaching out to clasp Loki’s leather shoulder pauldron with a squeeze.

A scoff and a shrug. “Such tricks are good and all, and always a fine thing for mages to die, but a warrior’s place is in the mix.” Volstagg waved himself off, not looking at Loki as if apologizing. “Ah, but listen to me.”

“Well, a point is a point,” said Fandral. “But tis true, we saw villagers run safe up the path, all of them I expect.”

“Well done, then,” said Sif with an honest smile.

“Well done, but aye, that’s what I mean.” Volstagg turned back to the conversation, a little bewildered. “A real war, we’d have kitted the men best we could and turned them into the field to stand with us for their own honor and for the glory of As-“

“For the glory of being dead.” Loki couldn’t keep the snap out of his voice, defensiveness scorched deep into his brow. Thor’s hand tightened on his shoulder. Loki attempted to ease his tone as he explained his point. “Against goblins and demon-bound sorcery. How many men did you see? How many good enough to stand? Better as farmers, better as fowlers, better as-“

“As men of Asgard.” Volstagg laughed and patted Loki on the back in a more open apology for the interruption, squinting up at the night’s sky. “Ah, I mean no harm, Loki. You think differently than most warriors.” He let go and clapped at Thor’s shoulder again. “But you, my prince. You are the pinnacle of Asgard. Dear Gods and our brightest stars, look at this field!”

Thor stole a glance at his brother, seeing the calm look that had taken over Loki’s face and feeling soothed by it. No offense left to be seen. That was good, then. He knew Volstagg’s boisterousness and old tradition didn’t often match right with Loki’s wits, but he loved his friends and his brother alike. It comforted him to see them all together. “I’ve been trained well, Volstagg, and our practices serve me today.”

“They do!” Volstagg roared laughter. “Let us organize these defenses and then see what the village has left for mead and meat!” He reached out to tug at Loki’s arm, not looking at him, thinking the matter done. “And you as well, for whom the buildings yet stand and for mages well killed! Well, that’ll save them time come winter harvest.” Another booming laugh. “Come on lads, my lady. Let us celebrate a proper warrior’s way!”

Sif looked at Loki, nodding with the politeness owed a prince. She offered a smile, knowing a little of what it was like dealing with Asgard’s traditions of war.

Loki smiled back, once again feeling nothing inside but the cold of the night, no love, no warmth. He smiled for Volstagg when he looked back, the pale skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling as cheerfully as they did when the two princes were only boys, wondering if the cold thing deep in his belly was the start of hate for the older man. He smiled for Fandral and his rapier and his tweaking mustache, and he smiled for Hogun’s careful, assessing look, and he wondered. Was it himself that was so strange, or was it Asgard?

Loki took long strides to place himself next again to his brother, realizing the cold thing was still following him there, too, and he wondered if there would ever be a day where wits were valued more than steel. He doubted it, seeing his value reflected in Volstagg’s badly sung bardic lores as they walked, and looking at the blood that marked their clothes. No blood on him. Did that make him the weak one, after all?

The cold thing burrowed deeper, the old friend that often woke him at night. He thought it might be that way for a while to come. The years spread before him, and each one was marked with the questions the cold thing whispered to him over and over.

Loki smiled, light and full of teeth, and all around him the shadows were very long.

~A pause…

He did not smile, as we have already said, but he used to laugh; sometimes, indeed frequently, a bitter laugh. ~ Victor Hugo, The Man Who Laughs

. . .and then a memory

The villagers were trickling back in as Volstagg tapped a third keg, cheering their saviors and bowing to the guardsmen from the city. Loki watched them as he nursed his mug, the first and only he would take tonight. He watched farmers stammer before his brother, and he watched the fowlers meet his eyes and then look away again, still a little frightened by the intensity of the man that had shoved them into action. Like the stableboy.

Still, he felt nothing.

He heard the sound of a single soft footstep, and looked down as the little hand touched his wrist. He met the eyes of one of the children that had clustered within the village gate, a young girl with wide eyes. He arched an eyebrow, not trusting himself to speak, knowing there was venom brewing hot behind his teeth that he needed to contain for the sake of his own private illusions.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She let him go, and slipped back away into the crowd.

The cold thing wavered, and for a moment a glimpse of warmth. He clutched onto it, trying to hold it, feeling it slip between his fingers. Gone, he thought, looking back into the ripples of his mug.

But sometimes, later, he remembered.

~Fin

4/10/17, all rights to Marvel on the day of Thor Ragnarok’s trailer release. Good to see you back, you magnificent, beautiful bastard.