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Chapter Text

He runs through thick snow, the wind in his face— biting at blue cheeks strained by tears. Lungs burning, chest heaving, his aching legs finally meet ice too hard to plow through and he falls, then lies there, trembling.

His body won’t move anymore, its last reserves drained. He fought so hard, for so many years, yet this is how it ends. As a failure, killed and left for dead on the ice without any recognition or anyone to mourn him.

Snow crunches behind him, compressed under heavy boots, “Finally.”

Loki doesn’t look. He whimpers and pulls his own bare and bruised legs up, curling around them; a last attempt to look small and helpless, hoping to inspire pity.

“None of that now,” a big glowed hand grabs his arm, “considering the fight and chase you gave me, I know you're not weak.” Loki gets heaved to his feet, stumbles, then comes face to face with blue eyes and a cocky smile.

Indigo hands push against a broad armored chest, “…If you let me go, Odinson, then I promise you I—"

Odinson squeezes his arm and catches his other wrist, immobilizing him further. “A liar and a mage, that’s what you are,” he pulls Loki closer, chest to chest, misty breath twirling and mixing between them, “But you'll be well taken care of in Asgard, this I promise you, so come along quietly.”

Loki hisses and kicks out, tries to get free, but his magic is exhausted, sputtering from his fingertips like acid drops, and Odinson is too strong, stronger than a small Jotun. “I will not be your slave!”

Odinson gives him a friendly smile, but there's darkness in his eyes. “Had you been caught by anyone but me, you would already be dead.”

Loki pales and stops struggling. It’s easy to imagine; his blood straining the ice like so many of his kinsmen’s, body broken and left to rot. He doesn’t want to die. He fought so hard to stay alive, he doesn’t want to die. Not now. Not like this; useless and forgotten.

“Given the number of brave Aesir warriors you have sent to Valhalla, I should strike you down.”

Loki's eyes flicker from Odinson's hands, rough gloves dyed with bloody red, to his battle scarred armor and up to his ice blue eyes. On the battlefield he had carved a crimson trench through the Jotnar, so why spare Loki?

“Then why are you letting me live?”

“Because you still have use.”

With those disquieting words, Odinson grabs Loki and swings him over his shoulders like a sack of grain. Loki squawks; it’s undignified, but his complaint turns into a scream when Odinson swings his hammer and takes off.

xXx

“What's this then?” Fandral asks, quick to stand with one hand on his sword Fimbuldraugr, when Thor lands back at their camp. Sif and Volstagg turns from warming their hands at the fire to watch him too.

Thor turns enough to let his friends see the skinny Jotun hanging, seemingly passed out, over his shoulder. Thor doubts the crafty mage is actually unconscious. He eluded Thor for years, like a shadow always out of reach, until the final battle where his magic and then his luck ran out.

“…Is that—" Sif asks with wide eyes.

“Is he dead? We thought you'd gone after him to slay him.” Volstagg says, bending slightly and tilting his head to get a better look at Thor's captive.

“Nay, he still lives.” Thor slaps his captive's backside with a grin, “Led me on a merry chase through the tundra too, he did. He ran for miles despite his wounds and fatigue.”

Fandral comes closer too, “Aye, I'll believe that. Damn thing almost took my head off at Fjeldskrig—never even saw him.”

“How'd you know it was him then?” Volstagg asks.

“It was his, you know,” Fandral wiggles his fingers, “his magic's green. Never seen that with another Jotun. It came far too close to my neck, so I got a good look.”

Sif has not looked away from Thor, and her face is hard. “You can’t be thinking of keeping him? We don’t take prisoners, not now!”

“Political ones we do.” Thor answers as he maneuvers his captive around to carry him in his arms instead. The sorcerer's head lolls and he doesn’t stir, but Thor gazes down at him with suspicion anyway. This is someone he best not take his eyes off, lest he end up with an ice dagger in his heart.

“Political?” Sif repeats, face scrunched up. They have taken Jotnar prisoners for information before, but the war is as good as over.

“Aye, look at his slægtslinjer.” Thor nods towards the mage's face and bare torso, his clothes left as nothing but tatters after the battle.

His friends do. Volstagg is the first who notices. “Well I'll be damned. Those look like Laufey's.”

“He’s a prince?!” Fandral exclaims.

Sif is silent.

“He is related to Laufey in some way at least, and may prove useful because of it.” Thor says.

“And if he doesn't? If he's not useful?” Sif lifts her head and looks Thor in the eyes, serious. “Will you still take responsibility for him?

Thor presses his lips together and breathes out through his nose. “Aye, he will be my spoil of war, my responsibility.”

Sif makes a face at Thor saying he'll take a spoil, and Fandrall looks uncomfortable too. While not outlawed, it's not a done thing in their generation; the pillaging and taking of body slaves from the conquered people. Volstagg merely looks thoughtful though. “That'll certainly make him less likely to get killed on sight.”

Thor nods, and shares a look of understanding with his friends. The Jotun sorcerer is not for Thor's bed, not like that, but he might be a key to bargain peace. The war has been long, cold and bitter. They're all ready to go home, but without official surrender the hostilities could pick up again once the Jotnar recover.

“I hope you know what you're doing Thor.” Sif says, as he turns to head towards his tent. Thor doesn’t respond, but silently, he hopes so too.

xXx

Loki wakes to a tent flap being moved and light hitting his face. He hisses and sits up with a jolt, unsure when he had fallen asleep—of when pretending to be unconscious had become real. There's a painful throb in his head and a sharp pain in his abdomen. For a moment the world spins and Loki is sure he'll black out again.

“Ah… You're awake.”

Squinting, Loki slowly focuses on his captor, standing in the tent's opening, light steaming in behind him— turning the flyaways of his golden hair into a glowing halo.

Odinson takes a deep breath and musters a smile, “That’s good. We have much to discuss.”

Eyes narrowing, Loki ignores his smarting body and pulls back as far as he can, only then noticing the manacles and chains. Daring to look away from Odinson for a moment, he lifts his wrists to study them, and sneers when he sees they are made to suppress his magic. A rare item; odd to have just lying around in a war camp. “How long have you been planning this?”

Odinson pauses, then slowly sets down a bowl of gruel on the rickety table. “Since I saw you up close for the first time, seven moons ago.”

A cold fist squeezes Loki's guts, but he still looks up and lifts his eyebrows in something that is more genuine surprise than the mockery he aims for. “At Skjaldefell?”

Odinson nods, eyes locked with Loki’s, “Your furs were almost as torn as they are now, and you were throwing green fire left and right, blazing like a beacon on the field of battle.” He sounds almost revenant; it unnerves Loki. “Your people rallied around you, and that day you took back Felthorst Len.”

“You sound very admiring for a man who was beaten back.”

Odison looks down, breaking their eye contact. “Maybe so, but that was only one battle. We won the war.”

With a snarl Loki throws himself forwards, chains snapping taut and stopping his hands, curled like claws, inches from Odinson's startled face. “The war is not over!” Loki spits, fear forgotten, struggling to get free; to draw blood.

His fury doesn’t move Odinson, who merely looks at him for a long moment, then inches around him until he can sit down on a chair placed just out of Loki's reach. “Believe what you will, but your forces have been decimated and it's no secret that your people starve.”

“We were fixing that problem until Asgard came to meddle!” Loki says with venom.

“By taking fertile lands that are not yours to touch.” Thor counters tiredly, like he has had this conversation before, though Loki can’t think what Jotun would have stopped to listen.

Loki snorts. “The Midgardians are little more than beasts, their lifespans as short as common mice. Why should we not take what they can't protect?”

Odinson gives him a look. “And the Alfheim settlements your people invaded?”

“...” There is no good response to that, and truthfully, Loki doesn’t know what possessed his father to mess with the integrated parts of the Nine Realms. Midgard everyone had expected to get away with taking, her people small and feeble, inconsequential, but apparently Odin Allfather had grown a conscience in his old age. Or perhaps it was merely an excuse. Whatever the case, the war is not really about Midgard any longer. It hasn’t been for a long time.

“Well, it matters not.” Odinson says, once more picking up the bowl of gruel and handing it to Loki. “Eat, regain your strength while I tell you what will happen.”

Despite not remembering the last time he ate, nausea rolls Loki's belly at the sight of food. “You want me to put up an energetic struggle when you take me? Can't get off otherwise?” Loki asks, voice like daggers, “Don’t worry Odinson, I will slit your throat before that. This I promise.”

Perhaps the fact that Loki takes the offered bowl and immediately digs in undermines his threats a bit, but Odinson doesn’t comment. Unwanted from birth, Loki has gotten nothing but scraps his whole life, and the threat of starvation is a quick teacher in not turning away food. He ignores his twisting stomach and eats.

Odinson lets him finish half of his meal before speaking. “Firstly, you'll be happy to know that I have no plans to force you to my bed.”

“The talk with your friends suggests otherwise.” Loki says between mouthfuls.

“So you were awake. I thought as much.”

“Careless of you to lie to me now then.”

Odison holds up a hand, “I wasn't lying. While I have declared you my spoil of war, it is merely to ensure your safety. A temporary measure.” He lowers his hand again and looks Loki over, “There are many who would happily take revenge on you, for your part in the war, but they will not touch what is mine.”

Loki huffs and runs a lean finger around the bowl to get up the last dregs of food, “So I'll be your property. Lovely.”

Odinson just smirks at his tone, “I thought you'd prefer warm rooms and regular meals, plus potential political standing, over rotting away in Asgard’s dungeons, but the latter can certainly be arranged.”

Loki glares at Odinson, seeing double for a moment. Closing his eyes doesn’t help much. The food he gulped down presses against his esophagus, his chest burns, yet he still barely refrains from licking the bowl. It would be undignified.

He wouldn't admit it under the pains of torture, but what Odinson is offering sounds frankly amazing, much better than anything Loki has so far known in his life. Of course Odinson also suffers from the delusion that Loki has some sort of value to Laufey, or Jotunheim, but it's not a misconception Loki is about to disabuse him of. If he plays along he'll be able to regain his strength in Asgard and then find some way to run off before Odinson realizes his mistake.

If the war is truly over, and they lost, then it's not like he'll be welcomed home anyway…

Loki's silence is answer enough as to what he chooses, and with shame burning in his belly, Loki puts his empty bowl down. “Gilded or not, a cage is a cage.” He brings his hands up, clinking the manacles together. “I don’t suppose these will come off just because I'll play along?”

Odinson shakes his head. “I'm afraid not, but I'll speak to the smiths of Nidavellir about forging something lighter for you.”

“Custom jewelry,” Loki bats his eyes instead of showing fang, “I feel so loved already.” If Odinson is all that stands between Loki and death, then it's better to make him an ally, pride be damned. Loki has come too far to give up now, he can suffer a little more loss of dignity.

Odinson doesn’t react to Loki’s quip. “There is one last thing…” He says, eyes assessing, “Tell me your name.”

With a smile like a blade, and still seated, Loki puts a hand on his chest and bends into a mockery of a bow. “Loki Laufeyson, third prince of Jotunheim.” He just promised he wouldn't, but he can’t help it. He bears his fangs in a feral grin. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

xXx

They're still sorting through the dead on the battlefield, shrouding the bodies of allies and friends and dragging the Jotnar to trenches dug in the glacier ice. They don’t have enough wood here for pyres.

There's nothing that can disguise the pungent smell of mud and blood hanging in the air, but Thor consciously stirs his captive (Loki, Thor knows his name now) through the camp on a route that takes them far from the field. It's a useless gesture perhaps, since Loki had been on that same field, fighting like a man with nothing to lose, less than a day before.

Still. The way he staggers along behind Thor, legs trembling, eyes unfocused and body and clothes torn, makes for a pitiful sight. Loki Layfeyson is a prisoner of war, but Thor feels no desire to gloat about his victory.

The healers’ tent is near. Good. Thor knows he's not imagining the way Loki is getting progressively more unsteady.

Eir is in the tent, as expected. Though she is the senior healer in the palace, she follows Thor on campaigns. Only the best for the crown prince—or as good as it gets in the middle of a frozen nowhere at least.

Her sharp gaze lands and narrows on Thor the moment he steps inside. He holds the flap open so Loki can stumble in after him, gripping Loki's arm to keep him steady when it looks like he will tilt. “Eir, this is prince Loki. He acquirers your help.”

“Give him here.” Eir says, brisk, with not a moment's of hesitation, even when asked to treat a Jotun.

Loki gets pulled over and then lowered onto a cot. No sooner is he horizontal than his head lolls and his eyes roll back. Eir curses loudly and Thor pales. He had known Loki was injured, but not how bad—

“How long has it been since he got his head wound?!” Eir demands, feeling Loki's skull, fingers parting matted black hair.

“I, oh—uhm, several hours?”

Two younger healers join them, and Eir starts snapping at them. “Ready the operation table, and the soul forge. Get me szhculde herb and hembane,” she whips around and fixes Thor with a stormy glare, “And you—get out.”

“But—”

“—Get out of our way and pray your new Jotun is stronger than he looks.”

Eir's tone is far from comforting, and Thor's gaze flickers to Loki, his lax face, gaunt cheeks and long lashes, wondering if…

Another barked order from Eir, and Thor leaves.

He threads a restless path outside the healing tent, shoulders tight, as he waits for news. Thor's own body is hurting from the battle, exhaustion nipping at his heels, but he is still too wound up to rest. This unforeseen snag is just another stresser that makes his heart pump faster and blood rush in his ears.

The Jotun mage, Laufeyson—Loki, his mind whispers—is not a friend to Thor or even an ally, but he is under Thor's protection. Had Thor struck him down in battle it would have been different; a clean, honorable death. Not this messy aftermath. He has hopes resting on Loki, and though he hasn't put all his eggs in one basket, Thor would hate to be foiled here.

Hours later, Sif joins him, carrying two mugs of hot bitter tea. “Here, I put honey in,” She says, uncommonly kind, as she hands a mug to Thor. “Any news?” She nods towards the tent.

“No.” Thor blows on the tea and watches steam rise in lazy tendrils towards the iron grey sky.

Sif hums and sits down on a crate of supplies, next to the one Thor uses. “If you were going to take a breather away from responsibilities, I would suggest going to your own tent.”

Thor had wondered why no one's been by to bother him; seems like it's Sif’s work. “I'm too restless for sleep my friend, and besides…”

Thor turns and Sif follows his gaze to the healing tent.

“You don’t trust him.” It's not a question.

Thor huffs, slightly amused. “I trust him like I trust a viper in the grass: to strike when the best opportunity presents itself.”

“Why are you doing this Thor?” Sif looks at him, brown eyes black in the dim light, “do you truly believe Laufey will come to heel, merely because we have his kin hostage?”

“His son,” Thor corrects, “But no. I'm not hoping for anything that miraculous.”

“Then what…?”

Thor presses his lips together and turns the mug in his hands, around and around, motion repetitive and calming. “It’s a long game plan, but I think prince Loki's good for it. Even with head trauma he seemed quick witted.”

“That doesn't actually explain anything.”

Sighing, Thor drinks the last dregs of his tea. “Just trust me Sif.”

It's a tall request, and Thor can see Sif’s jaw go taut. The thing is, if he actually explained, he doubts she would agree with him. What Thor aims to do is not without personal costs to himself, though after meeting and talking to Loki, Thor has allowed cautious optimism to fill him. He might not give away as much as he had feared.

“Fine. Keep your plans to yourself for now, but don’t think I won’t find out.” Sif says, standing up once more and dusting snow off her legs.

“You'll find out in time.” Thor says, which is true enough. Everyone will. His plan is counting on it.
Sif gives him a last dubious look, “Get some rest.” She says, then wanders off to her own duties; aside from that of checking on her prince.

Thor leans back and watches the snowflakes falling until he doses off.

It's not long after that Eir appears from the tent. Thor shakes himself and stands to face her before she can say anything; he had not truly slept; rarely does on campaigns. “How fares he?”

Eir's expression is tight as always. “He lives, to my surprise. Internal bleeding in both his head and abdomen, broken and fractured bones, bruised organs… I wager his magic kept him alive for as long as he had access to it.”

Thor's heart drops. “So when I shackled him…?”

“Yes. He started deteriorating.” From her apron pocket Eir draws out the shackles. “I removed them so he could heal, but I'll advise you to put them back on before he wakes. Drained as it was, if his magic let him survive those injuries, then he is not to be trifled with.”

“I know.” Thor says as he takes the chains. It was only over the last decade that Loki, though no one knew his true identity, had appeared on the battlefield and made a name for himself. The mage, the sorcerer, the witch… Spoken off with fear and disgust, but also given the recognition of any fearsome foe. The war had been going, on and off with the occasional period of ceasefire, for centuries, so Thor doesn’t know why it was only now Loki had appeared.

Then again, he hadn’t known Laufey had a third son either.

“You can take him back to your own tent now, just be careful with him. He needs rest to heal, and food. The boy is malnourished.” Eir fixes him with a look, “No sexual activities for at least a week.”

Thor splutters “I won't! He’s—That's not—” Eir keeps staring at him, not a single muscle twitching in her face. Thor relents and lowers his head, cheeks burning. “I'll be careful with him.”

“Good.” Eir nods, then produces a small vial from her apron, filled with amber liquid, “and give him this when he's better, unless you want to get him with child.”

Thor chokes a bit, but pockets the vial. Most likely Eir is just enjoying making him miserable. Most likely…

It's not like children will be any concern at this stage, but it's good to know that Loki is healthy and fully developed despite his size. While Jotnar are all capable of fathering and carrying offspring indiscriminately, Thor hadn’t been sure if that would be the case with Loki. There aren't many small Jotnar left; they have not been valued during Laufey's regime, to put it mildly.

Thor goes to get Loki. His cheeks still feel warm when he gets back to his own tent.

xXx

Loki had not expected medical treatment but, according to the guards in front of Odinson's tent, it is good he got it, or he would have died. Apparently Loki has been asleep for three days, and during that time someone has washed and clothed him in soft cotton robes. They are red and white, with embroidered gold filigree around the edges, and probably the finest things Loki has ever worn.

The exit is blocked and the guards alert, so there'll be no escape right now. Preferably Loki would like to gather strength a bit longer before attempting to flee anyway. Not that he knows where he'd flee to…

Odinson is not around, so Loki takes to poking through his possessions, examining his new prison while he winds a lock of his own fluffy black hair around a finger; he never knew it could curl like that, or look so glossy. He thinks someone put oil in it.

He's busy picking the lock of a promising chest when his captor shows back up. “Ah, Odinson.” Loki says as he rises fluidly from his knees, not bothering to hide what he was doing.

With a sigh, Odinson looks from Loki to the chest and back, “Awake at last I see.”

“And feeling much better,” Loki confirms, “Looking much better too, I assume, with the apparel you've put me in.” Loki saunters closer, hips swaying, teeth bared, “Odd to bring such finery to the battlefield. Did you change your mind and decide to dress up your whore?”

Odinson gives him an odd look. “Those are pajamas… Mine.” Cheeks reddening, he looks away, “my mother packed them for me…”

“How heartwarming.” Loki says, voice dripping ice.

Odinson clears his throat, shakes himself and brings up a small bag. “I brought food.”

Loki's hands fly up to snatch the bag, fingers stopping just inches away. Loki flushes, cheeks staining purple, as he pulls back and wraps his arms around himself.

“I…”

“It's fine.” Odinson says, gesturing for Loki to sit on the cot, “Sit down, I'll make you a plate.”

Slowly, Loki sits, eyes stuck to the floor. Odinson is his enemy, someone Loki should do his utmost to kill, but in the short time they've known each other, he has been kinder to Loki than… than anyone else in recent memory. Loki doesn't trust it. No one is that nice without wanting something.

“Here, eat slowly or you'll be sick.” Odinson says as he hands Loki a plate. It's a very small portion. Loki's face drops. “You can have more,” Odinson assures, “Just see if you can stomach this first. You've only had broth for days.”

Broth is more than he's used to getting.

Loki tries to eat slowly, but it's hard. His eyes close in bliss at the fatty smoked fish that melts on his tongue. The bread is sweet and made with dark beer and soft rye. There are apple slices and cheese.

It's too good to serve a prisoner.

When the plate is empty, Loki is full. He casts a mournful look at the still bulging bag, but then sits back, posture straight, and folds his hands in his lap. The manacles clink together. “What do you want with me Odinson? Tell me the truth.”

Because of course there is something.

Still chewing, Odinson eyes him for a long moment, then takes a swig of beer before answering. “I want to broker peace between Jotunheim and Asgard.”

“Peace?” Loki repeats disbelievingly, though he would rather say ‘through me?!’

“If not peace, then at least a permanent truce. Real peace can come in time.”

“It's madness.” Loki says, shaking his head, then laughs, “You want peace? You, Thor Odinson, who pierced through to the heart of Jotunheim seventy years ago and restarted the war?”

The tent falls silent, Loki's mocking words hanging in the air. He expects Odinson to explode into anger, but the blond Aesir sits silently, shoulders hunched, gaze lowered. “…I was a fool,” He finally says, voice low, “A stupid, petty, boy who had never seen true war and thought I deserved respect as my birthright.”

Loki says nothing. He had not expected this.

On the table, Odinson clenches one fist around the other and continues. “My birthday celebration was ruined by a band of Jotnar sneaking into Asgard, in an attempt to reclaim the Casket of Ancient Winters.” He sighs, “In my rage, I listened to no reason, and so I stupidly ended a ninety years armistice.” His eyes grow distant, “I was banished for my actions.”

“Didn't last long, did it.” Loki says bitterly. Odinson has led Asgard’s armies for decades. Loki had, like many Jotun kids, been terrified of thunder thanks to him.

“It felt long enough when I thought I'd never get to go home again,” Odinson says wryly, “And it taught me much. There was a war going on where I was sent too, and the racism and prejudice I saw there made me reevaluate many of my own ideas.”

Loki isn't sure what to think of this story, but Odinson seems sincere. “Right… Let’s say I believe you. What exactly are you aiming for?”

“Well…” Odinson spreads his palms on the table. His hands are big – strong. Fingers long and thick. “If a Jotun prince joined my side, and the people saw us getting along, then maybe peace wouldn't seem so,” he smirks, “mad.”

Loki's eyes narrow. “What exactly does ‘getting along' entail?”

“Ah, that's…” Odinson dips his head, laughs and rubs his neck. “I figure we could give the people a—a fairytale to believe in, of sorts. A symbol of peaceful unity.”

“What do you?—” Loki almost bites his tongue when he realizes what Odinson means. Fairytales always have true love uniting star-crossed lovers and ending wars and— “No.”

Odinson looks unimpressed by his vehement refusal. “Would it be so terrible?”

“Would it be—” Loki throws his arms up and gestures wildly to the other man, “—You're proposing to me, yet you treat this as a joke!”

Odinson’s brows furrow and his mouth turns down. Loki continues before he can get a word in. “Am I even able to refuse? In my position—” He shoves his bound hands in Odinson's face, then gestures at the tent he is kept prisoner in, “—What will happen to me, what will you do to me, if I don’t play along!?”

“Please calm down.”

“CALM DOWN!?” Loki yells.

Odinson gets up, fast, his chair screeching and falling down. He is tall, bigger than Loki, glowering down at him with thunder in his lightning blue glare.

Cold rushes down Loki's spine, replacing the fire in his belly, and his legs turn weak. He falls back onto the cot, unsure when he had stood in the first place, and stares up at the Thunderer with wide eyes. “Please don't…”

The rage in Odinson's expression sputters and goes out at Loki's whispered plea. “I—Norns.” He closes his eyes, runs a hand over his face and through his golden hair, “I won't hurt you, you have my word, but if you won't cooperate…”

Shivering, Loki laughs, but chokes on the bitter taste, turning it halfway into a strangled sob. “Then I'll be cast into the dungeons, never to see the light of day again.” He guesses.

Odinson doesn’t deny it, but sits back down, heavily. “You'll be asked questions—”

“—Interrogated.” Loki corrects.

A deep breath. “Yes. You will be made to talk, should you refuse or lie.” Odinson’s voice goes from hard to explaining, excusing, “You're high up the enemy’s command; the only reason you're not being dragged to the prisons and questioned is…”

Silence falls between them. It takes Loki two tries to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth and finish the sentence. “Because you claimed me as yours.”

Odinson closes his eyes, head lowering imperceptibly.

“So—so all this,” Loki gestures at his bandages, the fine robes and the food, “It’s for your future bride? To convince me…” There are tears in his eyes. “You said you wouldn't bed me!”

“I said I wouldn't force you to my bed.” Odinson says, but he doesn't look Loki in the eyes. He shakes his head, growls, “Look, I’m making you an offer that you are free to take or refuse. I spared your life to give you the choice.”

Loki presses his lips together and tries to steady his shaking hands. He knew. He knew there was a reason, but… “Then state your offer plainly.”

Stupid, stupid— latching on to any shred of kindness—pathetic, needy, weak—

Odinson works his jaw, muscles tensing and releasing. He captures Loki's gaze and keeps it. “Agree to marry me. Help us keep back the last rebellious fractions on Jotunheim, then join me in Asgard as my consort and help me put a permanent stop to this war.”

“Do Aesir often claim their war spoils as spouses?” Loki hears himself asking, the sound coming from far away.

“It… happens.”

“Ha…” Loki pulls his knees up, close to his chest.

From unwanted bastard, to war prize, to consort of the future King of Asgard, the lord of Nine Realms. It's a greater prospect than any Loki has ever imagined for himself.

That, or he can refuse to betray his people, his father, then go to the dungeons and be tortured into doing so anyway.

In the end, there is not truly a choice.

“I accept.”

Odinson nods. It's clear that he too expected nothing else, but he doesn't look victorious. “Thank you.” He says, sincerely.

Loki remains silent. What more is there to say? He just traded his pride for his life and the chance of a future.

“Loki,” it's the first time Odinson uses his name, “I know that this is not a true choice, but you are not the only one giving away their future.”

Loki looks up, throat burning, and meets his betrothed’s eyes.

“We might have met as enemies, but since the first time I saw you, I—” Odinson reaches out for him, then catches the motion and pulls back. The unfinished (finished) confession hangs between them like the blade of a guillotine. Odinson opens and closes his mouth, words sticking in his throat, “W-we could have a happy marri— I mean, we could try…”

Loki stares at him.

Odinson chokes on his words and gets up, stumbling, “Excuse me. I—I will go inform the priestess. I will return shortly.” He is out of the tent before he finishes the last sentence.

For a long moment, Loki sits still, stunned. Then, like a cat in a sun-stripe, Loki uncurls from his cramped position and stretches, a cautious smile on his face. What Odinson just let slip fills him up like a hot meal.

Real choice or not, Loki now knows he is not as powerless as he thought.

xXx

The priestess looks frazzled. Her grey braids are frizzy and her robes crumbled. Thor had dragged her out of bed, with no explanation, shortly before sunrise. Now she is looking between him and Loki, eyes growing wide as Thor's request slowly seeps in.

“Errh, my prince, are you certain…” Her horrified gaze lingers on Loki, who gives her a lazy smile in return.

“Quite. Please do it quickly.” Thor says, keeping a careful eye on his betrothed. Loki looks alert despite the hour, and though he still has a bandage peeking out of his robes, his skin and eyes seem brighter—healthier. He looks good in green.

He also looks above it all, like a cat on a high shelf, secure in its superiority. With a sigh he rolls his head towards Thor and gives him a look, one that tells Thor just how grateful he should be that Loki is indulging this nonsense.

Thor scowls back. He liked the Jotun better when he was angry and defiant.

Well—Thor breaks their gaze—That’s probably a lie. Thor has no interest in a frightened, unwilling spouse. They haven't talked about Thor's fumbled proposition again, but maybe that isn’t bad news. After all, Loki didn't say he didn’t agree. He might be interested in making their marriage work too. Making it real.

…Or he could just be biding his time, while eyeing his chances to take Asgard down from the inside.

Wringing her hands, the priestess looks around, but no one magically appears to dissuade her future king from this sudden desire to marry the enemy.

Then her face brightens. “We'll need witnesses!” She says, looking like she's found a loophole.

“…Right, of course.” Thor mumbles. He had hoped to marry Loki before anyone could raise a fuss, but clearly that is not to be. With a warning glare at Loki, who raises his eyebrows innocently in reply (ha, as if) Thor turns and sticks his head outside the barrack. The guards look at him when he clears his throat. “Please find the warriors three and lady Sif, and tell them they are needed here most urgently.”

Back inside the tent, Loki is twisting his inkle weaved belt between elegant blue fingers, admiring the gold thread pattern. Thor admires him in return. It's the first time Thor sees him up and about outside of battle—the first time he sees Loki at ease, with a smile on his face, however small and sardonic. Thor knew he was both lithe and agile, having seen him in action and heard his generals complain about his speed. He had been like a shadow on the battlefield, soundless and deadly, impossible to pin down, but when Thor had seen him at Skjaldefell, all he could think of was a dancer. Covered in blood and with a feral snarl on his face, Loki had still been graceful.

His fangs might be concealed now, but his eyes are sharp, and he cocks an eyebrow when he notices Thor watching him. Thor smiles at him and refuses to look away. Loki narrows his eyes at the boldness, huffs, and goes back to studying his clothes. The soft green and gold robes suit him, though Thor likes him even better in red; his own color…

Voices from outside interrupts Thor's thoughts, and moments later his friends spill inside the room.

“What's the trouble old frie—” Fandral chokes on his words and stumbles to a halt when he spots Loki. As a consequence, he is nearly bowled over by Volstagg, who comes in right behind him.

“Oy, why're yer stopping?!”

Sif and Hogun enter more gracefully, but they too go tight, shoulders and faces stiffening, when they see Loki.

“Thor…” Sif says, slow and dark, tone demanding an explanation.

Thor spreads out his arms, “My friends—” He tries, but is immediately interrupted by Volstagg.

“That's a bridal grown, ain't it. He's in a bridal grown.” The big man says, eyes stuck on Loki like he expects him to burst into flames any moment.

Loki just raises an eyebrow and looks down at himself again. “…I look remarkably good in a dress.” He muses, gaze slipping to Thor, “Don't you think so, husband?”

“Err, yes, definitely!” Thor agrees, vehemently trying to drown out his friends’ shocked outbursts.

Sif takes two quick steps forward, “You cannot be serious,” She says, low and urgent, eyes searching Thor's for some sign of a misunderstanding.

“Sif, I—”

“—I'm afraid I agree, old pal,” Fandral interrupts, having shaken his surprise. “Not that he doesn't look lovely,” he casts a quick glance at Loki, who smiles back innocently as you please. Fandral blinks, sucks in a breath and looks back at Thor, “He looks lovely,” Fandral repeats, “But that, my friend, is a rose with thorns.”

“The Jotun has bewitched him!” Volstagg exclaims, pointing accusingly at Loki, whose amused expression doesn't help.

Before things can decent into complete chaos, Hogun steps forward. With a single raised palm he calls down the silence Thor has been trying for since their arrival. Every person in the room turns and looks at him. Hogun's voice is deliberately calm. “Before we jump to conclusions, I think we should let Thor explain.”

“Thank you my friend.” Thor claps him on the shoulder in gratitude, then looks around at his comrades. “I have asked you here today to bear witness to my wedding,” Thor holds up a hand when it looks like Fandral and Sif will interrupt again, “You asked me why I spared Loki, and this is why. Our marriage can inspire peace—”

“—Or incite war!” Fandral cries, throwing his arm out in a wild gesture, “You didn't exactly ask his father's permission; you took him as your war prize!”

Thor blinks, “Well, yes, but—”

“—I suppose the kidnapping of brides is a rather old but time honored tradition.” Volstagg muses, hand pulling thoughtfully at his beard as he eyes the Jotun in the room, “If I remember correctly, then Thor's grandma Bestla…”

“Yes, exactly,” Thor points, “Thank you Volstagg.” He takes a couple of steps closer to Loki and dares to place a hand on his shoulder. It doesn't get frozen off; Thor takes that as a good sign. They should present a united front. “I know our parents will most likely be furious at first, but I believe my father will see the wisdom of my actions.”

He squeezes Loki's shoulder and gives him a quick reassuring smile, “With me taking a Jotun spouse, Asgard demonstrates that we are equal to the people of Jotunheim. That we have not fought to conquer and subjugate…” Thor trails off and looks earnestly between his friends, “There are still those who see me as a war hungry youth, but the truth is I would have peace.” He looks back down at Loki, “I believe this is the way to achieve it.”

Loki looks placidly back at him. Thor wonders what goes on behind those red eyes.

Volstagg nods, like he can see the merit. Sif's jaw is so tense it looks ready to crack, and it doesn't change from Thor's speech. Hogun hasn't changed his expression at all.

Fandral runs a hand through his hair, messing up the coiffure, before looking at Thor. “I can see where you are coming from, but this is so sudden. Normally you'd only kidnap and elope with someone if it's a love match and circumstances prevent you from being together.” He gestures between Thor and Loki, “But you two have been trying to kill each other for the last decade.”

Thor shakes his head, “I haven't been trying to kill him for months. I've been trying to capture him.”

Though he has been mostly silent so far, letting Thor struggle through explaining by himself, Loki now fixes him with an unimpressed glare. “Oh yes, because that makes everything so much better.”

The four warriors tense up as Loki speaks, but the Jotun ignores them. He sighs, exasperated, and crosses his arms. The manacles and chains clink together. “You said you wanted to give people a fairytale, didn't you?” He goes on before Thor can answer, “I assume you mean to sell a lie. Probably that we met at some point in the past, and though we were enemies, fell madly in love. Correct?” Loki raises his chin and looks at Thor.

“Yes, more or less.” Thor agrees. Though they haven't actually discussed it, he is not surprised Loki understood his plan from what little Thor said.

“It could work,” Loki agrees, tilting his head, “The common people and even the nobility can be suckers for romance, as long as it is not their own sons and daughters who elope.” He shrugs, “On the other hand it might inspire my father to demand restitution for my honor.”

Everyone but Thor makes a face at that.

“I suppose he'll want the Casket.” Thor says.

“However could you guess.” Loki deadpans.

When Thor just nods, Loki's eyes narrow before going wide as marbles, “Wait, you cannot be willing to actually give it!?”

“In time,” Thor replies, which is suitably vague but still the truth. “I have seen how Jotunheim fares without its heart, and I do not wish for the realm to break and for innocents to starve.”

For a long moment, Loki stares at him with a look Thor can't decipher. Then his chin dips and he closes his eyes. “The Casket was once a part of Jotunheim. It should never have been removed and used as a weapon.”

It is the first time Thor hears anything like that. Though curious, he files it away for later. Once more he turns to his friends. “I should like to marry before breakfast is served,” or any messengers can arrive with orders to stop, “So if you would all stand over there…?”

Slowly, his friends shuffle to their places. They stand there silently, stone faced, as the priestess is first sworn to silence about what she has heard, and then reads their rites.

It is only the priestess’ croaky voice filling the room as she asks them to kneel and binds Thor and Loki's hands together with bonds of white, red and green. Purity, life blood and hope— then a last golden bond for fidelity. When they are bid to stand again, the bonds dissolve and seem to sink into their flesh. A golden band forms around their ring fingers, and the priestess asks them to repeat after her—to seal with their vows.

Thor watches Loki as he speaks, and notes how his face twitches after every sentence. Thor bets he can feel the magic settling and binding to them.

“—to do no harm, to honor and protect you, because your honor is my honor, your home is my home, your sorrow is my sorrow and your joy my joy. In this life we are one and we cannot be parted. We share one heart as we will share one boat at the end. This I swear.”

Thor keeps a firm grip on Loki's hands as they speak the traditional vows, because the Jotun looks ready to bolt. Though sharing the same sea-bound funeral pyre is largely symbolic, the rest is decidedly not. There's a reason Thor was unwilling to dally with this. Once the words are spoken, Loki is bound by them. So is Thor, but he knew the drawbacks when he chose this old version of the rites.

Vows spoken, the priestess declares them married.

The tent falls silent; no one claps.

Loki pulls his hands free and scowls down at the band encircling his finger; the gold looks startlingly bright against his blue skin.

Clearing his throat, Thor drags his eyes away from the slender digits and turns to his friends. “Let us go break fast!”

xXx

If there is one thing Loki can appreciate, out of this whole situation, it is the Aesirs’ steady supply and access to food.

The feasting hall Loki's new husband leads him to is inside Dunra keep – an old Jotun fortress, abandoned some five years ago. Loki's forces had originally been trying to take the area back. How that developed into a decisive battle, Loki doesn't… Well, actually he does know. No side had been willing to give, more and more troops had been called, defenses had been built, lines kept…

For a month Loki had watched across the bare fields, heart hammering like a war drum, as the Aesir fortified and mobilized, long lines of armored warriors crawling over the hills towards them like big golden ants.

Some, most, of Loki's half-brothers had also arrived on his side. Bastards they might be, but full grown giants too, and this was too important to leave to the runt.

Loki guesses they're all dead now. He's not too torn up about it.

The hall is full of battered soldiers, rough voices ringing up to the rafters. Mead horns are smashed together, tales of battle shared in boastful tones. Still, there’s an underlying hush, an unspoken tension underneath the revelry; visible in still tensed muscles, shifty eyes and blood strained bandages. Here and there, warriors speak quietly together in smaller groups, faces shadowed as they remember their dead.

The room falls silent when Odinson steps in— Loki and the four warriors in tow.

Odinson nods at his men, but otherwise continues through the hall like nothing is amiss. With one broad palm placed on Loki's back, Odinson leads him forward and up to the high table at the end of the room.

Whispers start amongst the soldiers, their eyes stuck on Loki; his fine green and gold robes, brushed glossy hair, his seat beside their prince…

Loki keeps his head held high and gaze straight, but he sees their darkening, angered faces out the corners of his eyes.

Odinson's palm is warm like a brand against Loki’s back, and he doesn't move it, even when they sit down; just sneaks it around Loki's waist to pull him closer.

Loki grits his teeth and refrains from stabbing him with a butter knife. Barely.

The four warriors Odinson had called as their witnesses sit down around them, and then Odinson stands back up and calls to attention.

“Warriors of Asgard,” he looks around at them with a smile, but Loki can read the tension in his jaw, “Today we celebrate, not only the end of battle, as we have for days, but glad tidings.”

There's a questioning murmur, some still eye Loki, the battle fresh in mind, but no one seems to suspect their prince has done more than bring his conquest to dinner. A few are pointing to his green robes, the color and style of an Aesir bride's grown—ah, smarter than the rest then. Loki will have to watch those.

“Today, we take the first steps towards lasting peace.” He swallows imperceptibly and reaches down, offering a hand. Loki takes it, daintily, and stands up next to him, motion graceful. He tries to mold his expression into something gentle, or at least benign—Tries to project the aura of a fair maiden rather than a battle scared Jotun warrior prince. He's not sure whether he succeeds or not. This is not a role Loki has played before; but he would like to survive it.

“Today I have taken Loki Laufeyson, third prince of Jotunheim, as my bride and future consort!”

Odinson lifts their joined hands, showing off their new golden skin—their wedding bands, and inadvertently Loki's manacles too. Odinson has removed the chains binding them together, but not the manacles themselves. They glint with a dull shine in the torch light and Loki thinks ‘Ah, clever'. Show them he has rank, both as a prince of his own line and as consort, but don't lift his status as a prisoner or war-prize.

The way to room first falls deadly quiet, then explodes into shouts, it's probably good that they see Loki as a neutralized threat.

With a placid face, Odinson ignores the uproar, sits them back down and starts filling plates for them both. Loki is torn between listening to the warriors’ shouts, to learn exactly what they think of him, and how surreal the entire situation feels.

His husband's friends are eating too, looking like nothing is odd about Loki being in their midst. He'll give them points for solidarity at least, though not acting skills. Only the dark-haired man manages to keep a neutral expression, the rest look various stages of unsettled or, in the woman's case, angry.

In the main part of the hall certain warriors are slowly being chosen to go talk to their prince, to ask questions, but in the meantime the commotion continues.

With a smile, Odinson places a plate full of scrumptious morsels in front of Loki. This earns him a look from said recipient, but Odinson just grins, looking a mix of self-satisfied and expectant.

So he thinks he can buy Loki's affection with treats? Loki looks back down at his plate. There are fresh berries, cream and some sort of syrupy golden bread.

…Odinson might not be completely wrong about that.

“So your name is Loki, huh?”

Loki turns to Odinson's blond friend, seated on his other side, and looks at him curiously, “Have we met?”

“You almost took my head off at Fjeldskrig.”

“Ah.” Loki thought he looked familiar.

The man waves it off, “Forgiven and forgotten,” he tilts his head, “Assuming you're not planning on doing anything similar to Thor.”

“Even if I could,” Loki looks back out at the agitated warriors, “…I don’t think that would be in my best interest.”

The man laughs. “Right you are! Besides,” he leans closer, expression turning serious, voice low, “He'll be kind to you—it you let him.”

Loki blinks at the man, surprised, until a big hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes possessively. “Fandral! What are you whispering to my bride? Surely you do not aim to steal him with your words already!” Odinson bellows.

Fandral, as the blond man is apparently called, grins back. “So you admit there's a chance I'll succeed?”

“Ha! I will admit no such thing.” Odinson pulls Loki closer, a smirk in his tone. For a moment Loki tenses, ready to struggle to get free, before remembering that it is useless. They’re married; he must get used to this.

“…Loki?”

Ah, Odinson noticed his reaction.

Fandral focuses back on his own food to give them the illusion of privacy.

Loki brushes his husband off, relieved to be let go. “I'm fine Odinson.” He picks up his fork and spears a berry; the red juices run unto the plate like blood.

“You can call me Thor,” Odinson says, “We are married, so…” his voice grows less sure.

“Yes, I noticed.” Loki pops the berry in his mouth and chews, savoring the taste and texture with closed eyes. He would rather focus on this. When was the last time he got fresh berries? He recalls once or twice as a child, when he lived close to the rifts to Alfheim. It's been decades.

After the first bite he can’t stop himself, and the berries dwindle fast, interspersed with cream and the thin sweet bread. It is only when he is licking syrup from his fingers that Loki notices how everyone else has gotten much more humble meals, consisting of oatmeal and some toppings. Nuts and honey are still a king's delicacy in Jotunheim, but compared to Loki's meal it's not that special. In Asgard, with their bountiful harvests, it must be simple fare.

Sudden suspicion brews in his mind, and moments later another handful of berries land on his plate, practically confirming it. Loki stares at Odinson, whose hand is still stained from the juices. He gives Loki a quick distracted smile before going back to eating.

“Why?” The question tumbles out before Loki can stop it. Odinson looks at him, forehead furrowed, blue eyes confused. “Why are you doing this—” Loki gestures at the plate, the berries, the kindness, “—There's no need, we're already married.”

If anything, the question makes the shadows in Odinson's eyes grow. “That's just more reason to treat you well,” he says, like it's simple— obvious, “And please,” He captures Loki's gesturing hand and gives it a brief squeeze, “Call me Thor.”

Loki pulls his hand back and cradles it to his chest. He watches, but hardly listens, as the first warrior comes to their table to talk with their prince, eyes flitting to Loki and back like flies to dung.

Odinson's easygoing expression stays fixed in place, like he can smile the naysayers into submission. After the third general appears to voice concerns and complain, Loki goes back to eating.

The berries burst sweetly on his tongue.

…Thor, huh?

Chapter Text

The white steed is warm underneath him, and Odinso—Thor, a steady wall at his back. His arms are around Loki, one holding the rein and the other closing over his waist, broad palm resting on Loki's belly. It's unnervingly intimate without trying to be.

Loki focuses on keeping his breathing steady, forcing himself to keep drawing in air despite the smell of rot. It thawed yesterday. Beneath them the field is muddy and still filled with corpses. Loki spots a blue arm, bone showing, forever severed from its owner. He looks away.

“We'll be there soon,” Thor says, breath hot on the back of Loki's neck. Loki doesn't reply.

In front of them the glacier rises, blue-white and shining like silver under the pale sun. The sound of picks striking ice becomes louder as they draw near.

A wide trench has been dug into the foot of the mountain, already filled with the bodies of fallen Jotnar. At each end there are Aesir busy digging—widening the gulch. Others carry the dead to the edge and throw them unceremoniously on top of the other, creating layers of corpses. A mass grave.

Watching it happen, Loki can’t decide if this is better or worse than just leaving his kinsmen where they fell. On one hand it’s a burial in the ice, but on the other it's not— it's not…

Loki has seen death before, but he never had to deal with this; the macabre aftermath. He would leave with the living, marching towards the next battlefield, carrying nothing from the dead but their promise of vengeance.

Perhaps Thor senses his distress, because he kicks the horse and rides them past faster.

A worker spots them and waves them over to where a line of blue bodies are laid out on the ice, separate from the rest.

Thor dismounts and goes to help Loki down. It's odd. It is as if he has forgotten that Loki is a prince and warrior in his own right; perfectly capable of handling himself. It’s like being given the title “wife” warps the Aesirs’ perception of him.

Loki hesitates for a moment, then takes Thor's offered hand and lets him support his way down. Fussing should not be discouraged at this point. Let him see Loki as weak, as someone who needs protection. It can only help right now.

Hand resting on Loki's back, Thor leads him to the corpses. The worker follows, babbling nervously. “We looked for what you said—put them apart from the others, even if we weren't sure. We tried to keep the ravens away, but scavengers are hard to—”

Loki lets the noise wash over him, eyes stuck on the bodies. Thor leans closer. “Are these your brothers?”

“Half-brothers,” Loki automatically corrects, “Bastards—not acknowledged as heirs by Laufey.”

“But you are?”

Loki stiffens at the question. “Too late for you to regret it if I wasn't.”

“I—my apologies.”

Briefly, Loki closes his eyes and breathes out. Doubts about his legitimacy shouldn't matter anymore, but the defensive reaction is ingrained. Acknowledged or not, Loki has always been told his acknowledgement was a mistake; the last one Laufey was willing to make. No child born after Loki has been recognized.

“…The four on the left,” Loki finally says, “Maybe… Maybe the one on the far right. I don’t recognize him, but his lines look…” They look a lot like Helbindi's actually, and the Jotun is young. He might have been Loki's nephew; too late to find out now.

Jaw working around unasked questions, Thor pulls him back to the horse, but stops there, sheltered from the wind next to the beast. “Should I send a message about their deaths to Laufey?”

Loki shakes his head. “No. They were nobility, not royalty—given titles and lands, but not the honor of calling the King their parent. Laufey never claimed them as sons, though everyone knew.” It's how useful bastards are usually dealt with. It could have been Loki's fate, if not for… if not for a lot of things.

Thor nods, searching Loki's face.

“What?”

“Are you… Alright?”

It’s a stupid question. From Thor's expression, he realizes it too as soon as it has left his mouth. Loki just stares at him.

“I did not wish to bring you here, or for you to see these horrors, but I could not demand their bodies be moved to the camp—”

Loki raises a hand, motioning him to stop, then lets it drop again and gazes out over the plains. The echoes of battle ring in his ears. “It's nothing I haven't seen before.” He turns his head back and looks Thor in the eyes, “Many of the dead on your side will bear marks from my magic.”

Thor's expression darkens, blue eyes turning slate grey in the pale light. Loki’s mouth snaps shut and he curses himself—he should let Thor view him as delicate—but it's hard to kick a lifetime habit of not letting himself be looked down on; underestimated for his size.

This time, Thor doesn’t help him get on the horse. They ride back to the camp in silence.

Loki doesn't ask what will happen to the bodies of his half-brothers; he doesn't care.

xXx

Laufey had been very pleased to learn of his third child. Even before it was born, the babe had the kennings of a great mage. It was assumed that he would be a great and big warrior too; a good omen, a key piece to winning the war.

The rightful heir.

Loki’s sire had been favored by Laufey. It was Farbauti who had carried Laufey’s two other heirs, Helbindi and Byleistr, but this child was carried by Laufey himself. Amongst Jotnar the dam’s line was viewed as the strongest, and the most secure. After all, how better to be sure of a child legitimacy, than by carrying it yourself? 

Yes, Laufey’s third born would surely be great. With such a glorious lineage, with such prospects, how could the child be anything but magnificent?

xXx

“Well this seems like the foundation of a healthy marriage.” Loki sneers as Thor wraps his chains around the center pole of the tent, tying Loki to it.

Thor stands up with a sigh, hands on his hips. “I would like to trust you, but so far I have no reason to.” He walks over to the table and fills a cup with juice, then puts it next to Loki, who is seated on the floor; the chains are too short for anything else. “The moment you are free, what is to stop you from running towards Utgaard?”

Loki bats his eyelashes, but his smile stays sharp, “My eternal love and devotion?”

Thor chuckles without much mirth, “Someday, perhaps, that might prove true.”

Don’t hold your breath, Loki thinks. Wrinkling his nose, he picks up the cup and considers throwing it at his husband, just to see his startled face. But the sweet smell of red berries wins over his desire to antagonize his captor. The first sip tastes like summers in Alfheim; one of the few joyful memories from Loki’s childhood. He tips his head back and drinks deep, throat bobbing around the tart liquid.  

Occupied by the juice, Loki misses the strange silence coming from Thor until the man clears his throat. His voice still sounds strangled. “I will be gone for an hour or two. Do you need anything else before I go?” Thor gestures around the tent, eyes lowered, not looking directly at Loki, “More skins, or…?”  

With a thoughtful hum, Loki runs his fingers through the sheep skins he is seated on. They are thick and soft, far more luxurious than his old bedroll, despite being nothing but rugs. The juice sloshes around his empty stomach, and Loki bites his cheek. It’s only been a few hours since breakfast, he reminds himself; he is used to going without for much longer. He does not want to ask for favors; does not want to show neither need nor weakness, but… “Someone will be by with food?” He asks, as nonchalantly as possible.

Thor cocks an eyebrow, “Of course.”

“Then no,” Loki says, waving him off dismissively.

Thor watches him for a moment, jaw clenching, then spins around and leaves with a huff.      

Only when his footsteps fade does Loki let go of the tension he had held until then. Limbs loose and sore, Loki slumps and curls up on the rugs.

xXx

He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but he must have been more tired than he realized. Loki is usually a light sleeper, but this time his eyes only snap open when a bowl is put down next to him with a clank. Alarmed, Loki springs up and calls for his magic—the smothered feeling when it doesn’t respond is nauseating.

“Oh! I’m sorry your highness, I did not mean to startle you.”

Loki orients himself and takes in the young woman across from him. She is wearing a uniform looking dress, though she doesn’t seem like a soldier. Where has he seen that garment type before…?

“Are you a healer?” Loki guesses, while trying to calm his galloping heart. Waking up with an Aesir, his enemy, next to him, is unpleasant to say the least. The girl is lucky Loki is unarmed, or she would have gotten a dagger through the throat.

She nods, golden curls bobbing, and smiles carefully at him. “My name is Fjordgyn. I am here to check on your injuries and administer your medicine.”

“Right…” Loki says, watching as she starts to produce vials and other equipment from her bag.

Fjordgyn unwraps Loki’s bandages and smothers ointment over his wounds with quiet efficiency. Her hands stay steady, but sweat beads on her upper lip and her eyes are too focused. She never meets his gaze. Loki watches her with mild curiosity, as he has not seen a woman up close before. Male and female are obsolete terms amongst Jotnar, who are all one sex. Loki knows “wife” to be a female term, and “husband” to be for men, but finds being called one over the other equally erroneous.

“May I look at your head?” Her voice is careful, hands hanging hesitant in the air, hoovering—what little courage she entered with run out.

“You may,” Loki says, unaffected. He rattles his short chains, “But you will have to move behind me yourself.”

As she does, Loki contemplates for a moment, then decides it’s really time he started working on his situation. He can only wallow in the unfairness of it all for so long.

“Do you think it will be safe for me to wash my scalp soon?” Loki asks, plucking free one of his dark curls and tangling it around a finger. The careful hands on his head go still. Loki ducks his face slightly, affecting a bashful tone. “It’s, ah… It’s just that I would like to clean up for my husband. I do not wish for him to smell blood and be reminded of the battlefield every time he holds me.”

“Oh,” There’s a little sigh to her voice; understanding. How easy Aesir fall prey if you play into their expectations of roles. A captive Jotun Prince is scary; a nervous Jotun Princess? Not so much. Ridiculous.

“The wounds have closed and are healing nicely,” Fjordgyn says, voice relaxing, “but all the stitches haven’t come out yet. I would recommend waiting a few days.” She hesitates, Loki can hear it in her breathing, then: “—But your hair is clean. I… I could braid it for you? If you would allow it, your Highness.” She hastily adds.

A slow pleased smirk stretches Loki’s lips, “That would be most kind of you, Fjordgyn.”

xXx

To Loki’s delight, the girl is not only dimwitted and naïve, but also has an unhealthy disposition towards pleasing royalty. It does not take long, and only a few well-placed words, before she is brightly informing Loki of all he cares to know—and much he doesn’t care to, but that’s beside the point. 

“—And that’s what I told Merle. I told her prince Thor knew what he was doing; he would not send our warriors to their deaths for glory. And I was right! You don’t need to know strategy to understand the results, and at the end of the day the Jotnar were beaten back before the third moon rose, with only few injured on our side. Serves them—“ Fjordgyn cuts off with a strangled sound, remembering who she is speaking to, and her hands still in their braiding.

“No, it’s okay,” Loki says, voice mild as he peers back over his shoulder. “I remember that fight. It was a clever maneuver and I must admit I…” he lets his eyes slide to the side, “I was happy I did not have to face Thor in battle that day—That just once more I could leave without harming…” He trails off.

“Without harming Prince Thor?” Fjordgyn asks eagerly, swallowing the bait, hook, line and sinker. 

Loki laughs softly, self-deprecating, “You must think me silly to have such worries when we faced each other as enemies.” He shrugs, “Call it foolish sentimentality for a childhood fancy.”

“So it’s true?” Fjordgyn asks, breathless, failing to hide her excitement. Oh, to get gossip straight from the subject’s mouth: she will surely be the center of attention around the healers’ fire come night. Loki is laughing inside. “It’s true what they say about you and Prince Thor?”

Loki turns to blink at her, mouth dropping open, “Oh, I should not have said anything; no one was supposed to know, I—what do they say?” He widens his eyes. He is genuinely curious about what rumors must have spread by now. Loki will have to carefully pick which ones to encourage.

Her words tumble over each other in her eagerness, “That you and the prince knew each other before the war started again, that there was a misunderstanding and—and some even think that’s why the war restarted. That Laufey disapproved of your relationship, that prince Thor tried to steal you and that’s why he was banished or—or, well,” she looks down, “some of course thinks it was betrayal; that you tricked him to get to the Casket of Ancient Winters…” She peers up at him from under her lashes.

Ah, so she had thought the last possibility likely and now regrets it. How delightful. “I see…” Loki says, turning back around and gazing down at his lap. The rumors being as specific as they are must mean Thor has already started fanning the flames of gossip. Good, that’s fine, but Loki really needs to know more. He affects a melancholy air, and in a few moments his downtrodden silence wins him more information.

“I guess it is very romantic,” Fjordgyn says, sounding only a little hesitant, “I mean, I’m not sure what happened between you, but even after all this time, when you finally faced each other again, he married you instead of—err, well.”

‘Err well’ indeed. “Thor has tried to do his best by me,” Loki agrees sagely, “but the road ahead is yet paved with pikes and pitfalls.” He lifts his hands and jingles the manacles and chains with a tired smile.

“I’m sure they will come off soon…” Fjordgyn says, not sounding sure at all, and clearly not too keen on the prospect. Perhaps not completely naïve after all then. 

“I only wish for peace,” Loki says in a low, heartfelt voice, lying through his teeth, “But I understand how people must feel, seeing their future monarch married to a Jotun.” He sighs, “My hope is that I can prove myself with time. I do not wish to return to my father’s court, not now when I can finally be with Thor—be at peace.”

He smiles tremulously up at Fjordgyn; a brave façade fractured by shimmering wet eyes, “Truthfully, I am afraid,” he admits, tone confidential, “I fear what our parents will do, but I cannot deny my heart this chance at happiness. I cannot—“ His voice breaks and he lowers his head, hand covering his mouth as if stifling a sob, “I cannot bear returning to the battlefield to once more bring death.”

“It-it’s alright. Oh your Highness it’s alright, I’m sure it will all be fine,” Fjordgyn assures him, all sweetness and understanding now, hands fluttering before landing softly on his shoulders.

Loki pulls away and turns his back to her, taking a moment to compose himself. Mostly so he doesn’t laugh in her face. That would rather ruin the effect. When he turns back around he shows a regal mask full of cautious hope and gratitude. “Thank you lady Fjordgyn, for your time and attention. I apologize for burdening you with my worries. These last few days have me overwrought.”

She titters, a shrill sound full of pride and nerves, and bows her head—bashful like she has received a compliment. “Oh no!—It was a great honor your highness. Truly. I am not worthy.”

Loki smiles beatifically and kindly helps her pack her supplies. She keeps brushing him off, insisting that he does not need to, that it is her job, and bows and scrapes all the way out of the tent.

When the flap closes, Loki lies down, smothers his face in the skins and laughs, and laughs, and laughs… And if laughter eventually turns to sobs, and tears escape down his cheeks, no one is there to see it.      

xXx

Thor stomps through the camp like a bull, throws his tent flap open and enters with a hard “You,” pointing at Loki, who is curled up on the skins like a blue and black cat. “What did you do?!”

“Ah, husband. Welcome back.” Loki smarms as he unfurls, long arms stretching over his head. His hair is intricately plaited, done up in big and small braids, all interwoven and gleaming. It lays bare his long swan like neck. Thor stares, mouth running dry, but he doesn’t forget his ire.

“All day I have been asked and pestered about how long we have been together; when we met—How we met.” Thor says.

“Yes?” Loki says, blinking up at him in innocent bewilderment, “And wasn’t that what you wanted? For your people to think us star-crossed lovers torn apart by war?”

“Not before we had agreed on a story,” Thor says. “I had kept my insinuations vague until now.” He glares at Loki, who just smiles back, “I’ve been dodging questions left and right, evading guesses meant to trip me up and reveal the truth, all the while having no idea what you had already said.”

“How awkward, considering it’s all a lie.” Loki says airily, “But worry not, I didn’t say much. I merely told the healer who came to see me—” he clutches his hands together and raises the pitch of his voice, “—how happy and relieved I am to finally have this chance of happiness with you.” He bats his eyelashes, which look wet with tears. For a moment it seems disconcertedly real. Then Loki tilts his head and his face is overtaken by a mocking smirk; wiping the innocence away.

Thor scowls at him. “This is no joking matter. Need I remind you how precarious our situation is?” He steps closer and squats down in front of the Jotun, “How precarious your situation is?”

Loki glares back at him, red eyes gleaming and face taut—mockery replaced with smothered rage. “That, Odinson, is not something I am likely to forget.” He says, voice soft.      

Thor presses his lips together and stands back up. “See that you don’t,” He says, and then immediately regrets his words and the harsh tone. The sight of Loki, sitting shackled, chained and magically subdued on the floor, shaking with fury, is enough to drop a stone into Thor’s belly.

He didn’t come here to fight. He just—why can’t they just—

“Well,” Loki sniffs and looks away, a blank mask falling over his face, “Did you want something other than to remind me of my place?” All signs of emotion are gone, hidden like embers smoldering under cold ashes.

“I…” Damnit.

To buy himself a few moments, Thor wipes a hand down his face and walks over to the desk. He sits down and consciously relaxes his shoulders. “We need to agree on a story.” Thor says, aware that an apology would probably be better, but knowing it would ring false. Thor is the one who put Loki in this situation, deliberately and with full foreknowledge that it would not go down well. That the alternative was Loki’s death is hardly any comfort.

Loki shrugs and picks at the rugs, long blue fingers curling in dark wool, “There are only so many places we could have met. A slim possibility would be my father’s court, before the last round of negotiations broke down completely, but I hardly spent any time there as a child, and there would have been too many eyes on us for anything to happen.”

Thor has to agree. The few times Odin brought him to Jotunheim as a youth are blurry memories of scowling at giants five to seven times his size and being glared at in return. There would have been no time to meet and woo Loki, even if their presence there had overlapped at some point.

“But…”

Thor lifts his head and sees Loki looking thoughtfully at the jug of berry juice on the desk. “What?”

“When I was young, I lived at my uncle’s keep.” Loki says slowly, a story unspinning behind his eyes, “Skymir’s len is vast and bordered rifts to Alfheim. They were narrow, only children and small youths could pass through, but on the other side lay fertile lands rich in all we lacked…” Loki trails off, expression distant with remembrance.

“You went to Alfheim?”

Loki stiffens and snaps back to the present, looking down at his lap. “I went there to forage for longer than most, thanks to my size.” He says tonelessly.

“But...” Thor swallows, “All Jotun incursions into Alfheim were beaten back. Any rift discovered got closed.”

“And so did these.” Loki says, voice crisp, still not looking at him. “I have vivid memories of seeing children younger than myself slaughtered, pierced by Aesir blades, when they finally learned of our presence. It didn’t matter that we had never bothered anyone; only foraging from woodland. We were Jotnar so we had to die.”

Thor gets up so fast the chair tips back, “Lies! We do not slay children!” That is impossible. Children are treasured amongst the Aesir—being so few in numbers makes them all the more precious. Killing kids, even from an enemy species, is unthinkable.    

Loki turns narrowed eyes on him, “You may not have, but your troops were hardly so discerning. If it was blue and as tall as them, then it had to die. It didn’t matter if the victim was still a child by Jotun standards.”

Thor stares at him in mute horror, realizing that Loki has no reason to lie about this. “I did not know.” Thor says weakly.

“And as the Aesir Prince, ignorance surely absolves you of all blame.” Loki says nastily.

Thor lowers his head, knowing it does not. “I… I do not believe that any paths to Alfheim remain open, but I will get in touch with the garrisons there. Such actions are considered criminal and must be stopped.”

It is too little too late, Thor knows, and judging by Loki’s silence he thinks so too. The tent goes quiet, air still. Thor hears the rustling of Loki’s green bridal gown mixing with clinking chains. The combination makes his stomach sink and squeeze.

It’s a full minute before anyone speaks again.

Loki clears his throat, “In other words…” he says, “If you had met me on one of my ‘incursions’, you would have sent me back with a slap over the fingers, is that it?”

“I…” The blood drains from Thor’s face. Oh how he would love to say yes. Thor looks at his wife, at his lovely blue skin, and feels the old embers of familiar shame flare up in his chest. In those days, Thor had still been hot headed, prone to loosing himself in battle lust, not to mention convinced that Jotnar were all cowards and murderers; little more than monsters.

“That would depend on when we met.” Thor admits. He wouldn’t have killed a child, but another youth… He quickly banishes the thought of what he would have done to Loki, had they met then.  

Loki looks upwards, lips pursed, “I’d say my last non-disastrous visit was around three hundred years ago.”

“So recent?” Thor says, brows furrowing. “I was already considered a man then. Exactly how old are y—“

“—Putting our encounter recently makes it more plausible,” Loki cuts him off before Thor can finish the question. “There was a standstill in the conflict around that time, with no big battle before seventy years ago. Infatuation can only survive so much bloodshed,” Loki argues, quite reasonably. “I assume you spent time on Alfheim?”

“Yes, quite often,” Thor admits. “It is good hunting grounds, not to mention a favored target for marauders.”

“Mhh,” Loki agrees, expression tight. Thor winces. What he and his friends treated as sport, Loki’s kinsmen payed for with their life. Thor doubts a small group of foraging Jotnar made more damage than a rabble of reckless Asgardian youths.

“That’s our story then,” Loki says with finality. “We met on Alfheim, you spared me, and we struck up an unlikely friendship until the rift I used to travel back and forth got blocked.”

“That’s not much of a story,” Thor argues.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Loki says. “Actually, the less detail we add on the better. Let your people do the rest for us; I’m sure they’ll come up with both much more plausible and romantic scenarios than we feel inclined to think of, and then we can merely support those we favor.” He smirks, “This way we don’t have to keep track of our lies, because we aren’t telling any, just throwing vague insinuations here and there.”

Thor nods. It is genius in its simplicity, and extremely underhanded. With weary eyes, Thor watches his new spouse. Loki looks self-satisfied, mischief playing in the curling corners of his soft blue lips. He is beautiful and clearly just as shrewd as Thor suspected.

It’s a dangerous combination.  

xXx

Outside, Jotunheim’s spring winds tear through the camp. Its icy claws sends soldiers running inside; tent flaps tightly secured in their wake, yet still trembling under its onslaught. The rustling and howling serve as backdrop to the crinkling of vellum and the smell of burning whale oil candles, their orange light flickering over the tent’s canvas.    

Thor rolls a quill between ink stained fingers, "What should I write your father? He must be informed of our marriage."

Nimble hands coming to a rest, Loki looks up from his lap-held inkle loom. He has been given it to pass time while his husband works on correspondence; a pleasant side effect of striking up an accord with the healers. "Of you kidnapping and claiming me you mean?"

Thor gives him a dark look, then shakes his head and starts writing the introduction, one hand holding the rickety table steady as he works. Loki can see his script— flowing but sure; a lot like Thor in battle.

‘To his majesty Laufey, King of Jotunheim, Lord of—‘

Putting down titles is bound to take a while. Loki chews his lip and watches shadows dance on the tent canvass while waiting. He has a choice to make. Right now his best chance is to go along with Thor’s plan, which is what he has been doing. This way, he might be able to carve himself a safe hold in Asgard, until he finds some way to slip away. But that is only one plan, and Loki really does prefer to have all his bases covered.

If Loki is lucky, then he will never again have to go back to empty halls, cold walls of ice, and colder attitudes. If not, then he is throwing himself to the wolves. No, worse—to the Aesir. Thor might seem kind, but their fabricated love story is exactly that: A lie.

Loki knows well the danger of believing in lies; his enemies tend to regret doing so with their last breath.

If the truth comes out, if his past and his real status are discovered, Loki doesn’t hold out much hope that his new husband will protect him. That leaves Laufey, who would happily discard Loki any day of the week for the mere insult of his existence. It’s not a promising outlook. Still, there is the slim chance that his father will at least see the profit he himself can gain by supporting Loki's claim; a spy in Asgard, if nothing else.

The scratchy sound of a quill on vellum stops. Thor lifts his head and looks at him, earnestly, expectant. “Well?”  

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Loki looks back at him; at his clear blue eyes framed by whips of golden hair. For a moment he imagines trusting Thor. He imagines staying in Asgard with him, safe and never hungry again… It is a nice fantasy, but Loki has never been lucky. Clawing his way to every small shred of acknowledgment, he clung to his rights; ones given before he was born, before he was seen. Every day he nursed what few skills he had, fought tooth and nail to survive— determination the only rafter keeping him afloat.

No, Loki is not lucky, and he knows that the world is not kind; that nothing is given freely. Loki doesn’t trust Thor’s intentions, so given the choice he’ll rely on the evil he knows.   

Loki smiles, teeth sharp and white. "Tell him his favorite son is in your custody—as your new spouse. I'm sure he'll be delighted."

"Favorite?" Thor asks dubiously.

"Well, I am his youngest."

Thor sighs and runs a hand over his face, clearly frustrated with Loki's refusal to be of real help. He freezes midway through the motion— his head snaps back to Loki, "You were only on the battlefield for the last decade," He states, like it's some sort of realization.

Loki narrows his eyes. "Yees...?" He says slowly.

"You—" Thor cuts himself off, eyes wide and searching Loki's face for something. "You didn’t answer me before. How… how old are you?"

Loki tilts his head, "Eight hundred, why?"

Thor jumps up—chair skidding out and falling to the floor behind him. "You're a kid!"

"I am not!" Loki snaps, offended. When his denial does little to change Thor’s horrified expression, Loki rolls his eyes and clarifies, “You forget that Jotnar mature faster and do not live as long as you Aesir do—with your golden apples and oh, steady food supply.” Huffing, he goes back to threading the shuttle through his work, watching his captor out the corner of his eye.

Thor is frowning, lights and shadows playing on his face, making the lines more pronounced. “I know there is a difference, but I hadn’t considered…” He trails off, then shakes his head, “Not that it matters. Once we are back on Asgard, you too will enjoy Idunn’s apples and feel their power.”

Loki pauses to look up askance at Thor, “And that will work? I’m Jotun, not Aesir.”

There’s an odd pause where Thor just watches him, something unsaid playing over his features, but in the end he clears his throat and focuses back on his correspondence—not meeting Loki’s eyes. “Our people are not as dissimilar as you might think.” He says vaguely. Thor scratches down a few more lines, bites his lip, then looks back at Loki with a grin, “Besides, I’m seven hundred years your senior, but if you didn’t eat the apples you would soon catch up. Then I’d no longer have a youthful bride—terrible thought, really.”

His tone and cheeky grin makes it clear that Thor is joking, or trying to, but Loki only manages a grimace in response. Seven hundred years… Thor is almost twice Loki’s age. Loki had known Thor was older, but not by how much. Sulking, he goes back to weaving. No wonder it had been such a pain to fight the Aesir Prince; with double the life experience he has now, Loki would have been a lot harder to take down too.

The motions in weaving are repetitive and calming, drawing Loki’s mind away from dark thoughts of could-have-beens. Red, green and gold threads wrap over and around each other, turning into a simple but pleasing pattern. It’s the first time Loki works with green. It’s a rare color on Jotunheim, both in nature and in their dyes. Loki finds that he likes it. He wishes he had tablets, so he could make a more complex pattern, but maybe once they get to Asgard…

Loki’s hands pause in their work when he catches the thought. When he gets to Asgard? Cold starts spreading in his abdomen—what then, you idiot. Thor will ply you with gifts and shelter you from all cruelty?

The shuttle drops from Loki’s hand. The voice is familiar. Words spat, curses washing over him like foul breath, a shadow looming, waiting for a mistake…

Pathetic. How quick you are to forget those who raised you—fed you—despite your uselessness. You’d sell yourself for scraps your worthless wh—

“No.” Loki whispers, eyes squeezing shut, forcing the voice quiet. It doesn’t change the truth. Loki should know better. He does know better. Don’t hope for things; don’t wish for more than survival. That way lays drifting focus followed by death. Loki is not going to Asgard to weave and be Odinson’s dutiful little wife. It’s just a middle station to… somewhere.

“What are you making?”

Loki startles at the question. He turns to Thor and blinks at him, taking a moment to find his words. “A belt… Or a thick trim. Whatever it’s needed for I suppose.” He hasn’t made it with anything specific in mind. It’s just a way to pass time; one he is used to. There are no idle hands in Skymir’s hall, unless you want them to get spanked.

With a curious noise, Thor kneels down next to him and looks at the finished part of the work. “Red, green and gold: the colors of matrimony.” He smiles, “I like it. Can I have it when it’s finished? I’ll wear it as a remembrance of today.”

“Sure,” Loki mumbles, thrown when he remembers how little time has passed since their impromptu wedding this morning. Hours at most; it’s evening now. Thor is a looming presence this close, warmth rolling off him in waves together with the smell of spices and metal. Loki itches to pull away, but stays very still instead. Go back to your damn letters, Loki thinks, tongue sticking to the roof of his dry mouth, voice lost. Thor’s breath is hot and moist against Loki’s ear and the side of his neck— Why isn’t he moving? Loki wonders, before suddenly remembering Thor’s words from earlier.

“I wouldn't force you to my bed… I’m making you an offer… I spared your life to give you the choice.”

And Loki had chosen, hadn’t he? He had said yes. He had agreed to… Loki’s stomach ties into a knot, acid pressing against his esophagus. He becomes aware of the tension in the tent, the energy between his and Thor’s body; still right next to his. Like the smell of ozone before a storm, the air heavy, cloying—hair standing up in goosebumps.

Thor sucks in a breath and places a hand on his arm, “Loki…”

The hand burns like a brand. Loki wants to run. He can’t move; can’t breathe. Like a rabbit pressing itself flat in a bush, predator closing in— He squeezes his eyes shut.

Someone clears their throat by the entrance. “Ah, Thor? Hope I’m not disturbing lad, but if you have a moment…” A man peeks in through the tent opening, like he knows that he’s interrupting something. It’s one of Thor’s friends; that red-headed one.   

Thor hesitates for a moment, sighs, then gets up to let him in.

When Thor’s touch leaves him the spell breaks, heavy air lifting— Loki gasps; his lungs unfurling like butterfly wings, beating in flight. Shaky, chest heaving, he gets up from the floor and moves to the other side of the room, as far as the chains will allow, until the canvass wall is at his back. He hugs himself, fingers squeezing his upper arms, nails digging in. He’s an idiot. He didn’t think. Of course Thor wants… It’s his right! Loki agreed. He just thought…

What, you thought he’d be different? That he wouldn’t want his right to your body?

Loki bites his lip until he tastes blood. Naïve. Stupid. Fuck.

Thor’s back looks tense— he probably didn’t like being interrupted— but he smiles amicably while holding the tent flap open for his friend to enter. With Volstagg inside, the tent feels tiny. The rotund man puts both hands over his belly, a nervous habit, and looks around with flickering eyes. They alight on Loki, and Volstagg offers him a strained but cordial smile. “’Evening Prince Loki, ‘hope it finds you well.”

Half-aware, Loki murmurs something confirming in reply, focus still stuck on Thor— watching, anticipating—heart hammering away and palms sweating. Childhood lessons whirl through his mind—don’t look away from a predator; you’ll lose it amongst the ice and then you’ll die.

Except it’s too damn late now, isn’t it? He already got caught.

No. Loki squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, forcing air into his lungs. No, he can survive this. He must. Loki tries to get a hold of himself—tries to rationalize. Really, it is amazing that he made it this far without resorting to using his body; that had been a danger ever since he came of age. He’s married now. They are legally bound, so even after… even after, Loki’s honor will be intact. Really, he needs to calm down. He’s a warrior, not a sniveling child.

At least Thor is not big enough to split Loki in two, like a true giant would. If Loki can relax his muscles, it might not even hurt that much.   

If Thor notices Loki’s reaction, he doesn’t show it. “What brings you here?” He asks Volstagg, a frown marring his forehead, “Not more conflict I hope. Until we get a declaration of surrender, rebel bands are bound to pop up, but it’s only been four days…”

Volstagg shakes his head, “No no, nothing like that.” He wrings his hands and looks to the side, “I realize this is awkward, with the deal you two actually have, but some of the soldiers have cleaned up a room in the fortress…” He clears his throat, “For, uh—for your wedding night.”

Thor stiffens. In the corner, Loki goes very still.

Dead silence reins for a moment, then Thor shakes himself and musters up a wry smile, “That’s very considerate of them. To think it only took me getting married for them to finally clean it up.”

Volstagg chuckles halfheartedly, eyes darting to Loki and back, “Come now Thor, they’ve surely had other things on their mind than dusting the living quarters of a Jotun keep.”

“I’m merely joking, my friend.” Thor says, waving him off and turning back to Loki, “Well, we’ve better take them up on it.” His tone is relaxed, shoulders loose, but his eyes are sharp and assessing. Loki shrinks under their scrutiny.

“…Yes,” Loki whispers, in a very small voice. Anything for survival, he reminds himself. Anything.  

xXx

Their path through Dunra keep makes for a bleak walk. Few of the fort’s buildings have been put to use by the Aesir. The place is a mess, rooms looted for all valuables and ice walls crumbling from lack of upkeep. Only the stone masonry of the outbuildings and a few inner rooms still stands strong. It is to such a place Volstagg leads them.

“Ah, here we go,” Volstagg says, opening the creaking double doors and gesturing inside, “Not sure what this room was originally used for, but we actually found a bedframe in here, so...”

Thor watches as Loki slowly enters. Loki hasn’t said a word since they left the tent; face a stiff and bloodless mask. The room is small, ceilings low—by Jotun standards— with plastered stone walls meant to insulate from the cold. There is already a fire burning in the build in hearth; Thor hasn’t seen that in a Jotun home before and wonders about it. Jotnar don’t exactly need to keep warm; they’ll happily wear a loincloth through a blizzard. Maybe it’s for cooking?

In the corner of the chamber, unneeded furniture has been gathered and hastily covered with a sheet, but it doesn’t fully conceal the shapes beneath. Stiff limbed like a mechanical doll, Loki walks over and pulls it to the side. Thor follows him.

“What is it?” Thor asks, coming to stand beside him. Loki runs a hand over the thing he has uncovered. Thor touches it too; despite layers of dust the wood is still buttery smooth under his fingers.

“A crib,” Loki answers, while looking around the room, “…Placed in the center of the keep and made by stone… This room was a nursery.”

“A nursery?” Thor repeats, heart dropping.

Loki nods, eyes lowered and stuck to the crib, expression strangely vacant. “Jotun infants cannot regulate their body temperature well, so stone rooms with fires are built for laboring and keeping them protected.” He touches the wooden carvings of snowflakes and fish, “Whoever this was made for must have been loved; this wood is hard to come by on Jotunnheim.” A shadow falls over his face and his voice darkens, low and acid, “Of course he probably died when the keep fell. I doubt his parents thought his nursery would be desecrated as an Aesir wedding suit.”

Thor frowns at him. It’s not like there will be any actual desecrating.

Loki catches his expression, but doesn’t read it right. “Why so uncomfortable husband? It is merely the truth.” Loki grins, too wide and false, eyes glinting darkly. “I’m sure the people of Midgaard sleep easier knowing that another Jotun child is dead.”

“Loki enough,” Thor says, not sure where this sudden malice stems from.

Loki just bares his teeth. “Hypocrites, the lot of you,” He sneers, before turning on his heal and marching over to the bed. He stops there and stares at the layered quilts, lips twitching, face slowly melting back into that strange blank mask. Then he hugs himself, shoulders hunched, and turns his back to Thor.

Thor sighs and runs a hand over his face. And to think today had been going well, all things considered.

Lightning rolls under his skin, but Thor feels closer to exhaustion than anger. So far his new wife’s mercurial moods are… Well, not as much mercurial perhaps, as just generally caustic. Not odd, considering their circumstances, but still exhausting. He shouldn’t expect any better, Thor reminds himself. He plucked Loki from the battlefield and coerced him into marriage. If Loki wants to hurl vitriol at him, then that is still better than him huddling in the corner with too wide eyes and trembling lips. The situation back in the tent, when Thor had gotten to close, had been…

Actually that’s probably still the problem. Thor isn’t sure what set Loki off, but knows that he will have to find out before they sleep. He hopes it isn’t what he thinks. Thor rubs his eyes harder, until spots dance behind his closed lids. It is his wedding day, the only one he plans to have, yet he cannot wait for it to end. 

“Thor? Will you be alright?” Volstagg asks, still hovering by the door, witness to the whole thing. When Thor raises his head, his blurry vision clarifies into the man wringing his hands and glancing between Loki’s tense back and Thor’s face. “You could go back to your tent if—“

“It’s alright Volstagg,” Thor says, waving him off with a tired gesture, “you can go back. I’ll stay.” He wants to caution his friend against telling anyone what the room was originally for, not wanting to sour their efforts, but in the end doesn’t. Few of the warriors under his command would grieve from such news anyway. For many Asgardians, the only good Jotun is a dead Jotun.

The Jotnar is not entirely underserving on such a saying though, Thor thinks. They are ruthless warriors who show no mercy, known to invade and pillage other realms. Whatever airs Loki puts on his people are not innocent in the war, and hardly the only ones to suffer losses. 

Thor’s gaze slides back to Loki, lingering on his softly curling dark hair; it twists down his lithe frame in elegant braids. From behind he could pass as an Asgardian maiden, but his beauty does not render him harmless. Thor should not let it distract him. Literally bedding down with the enemy is already ill-advised; forgetting what Loki is capable of would be more so. 

But Loki is also young and probably scared underneath his obvious anger; fenced in on all sides in a situation he didn’t ask for. Thor reminds himself of this as he closes the doors behind Volstagg. Out the corner of his eyes, he catches Loki’s flinch when he turns the key in the rusty lock.  He pockets the key and then faces his spouse, arms crossed. Loki is still staring pale faced at the bed, stiff fingers digging into his upper arms.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Thor says, crude but direct.

Loki spins around, spitting like an angry cat. “Don’t patronize me Odinson!—I know what I agreed to. Treat me as you will but don’t lie to me!” His eyes are narrowed to blood red slits, “Even if you don’t fuck me this day, you married me. It’s permanent, and someday you will need an heir.” Loki’s shaking hand fists in the cloth over his lower abdomen, pulling at the dress until it creases. Thor can’t help tracking the motion.

“That day is far away,” Thor says, dragging his gaze away from Loki’s belly and up to his eyes. “I’m not even King yet, and my father might still live many years.” Loki trembles, eyes wet and shining despite the snarl on his face—Vulnerable under the surface of anger. Thor keeps eye contact as he speaks. “I will not touch you before you invite me to. I give you my word.”

For a few moments after the promise leaves Thor’s lips, Loki stands stiffly, still staring at him. Then the meaning seems to hit and he collapses—folds into himself like wet paper, until he is sitting on the edge of the bed, face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

Thor takes a step closer, “Loki…”

“Just—“ Loki holds a hand up for Thor to stop. He sits there, motionless, for another thirty seconds, simply breathing. Then he turns, throws open the covers and climbs in without removing a single article of clothing or unbraiding his hair.

Thor watches this with no comment. It is clear that any attempt at comfort will not be well met. After Loki is hidden under the blankets, Thor tiredly undresses down to his underclothes and takes the other side of the bed for himself. He’s aware of the tension radiating from his bedpartner, but it has been a long day, and the room is dark, relatively warm, and quiet; only the occasional pop of a log breaking in the fire and their mingled breaths. Thor is already dozing off when Loki speaks again.

“Thor. Know that if you break your promise, I will kill you.”

Thor doesn’t doubt it, but… ‘He said my name.’ Thor smiles, turns onto his side, and falls asleep.   

xXx

Chapter Text

Morning dawns, pale and cold, with mist drifting over the ice. Aesir warriors huddle around their watch fires and long for home. The chill burrows through their bones and into the marrow. Even in spring, Jotunheim is brutally cold.  

None of this is felt by Loki, who wakes up overheated and miserable.

Bed sheets stick to his clammy skin. The fire in the hearth has gone out, but nevertheless it’s unbearably hot, the air dense and muggy. Only half conscious, Loki tries to scoot towards a cooler part of the bed, but the strong arm curled around his waist stops him. Loki freezes up. Behind him, Thor grunts and shuffles closer, lining himself up along Loki’s back once more, burning like a living furnace. Loki can feel every steel corded muscle, and a hard prick poking against his ass. Panic flashes through him, heartbeat jumping, before he contains it. Thor has promised not to touch him—yet.

It’s a flimsy safety net with a definite expiration date, but it buys Loki time. For now he does not have to spread his legs for the enemy and let himself be ravished like a conquered prize, even if that’s exactly what he is. He does not have to worry about getting pregnant. If he is forced to run, Loki knows he can make it alone for a while, but with a babe in his belly, especially an Aesir one, he won’t stand a chance.

Slowly, Loki lifts Thor’s arm off his waist and sits up, gazing down at his husband. Long blond hair spills over their pillows like fine-spun spider silk, and his skin is pale like snow in the dark room. Thor’s chest rises and falls so easily, breaths slow and even, still asleep. How careless—or is it pride? Does he think himself so safe here, lying vulnerable next to his enemy? Loki reaches out and touches Thor’s pectoral, feeling a strong heart beating steadily under his fingertips. Loki’s fingers curl, black nails scraping against Thor’s pale skin. If he just had something sharp…

Pain lashes through him. Hissing, Loki pulls back, fingers burning. Instinctively he stuffs them in his mouth, desperate to cool, tasting lightning and burned flesh. Nausea hits him in the gut, and Loki pulls away from Thor’s side, sliding to the floor, shaking.

What was that?! Did Thor do that? Loki hadn’t even done anything! He had only thought—

Loki pauses; swallows back his panic to think. He had thought about harming Thor, no, killing him even, and for a moment, Loki had planned to follow through. Slowly, Loki pulls his smarting fingers out of his mouth and studies them. They are blistered, but will heal soon. It’s painful but not permanent. He drops his hand; it lands in his lap on top of his green grown; His bridal-wear.

Thor had bound them with the old rites, or so he had said. They had been unknown to Loki, but clearly, the wows had not been mere spectacle. The magic he had felt then held true. He cannot harm Thor.

But—Loki thinks, while poking his blisters—neither can Thor harm him, at least in theory. In Loki’s opinion it makes no sense, Thor binding himself in that way, when he could just have found something that would only affect Loki. Dark magic is obscure and information on it hard to come by on Jotunheim, but Loki knows enough to realize that there are ways. Spells to force compliance, servitude… Even love. So why do it? Why had Thor bound himself under the same conditions? Loki’s fingers throb with the pulse of his blood, dunking like a painful drum; a reminder of his place. But Thor risks the same pain, willingly. Loki can’t figure out why. It’s yet another mystery of his new husband and owner.

With effort, Loki drags himself back up on the bed. His arms shake underneath him, weak like a newborn’s. Hair sticks to his sweaty neck, itching, and his stomach rolls; the heat is nauseating. His mouth is dry, but there’s no water in here, and Loki dares not leave the suffocating room on his own. He lies back down, on the far side of the bed, and pulls the covers back over himself. He’ll be miserably hot in either case, but being cowered makes him feel safer, like a small beast hiding in its burrow. The sheets close around him like a funeral shroud. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe despite the heavy air. Soon his throat starts hurting, growing just as dry and cracked as his mouth. Each inhale feels like a knife through the neck, yet he doesn’t move.     

Loki lies there for a long time, mind turning, twisting and wandering, growing dizzier as the hours pass. His thoughts are boiling and melting out of his skull, flowing out of his ears like melt water. His breathing grows labored. Packed dirt presses down on him from above, stealing his breath, strangling him.

He is in his grave, buried alive after a battle, wounded and helpless. Loki twists, tries to scream, but he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe—and he’s on fire. He’s burning, caught by Aesir and held down while they use flames to—

“Hey, hey,” Someone shakes him. Loki gasps but ends up coughing, air too thick for his lungs. “Shh,” It’s the same voice. Fingers touch his forehead, hot like pinpricks, and Loki pulls away with a whine. “Damnit, you’re overheated.” The voice curses some more, then grows fainter. A door opens and slams shut.

‘No, don’t leave me alone.’ Loki tries to say, but his voice won’t come. He lies in the darkness, burning and buried, melting and bleeding out.

Time passes. Why isn’t he dead yet?

“—told you not to bed him for at least a few weeks—“ Another voice says, it’s lighter. A child… No, he remembers the Aesir; a woman?

Is she one of his torturers?

A cold cloth is placed on his forehead, then another one on his chest. It feels like bundles wrapped around snow. Ice sinks into his body, flowing like melt rivers through his veins. Loki sighs and breathes easier for the first time in hours. Together with the relief, reality starts seeping in through the remaining cracks of rationality in his mind. He remembers the Odinson, who hunted him through the snow, but spared his life.

“—didn’t! He was like that when I woke!”

They are standing close to him. Loki reaches out, fingers fumbling in the darkness. For a moment it feels like he is falling. “Thor…?” His voice is weak, all croaky and faint.

“I’m here Loki, I’m here.” Thor kneels next to him and grabs his hand, engulfing his slim fingers. Thor’s hand feels strong and steady. It’s not a bad hand, just too warm.

“Hot…” Loki mumbles. It’s an understatement. His eyes are dry and burning under his too heavy lids. Perhaps they have evaporated. Perhaps he is blind.

“You have a fever.” Thor says, “Eir is here to treat you. Do you think you can talk with her?”

A fever…? No, NO! He can’t be sick, not now!

Loki tries to sit up, tries to insist that he is fine, but his body has no strength, and he is unable to resist when Thor manually raises him up and stuffs pillows behind his back. Limp like a doll, Loki lists to the side, his head ending up resting against Thor’s shoulder as he props Loki up. Eyes still closed, he feels when someone else sits down on the edge of the bed, the mattress giving underneath them.

Loki clenches his teeth around a sob. He is not weak. He is not. He is not weak—

“Your Highness,” Eir greets him, voice crisp. She jumps straight to the questions. “Did you have any symptoms yesterday?”

“No, I was fine,” Loki says, breathing heavily against Thor’s neck. “I’m fine. I’m not sick.” But as if refuting his claims, his stomach rolls threateningly. Sitting up is making Loki more dizzy and nauseated than before. He grits his teeth and tries to bear it, but when acid bubbles up into his throat, he is forced to give up. “I need to lie down, or I’ll throw up.” He pants, slumping further against Thor in defeat.

“Here, I’ve got you,” Thor says, immediately lowering him to the mattress again and making him comfortable, head raised just a bit. It’s an incredible relief, but also makes Loki want to cry. Thor keeps talking. “It’s my fault. The room was too hot. I should have thought—“

Eir interrupts. “Sleeping in a room at this temperature would not be enough to make him ill. I suspect stress, both mental and physical, to be the cause. His body is also fighting to heal, with no recourses left to draw on.” She grabs Loki’s bony ankle and holds it still. “I must draw your blood to check for infection.”

Forcing open his dry eyes just so he can glare, Loki sees Eir is searching through her bag with her free hand. “Blood?” He croaks. That’s so primitive. Do the Aesir not have soul forges?

Eir answers as if she has read his mind. “Moving you at this point would only bring you more stress and discomfort. You should conserve your strength.”

“I am not weak.”

“Certainly not,” Eir agrees as she pricks his ankle with something sharp and wipes up a bead of blood on a small piece of cloth, “But you are overworked and underfed, close to starved, and now that you are no longer running on adrenaline in a bid to survive, your body is crashing.” She mumbles a spell and the cloth dissolves in her hand, turning into golden sparkles that fade and fall like ash flakes. Eir nods, satisfied. “No infection.”

Thor draws in a shaky breath and clutches Loki’s hand tighter, rubbing his thumb over it in an effort to soothe. “Will he be all right? What can you do?”

Eir gives Thor a pinched look. “He will simply need more rest than first suspected. You dragging him to the battlefield yesterday to look at his fallen kinsmen certainly won’t have helped.” She answers coolly while taking out several vials and bottles with dried plants, arranging them around her. “I can give him something for the fever, the nausea, and a tea to relax his mental state. The rest will come in time.”

Thor frowns, gazing sightlessly down at the bedcovers while he rubs Loki’s hand. “I had planned to move on today. The warriors are already making preparations…”

“It will have to wait,” Eir says succinctly. “He is too weakened to be moved.”

The words hurt, in more than one way. Loki lays his head back and blinks up at the ceiling, willing the tears to stay back. There’s a sore lump in his throat and his nose feels swollen. Even here, amongst people no bigger than him, he is still weak and useless, nothing but a burden for the highest ranking to deal with. In this case Thor, who is still holding his hand and taking care of him… Carefully Loki looks at his husband, trying to read his expression. Thor is still frowning, looking a little tired, hair unkempt, but when he catches Loki looking he gives him a reassuring smile. Loki just stares at him. There are no hard words, no cursing of Loki and his weakness ruining Thor’s plans. Thor doesn’t look resentful at all, just worried. Loki swallows and looks away, closing his eyes to hide the confusion swirling through his mind.

‘Don’t let yourself be fooled. He’s just trying to lure you into a false sense of security’.  

Yes, that makes more sense. There has to be an ulterior motive for it. There needs to be, because receiving that kind of kindness, so easily, with no expectations… it’s too much.

Even so, even knowing the truth, Loki can’t stop himself from turning his head again to watch his husband. He stares at the side of Thor’s face as he converses with Eir, their words washing over him like waves, nothing but rumbling and whooshing. Stop holding my hand. Stop acting like you care. I thought about killing you as you slept! Loki screams inside, but he can’t make himself shake Thor’s grip of.

Loki remembers the last time he was sick; his tiny chamber at the monastery, the howling wind and the cold, the silence...

A training wound had gotten infected, and fever had taken him, wracking through him for days. The monks had left him alone, with no food or even water. They didn’t come, no matter how he had cried, until he no longer had the strength to even call for help.

In the end Loki had dragged his hurting body along the floor; had crawled to the window and eaten snow, shivering from fever and cold, alone and terrified. It had been a test. Resources weren’t wasted on the weak. Help was not given to those who could not help themselves. If he had died, then that had been all he was good for, royal or not. But Loki had lived. Sometimes he thinks it was pure spite that had kept him alive.  

Maybe this illness, this weakness, is another test; a lesson. He had thought about stabbing Thor. Even if he is nothing but a glorified prisoner, Loki should know better than to spite the one who is clothing and feeding him. Thor doesn’t have to treat him nicely. He could have fed Loki scraps, bound him to a bed and taken his rights, and as the weaker partner Loki should still have thanked him for the mercy. If he wants to keep Thor’s kindness, Loki has to act smarter. Until he hears from Laufey, Thor is Loki’s best bet at staying alive.

“—ki.” Thor’s hand cups his cheek, thumb rubbing over his cheekbone and the soft skin under his eye. Loki startles and his gaze finds Thor’s; he gets the feeling that Thor has called for him several times.

“Loki, did you hear what I said?” Thor asks. He looks patient, kind even. His touch is so gentle. It seems so real. Loki stares up at Thor—at this incomprehensible man who refuses to harm him or use him, who seemingly expects nothing but still treats Loki like he has value.

‘It’s because he thinks you do. You lied to him, remember? He thinks Laufey sees you as more than a burden and will be willing to treat for you. He thinks you can help him stop a war, even though you’re just a useless, powerless runt.’

The voice brings him clarity, the words of his uncle Skymir and father and every other guardian he has had, ringing through him and calming his frazzled mind. That’s right; Thor does have a plan for him, and a use. But Thor wants to be honorable, so he won’t force himself on Loki, he’ll just wait until Loki gives in. Right now Thor’s priority is to keep his best game piece alive and useful. He doesn’t know he’s wasting effort on a lie.

“…Loki?” Thor sounds worried now, a deep furrow growing between his brows.

Loki reaches up and places his own hand over Thor’s where it still caresses his cheek. “Sorry, I-I didn’t hear. I must have nodded off for a moment.” He smiles feebly, letting Thor read both gratefulness and vulnerability in his expression. Thor lets out a deep breath and smiles back. He bought it.

Thor holds up a potion then, and helps raise Loki just enough for him to slowly sip it down. It tastes bitter, but it almost immediately helps alleviate his nausea, so Loki keeps swallowing.

“I’m delaying our departure for another two days.” Thor says as he helps Loki get settled again. “Hopefully you will be well enough to be moved while lying down by then.”

“I’m sorry.” Loki says, looking away, eyes squeezed shut. He knows it’s stupid to feel guilty about obstructing Thor’s plans, about obstructing the enemy army, but the fear of being a burden and getting discarded runs too deep. If Thor gives up on him now, Loki will have nothing.

“Do not be,” Thor says, smoothing Loki’s hair back. It’s a little patronizing, but at least he gives no false reassurances that Loki’s state won’t bring trouble. Loki has spent ten years on the battlefield, and he knows delaying planned troop movement can cause a whole host of issues. Lack of rations, vulnerability to attack, loss of land or positions… The list goes on.

“Concentrate on resting and regaining your strength. You have fought hard.” Thor says.

‘But I didn’t fight hard enough.’ Loki thinks as he grips the blanket tightly in his free hand. He was still caught. Perhaps things would have been easier if he had died in the last battle. At least then he would have died knowing what he was fighting for; recognition, honor, pride, respect, and the chance of winning a better existence. If they had won, Loki would have been given a piece of land for his own; his own Len. He could have lived there, with no one to dictate him— free. Maybe he could have even found other runts, could have built a hall for them, fitting their size. He could have been their leader—could have carved out a place for them in this hostile world.

And maybe… Maybe a small and childish part of him had hoped for his father to see what Loki was capable of and truly recognize him.

Now all that is nothing but a distant dream.

Right now Loki isn’t sure what his goal is, aside from staying alive long enough to find one. He needs some hint at what to do—But for now Loki will wait for more information before he makes his move, even knowing that he could be waiting in vain. His bridges to Laufey might finally be burned for good. Being caught by the Aesir and made a plaything is a great dishonor, one he might not be able to recover from. Maybe his father will pardon his failure in the last battle if Loki can spy for him, or show his continued loyalty some other way, but it’s a slim hope. And Thor will probably discard him as soon as he figures out Loki isn’t useful.

What Loki will do then is… Is…

The potion is working fast. It’s been less than a minute and already Loki can feel himself going under, giving into the heavy feeling of sedation. On the cusp of fevered sleep, Loki prays to the Norns. Just give me a little more time; just enough to regain my strength. Let him think I’m useful for a little longer.

He has survived this far. He prays his luck holds out. If not, stubbornness will have to do it.

xXx

Thor sits at Loki’s bedside and watches him. His spouse looks like a child in his sleep; a starved one with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Thor reaches out and brushes a dark curl away from his sharp cheekbone, letting his hand linger over his unnaturally warm skin. At the end of the bed Eir is packing up, bottles clinking loudly against each other in the silence. She hasn’t said anything, but Thor can taste her judgement in the static air between them. “Speak your mind, Eir.”

She pauses, slowly folding extra cooling cloths and putting them by her side. “He is very young, hardly past his majority.”

Thor closes his eyes, and rests his heavy head on a palm. “Your point?”

“Why did you marry him?”

He has lost count of how many times he has been asked that question. His answer stays the same. “Our marriage could inspire peace talks, make the Jotnar see—“

Eir snorts, a hard sound that breaks Thor off. “Oh please. You might have convinced your generals with that, but don’t try that nonsense with me, boy.” She looks at him, eyes like flint. “I have treated you since you were a child. I remember how you tried to hide your scrapes and bruises that you had earned while sneaking out. You’re a no better liar now than you were then.”

That’s not true. Thor has come a long way since he was a youth, and he knows the importance of keeping a façade up for the sake of appearances or politics. But Eir knows his tells. Thor squares his shoulders and looks at her. “You have no right to question me. I am your prince.”

The words would be enough to cow many, but not Eir. “So you are, but I recognize the way you look at him. You watched my bowl of reward treats with the same greed.”  

Those words hit him in a soft and unguarded place, but Thor doesn’t show it. Instead he chuckles darkly and looks back at his sleeping spouse. “You think I found myself a plaything and decided to take it, is that it?” Out the corner of his eye he can see Eir’s expression going tight at the question, but she doesn’t refute it. It makes Thor’s heart sink. Eir still sees the spoiled boy of seventy years ago.

“I won’t deny that I find him… Captivating,” Thor admits, because he knows he hasn’t managed to hide his attraction, “And I do hope that our marriage will eventually grow into a happy one.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Eir retorts.

Thor picks up Loki’s limp hand and runs his thumb over his delicate knuckles. “…Then at least I was spared from splattering his brain all over the ice.” He says grimly.

There is a long beat of silence. Outside the battlefield is still being cleaned of Thor and his warriors’ victims. But Eir doesn’t comment on Thor’s hypocrisy, and for that he is glad. Still, he wishes to make her understand. He wishes for her to condone his actions.

Thor licks his dry lips. “The first time I got close enough to get a good look at him, I realized that he was related to Laufey, and I knew he held some sort of higher position in the Jotun army.” He looks helplessly back at Eir, “I couldn’t just let him go. You know I couldn’t.”

“And this was your solution?”

“It was the only way I could protect him,” Thor argues. “As a mere prisoner he might have lived, but only in a cage, mistreated until he might be of some use.” 

Eir snorts. “You have merely put him in a prison of a different kind.” She picks up her bags and silently studies him for a long moment. “What I think you need to ask yourself, Prince Thor, is why you want to protect him, and why you chose this way.”

Thor opens his mouth to retort, but then closes it again, lost for words. Yes, Loki might be his prisoner right now, but he won’t be so forever! He’ll eventually be free of his shackles, free to roam Asgard as he pleases, free to keep his residence apart from Thor’s, if they truly can’t find mutual ground. He could do none of that in a prison cell. Surely that is all reasonable. Can’t Eir see that?

As for why Thor wanted to spare him in the first place… 

“Perhaps a quick death would have been kinder.” Eir says, gazing at the sleeping Loki.

Thor’s finger’s spasms around Loki’s and his head snaps up so he can glare at her. “I refuse to believe that.”

Eir bows her head, “As you say, my Prince.”

She leaves, door shutting softly behind her, a stark contrast to the unrest she leaves in her wake.  

Thor watches the closed door for a full minute, then turns back to Loki, wets a fresh cloth in the basin of ice water next to the bed and places it carefully on his forehead. Loki mumbles in his sleep, something that sounds like whimpers and pleading—reminiscent of the first time he ever spoke to Thor.

Thor’s heart pangs. He picks Loki’s hand back up and weaves their fingers together, tan and blue.

Sparing Loki was the smart thing to do. Of course it was. For years Thor has tried to be a better diplomat, rather than a warmonger. When he was cast down to Midgard, weak and mortal, and landed right in the middle of a devastating war, he finally understood the magnitude of the consequences of his actions. Thor saw the camps where humans killed other humans based on prejudice and fearmongering, he saw the mass destruction, he saw good men and women fight and die for the slim hope that things could be different. He lost good friends and failed his self-appointed mission to bring back an Asgardian artefact. The Tesseract ended up on the bottom of the ocean, and Steve…

Thor closes his eyes and puts it from his mind. It was long ago. The point is that he has learned his lesson. But despite that, he has still spent so many decades fighting, when he would much rather not. On the battlefield there is only kill or be killed. How many parents and loved ones has he slain by now? He has even slain his own brother in laws. They might have been his enemies, and Loki hadn’t seemed too torn up about it, but still, it’s messed up. Thor knows the Jotnar aren’t monsters and Loki… Loki will help him prove that. That has to be the way to stop this war. The Jotnar wants the Casket of Ancient Winters to heal their world, but it’s also a powerful weapon, and the Aesir will never give it back before there is trust. Something has to give. 

“There’s so much spirit in you,” Thor says to his sleeping spouse, “You don’t want to be dead; you want to live, don’t you?” He raises Loki’s hand and touches his forehead against it. “Sparing you was the right choice, wasn’t it?”

Loki doesn’t answer, of course, but Thor chooses to believe that. He has to believe that.