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“What’s that thing around your neck?”
Thor’s words are casual, but Loki can’t help the frown. After his weekend journey to Oslo, alongside Thor and the rest of the Council, he’d rather avoid conversation. He left his room only by dint of thirst, which could’ve been avoided by a simple flick of magic. Alas.
“I found it in Oslo,” Loki says, flashing the amulet toward Thor. In the white gold pendant sits an emerald, ringed by much smaller obsidian stones, all emblematic of fine handwork. The chain is thick and heavy, though not to his discomfort. “At that park we visited Saturday.”
“Is it enchanted?” Thor says.
“Not to my knowledge,” Loki lies, because it’s absolutely enchanted. Faint magical energy surrounds the gem, but his attempts to use it have floundered. Does it summon a shield? A weapon? Or does it heal the wearer in some way? Loki’s guess is as good as anyone else’s, which is to say far better—and yet he doesn’t have a clue.
“Well, it looks nice.”
“How kind of you.”
“I mean it.”
Loki rolls his eyes. “Thank you. I’m going back to bed.”
“You must be tired.”
“Of you? Yes.”
“Funny.” Thor’s expression blanks. “Sleep well.”
Loki sends him a departing grin, turns on his heels, and slinks back into his room. He sits on his bed and rubs the gemstone with his thumb, studying the candlelight reflecting off its smooth surface, then flips it over…and pauses. Has that writing always been there? Loki squints his eyes. The text is Elvish, stamped into the gold and no thicker than a needle, translating roughly to “dof sheep, lay mine weep.”
“Dof sheep, lay mine…weep?” Loki says dumbly.
Instantly, the gemstone glows. Loki cocks his head and watches it shimmer, dancing in green ribbons up his walls, until the glow eventually fades. When he scans his body, both physical and metaphysical, everything returns normal, so he lays down for the night. He wears the amulet to bed, for the rare chance of nocturnal use, and falls asleep within minutes.
Morning shines golden behind Loki’s eyelids. He flicks them open and stretches with a yawn, taking a quick shower before eating breakfast in the kitchen. 45 minutes after Loki’s waking, Thor emerges from his room, yawning as he lumbers heavy-footed down the hall.
“Sleep well?” he says.
“Well enough.” Loki finishes the last bite of his toast. “And you?”
“Still having those nightmares. They’re getting weirder.”
“If you would describe them for once—“
“Not happening.”
“Whatever. I was offering to help, mind you.”
“I know.” Thor smirks. How in the Nine did Jane put up with this?
“Then stop complaining.”
“You asked.”
Loki scoffs. “Why is this suddenly my fault?”
Thor mocks his ire with hand puppets, then shrugs at Loki’s resulting glare. “I’m making coffee. Want some?”
After a pause that could split atoms, Loki allows a nod. Truthfully, he’s still exhausted, which he accredits to lingering sleep, but it feels…foggier than usual. Coffee would certainly help.
Thor presses a button on the coffee maker, sliding the pot beneath, and leans against the counter. “You should eat more than that,” he says, jabbing a finger at Loki’s crumb-spotted plate.
“I had eggs,” Loki says. “You slept late.”
“You woke early.”
“At seven?”
Thor shakes his head. “That’s too early.”
“Since when?”
“Since the nightmares started.”
Loki groans dramatically, but says nothing else. The offended look from Thor is worth it.
“I’ll make us sandwiches for lunch,” Thor says. “You will eat two.”
“Why in all the Nine would I need—Oh, forget it. But if I see a single speck of mayonnaise—”
“Let me guess, you’ll stab me?”
“—I won’t hesitate to toss them. What? Stab you?”
“You would.”
“I would never.”
“So do you want mayo or not?”
“I would rather perish. So a no, by the by”
“Alright.” Thor dares an eyeroll. “As you wish.”
Silence befalls them, spare for Thor’s rummaging in the fridge. Loki watches him make the sandwiches for lack of better entertainment, although Thor’s attempts at anything food-related often rival the Nine’s finest comedies. It’s like watching a dog try to fly a spaceship. Complete chaos.
Norns, he’s ripping all the cheese to bits. Is that lettuce brown? Now he’s adding pepper for some obscene reason. Loki’s forced to look away to spare his breakfast, instead gathering his dishes and loading them into the dishwasher.
A few hours from now, the Council will debrief their meeting in Oslo, of which instills new trades, new imports, and a green light for more construction, among much else. As a talented politician prior to his seat in the Council, Loki’s a valued member of these meetings—but he takes no pleasure from them. Meetings are boring and tedious. The damned paperwork is more pleasurable, and that’s a lot coming from New Asgard’s only prince. His attendance banks solely on his royal status.
Thor finishes making the sandwiches and Loki tells him they look terrible.
“Make your own, then, if you’re so picky,” Thor says. “You never eat them, anyway.”
“Because they’re inedible.”
“Is it the pepper?”
“Is it the—“ Loki pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. It could be the pepper. Or perhaps the rotten lettuce, or the disgrace of meat you call ham, or the gallons of mustard, or—“
“I get it. Picky.”
“Not picky,” Loki growls, with finality. “Pour me some coffee before it gets cold.”
“Is it such a bother to ask?”
“Please and thank you.”
“I’ll let you add the sugar, since I’m so terrible at everything.” Thor’s pout raises more ire than pity, but the feeling subsides with his following silence.
A steaming mug and a jar of sugar cubes are placed in front of Loki. The hot coffee warms him nicely, a rich, sweet Colombian blend Thor hoards like gold. Morning’s frost on the window only reminds Loki of the challenges winter brings. This season alone: the water mains froze twice between the first and third week of January, power to the city has been tottery at best, two elders perished upon the first snow, and summer’s produce had already spoiled by late December. Thor blamed the infiltrating moisture, but Loki knows it’s someone’s fault. Probably Ivan’s, since he’s in charge of the market. Oh well.
Loki finishes his coffee, departing silently to change in his bedroom. When he snaps his fingers to undress, his magic wavers, strong enough to notice but overall insignificant. Experimentally, he summons a candle onto his dresser. No issues this time. Probably just some interference, neutrinos and the likes. He decides to ignore it and snaps again to redress in warmer clothing: thick leggings, thicker pants, a wool tunic, and a hefty winter jacket.
The walk to Town Hall is cold, icy gusts rattling the barren streets. It had snowed during their drive home from Oslo yesterday, though virtually none of it has melted since, piled two feet in some areas. Nearby Hogsnes, courteous as ever, lends their snow plows every year, but service gets delayed per their own streets. New Asgard certainly needs it. Nobody’s left the city in days, ice-glazed roads preventing any travel via car or bus, and it’s too damned cold for anyone to shovel anything besides a few sidewalks. Asgard never got this cold.
At last, Loki and Thor approach Town Hall. A strong gust rips the door from Loki’s hand, slamming loudly against the building. He flinches, shoots Thor an apologetic look, and hustles inside.
“I like your necklace,” Valkyrie says to Loki after the meeting. “Real pretty. Where’d you steal it from?”
Despite himself, Loki grins. He’d nearly forgotten about it. “Tøyen Park will miss it dearly. I pity whomever lost it there.”
Valkyrie gestures him closer. “C’mere, lemme get a better look.”
Loki takes a couple steps forward, allowing Valkyrie to observe the pendant as pleased. She twists it around in her fingers, all-but shoving her face in Loki’s chest to study it, as if entranced. At last, she slumps back into her chair, expression curious.
“That’s one hell of an emerald. Is it magical?” she says.
“Not to my knowledge.” Hardly a lie, as Loki still doesn’t know its purpose. He clears his throat. Valkyrie never talks to him about anything. Why’s she so obsessed with this amulet? Why’s she so nice? Her reversal of attitude would usually unsettle him, or at least annoy him, but as he stands there, its importance devalues. “Perhaps I could enchant it?”
“For what?” Val snorts. “Actually, I bet you could trap a few souls in there. I’ve got some candidates in mind.”
“Who?” Loki shakes his head. He didn’t mean to say that. “Apologies. I meant to say who. I meant who. No, I meant…who?”
Val ignores his misspeaking. “First off, I gotta go with Ivan Hanson,” she begins. “Did you know he’s the reason our food went bad? If I could trap anyone, it would be him. And Jakob. Not the nice one, Jakob Hagbart. Maybe Singe Akseldottir, too, because she’s a sorry piece of shit who can’t take a loss. I beat her fair and square, it’s not my fault she didn’t know the rules of Poker.” Val laughs heartily. “What say you?”
“Jakob Edvardson once sought to marry twelve women at once. He is, as the humans might say, a tool. Singe is a sister of three and is with child. I would be happy imprisoning the former, although Mr. Hagbart has caused Thor and I many an issue. That makes two.”
“Three. Singe’s my call.”
“I never said I could imprison anyone, by the way. Morality aside, I don’t know the spell.”
Val pouts. “Aw, well at least I gave it a shot. Maybe you could, I dunno, put some good luck charm on it. Or something.” Then, with a wink, “Just don’t take it off.”
Don’t take it off? That sounds…correct. Yes. “Not planning on it. If you see my brother, tell him it’s his turn to shovel the sidewalk. The nonce wanders halfway to Sweden every time I ask.”
“And put up with that attitude? Nooo thank you.”
“How do you think I feel?”
Val heaves with a laugh and Loki welcomes his own. Ecstasy drowns them. It feels picturesque. His mind conjures a world wherein the amulet never leaves his neck, until it fuses into his skin, into his soul, sinking deeper and deeper until he and it are inextricable to a molecular level. Midday warms his face, snowmelt trickling, as Val speaks her well-wishes and eventual goodbye.
Loki waves her off and prances cheerfully down the street, stopped several times along the way by a bustle of, “I love your necklace!” and, “Wow, that’s a big emerald,” and, “Where’d you buy that?” and the occasional cry of, “Never take it off!” It feels as if reliving his olden days as King, wearing Odin’s face and serviced as pleased, worshiped not as a prince but as Allfather. It’s intoxicating.
A mighty gust yanks the hood off Loki’s head and he scowls, hair whipping around in his face. The nearby market is significantly less windy, and Thor wanted oatmeal, anyway, so he ventures inside. The shelves must’ve been restocked—everything from potatoes to sugary cereals lining them. It looks more like a human supermarket than New Asgard’s flimsy corner store.
Once his basket is filled, Loki pays with gold. “Never take it off,” the cashier whispers, a young man named Kasper, and Loki nods fervidly. He’d rather perish.
The Amulet might as well have been a gift from the Gods. A golden chariot for his ascension, led by the spirits of Valkyries. His celebrity status airs life into his soul, all owing to some (glorious and radiant and perfect) Amulet he’d found in Oslo. The true owner must be devastated. It’s probably worth millions. Billions.
Loki had teleported back to his room an hour ago, and has not seen Thor since, but the will to complain is paltry at best. Beneath his coat is a coal furnace, warming through his skin and into his soul, so he vows to never remove it. Shall his fame grow so large that Midgard finally accepts his ruling? Oh, what fun it would be. He’ll start with New Asgard, then Oslo, then Norway, then Midgard, then climb the final rungs to universal domination. A quite fine plan, all owing to The Amulet. Thanos only dreamed of such power.
But a tyrant so mighty needs fuel. Loki teleports to the fridge and devours his sandwiches, finishing them off with a sparkling juice called soda—among the finest Midgardian inventions. Next, he showers with the water hot as possible, until the steam cleans him from the inside out, and only finds humor in his cherry-red skin. He floats through the house, stopping in every corner to hear the spiders. They tell him, “Never take it off,” then they laugh and reminisce their good times. Being a spider must be lonely, he thinks.
Loki meditates for five days and gathers fossils from the cliffs on the sixth. All life, whether current or former, carries its own sort of magic; anything dead (meaning having once lived) can be ground into ink for inscribing sigils. He sits at the writing desk in his office and crushes them finely, pours them into tannin, sap, and dye, then stirs. His quill of choice was a gift from Frigga, though looking back, she was…optimistic. But she would be proud. She would say, “Only my child would pick an emerald so grand. You must wear this with pride.” The Amulet shall heal this wound too.
The first sigil is a freshening of his namesake. His strokes carves are smooth and slow, slicing like gorges into the paper, rivers of black flowing within. If he looks close enough, dog-crammed logs float the rapids, and part of him feels sorry for the poor bastards. The next sigil is his mother’s, his quill never so light, each dash and curve sailing. The next two fly past, protection and luck respectively. He does not write Thor’s. He does not spare a thought to Odin’s. The next is his work, intended to draw praise. He inscribes it three times. The page never ends. In fact, it seems to shine like bleed like—
“Loki?”
Loki turns to Thor. “What?”
“Is something wrong? What the—fuck?”
“Are you not here to hand me your crown?”
“Am I to do what? Of course. What is this nonsense?”
“You see, The Amulet and I have made great friends. It bestows me glory, as long as I—”
Thor makes an otherworldly noise and stomps closer; Loki stands in defense. What does startle him, however, is the lightning-quick dart of Thor’s fist around the Pendant. Loki tenses immediately, lest the wrong move end in tragedy.
“You would destroy something so valuable?” Loki snarls. “So powerful? It’s mine.”
This is utterly strange. Why is Thor not praising The Amulet? Where is the worship? Who would dare renounce It?
“Who’s to say It’s yours, anyway? I need It! Didn’t you find It?” Thor’s fist tightens around the Gem.
Traitor, chants the voice in Loki’s head. “You might not want to—”
A brisk yank downward snaps The amulet’s chain, its oh-so gorgeous emerald core shattering to smithereens on impact with the floor. Loki gapes bewilderedly at the miserable sack of ox shit who threw it. One blink later, reality floods back into place. The writing desk bleeds away to porcelain, the damask wallpaper peels, reveals tile, and even the lights change to a cooler hue. Paradise ripped away. In pieces around this dark bathroom.
Loki pounces onto Thor with all the ferocity of a lion, but the lingering flame to avenge his master the amulet chokes, and Thor doesn’t budge. He does, however, tremble. He…He’s crying. The King of Asgard is crying.
“Loki, stop,” he says, confoundingly anguished. “Please. I beg you.”
Loki white-knuckles his brother’s jacket and swallows a gasp. Was none of that real? Those memories can’t be trusted, can they? What has he done? His world crumples at once—or more precisely his knees. Thor catches him with ease, one hand supporting his head and the other wrapped around his back, and at this point, Loki’s shaking too. The floor tilts and spins as his breathing labors and he sees at last: blood, everywhere, his.
The same sigils are carved into the skin of both his forearms. Each stroke slice shimmers yellow inside, seeping blood from their edges. No, he thinks, please, Gods, no. This isn’t right. He was writing with quill and ink, on paper, not with—Who shattered the mirror? Me? His hands are nothing short of mutilated, several jagged-edged wounds hewn into the palms of each.
What else has he unknowingly done, disguised by the amulet’s spell? Many of the mirror’s fragments are bloodstained, some of which gathered in the sink, and more blood splatters the floor, soaks the rolled-up sleeves of his thin cotton tunic (where is his coat?), and smears Thor’s clothes. It looks like someone died in here.
Maybe someone will, Loki realizes as his grip on consciousness slips, vision spotting. Likely for the sake of cleanliness, Thor lays him in the tub. Loki’s too weak to care and squeezes the fabric of his pants for dear life, heaving gasp after gasp through his crashing lightheadedness. Thor holds his hand. He’s never felt so cold.
Blessedly, the dizziness fades, Loki’s vision clears, and his ears stop ringing. The afterquakes of his spell-induced rampage, however, are far more permanent.
“What…” Loki’s voice trembles. He tries in vein to steady it. “What did I do?”
“Where should I begin?” Thor growls.
“I-I can’t remember a thing since Monday. Thor, what did I do?”
“Look at your arms!”
“Besides that?”
“Besides insulting Valkyrie with such savagery that she initiated a duel outside Town Hall, ending in your stabbing? Besides consequently fainting in Ivan’s shop due to blood loss? Besides, even, ingesting drain cleaner in hopes to poison yourself, and then locking yourself away inside this bathroom? Do you seriously remember none of it?”
The pain in Loki’s side makes worlds more sense, as does the nausea. Adrenaline be damned, both worsen as he ponders them, but particularly the nausea rages. With a wretched mewl, he climbs out of the bathtub and collapses into a kneel before the toilet.
“No, I don’t,” he says. After gagging once, he continues, “You need to—“ but a retch cuts him off. That must be the drain cleaner. Gods, it tastes horrible. How the Hel did he manage to ingest that?
Thor rubs circles on Loki’s back with one hand and the other gathers his hair. Loki appreciates the comfort, but the world is slipping once again. This time, he doesn’t recover. He feels the floor, against his back, and then nothing at all.
A cacophonous jingling rouses Loki from oblivion. There’s tubes in his nose and several more flung across him, some filled with blood and others clear. He realizes a couple protrude from his side, and when he wiggles, they shift inside him. There must be a wound there, his drugged brain concludes. Draining tubes and whatnot. He looks around. This is a hospital…which also doesn’t make a lick of sense. What on Earth happened to warrant such extensive care, and why not bring him to New Asgard’s healers? Who drove him here through all the snow?
He tries sitting up, but his entire abdomen burns like fire. The jingling hasn’t stopped. Five or so minutes later, a nurse walks in and finally silences the noise, then gives him a cup of ice cubes. Loki sucks on one for lack of alternative hydration, as his bed is wheeled into a much smaller, although much more private room. Inside awaits Thor.
“I have several questions,” Loki slurs, much more quietly than anticipated. Something is making it hard to talk.
Thor pinches the bridge of his nose. “Allow me a moment to breathe?”
“Breathe away.”
Thor releases a long sigh. He taps his finger on his thigh as the nurse explains the basics of Loki’s intended care, then sighs again after she leaves. At last, he says, “How do you feel?”
“…Quite butchered. May I ask something now?”
“Sure.”
“What happened to me? Why am I in the hospital?” Loki stops to bite his lip through a surge of pain. “My last memory is of our road trip home, on Monday. According to that chart, it’s Wednesday. Beyond that…” he trails off.
Thor drags a chair beside the bed, sits down, and takes Loki’s hand into his. “You found an amulet on the trip. I believe it…controlled you, in a way. Manipulated your actions, but it must’ve been doing something to your mind, too. I think it wanted to kill you. I’m not sure. You didn’t say much after I smashed the stupid thing.”
Loki tenses, recalling the now-hazy memories of his time wearing the amulet. The not-so-great conversation with Valkyrie, and her stabbing of him. The corner store. (Did he truly faint there?) Feasting in the kitchen, albeit not of food. Carving the sigils. Now, he feels the stinging in his arms.
“The doctor said you lost too much blood,” Thor continues. “They’re replacing it with that.” He points at an IV bag hanging behind Loki. “You have 32 stitches and owe Val an apology. She will apologize, too, for stabbing you.”
“Who brought me here?”
“I flew us.” Thor gestures toward Stormbreaker, propped haphazardly against the wall.
“Why not take me to the healers?”
“Believe me, I tried. One of the sigils you carved coincidentally rejected all foreign spells upon your body. It was a choice between human medicine and your death.”
“I was cursed,” Loki concludes. He sighs. “It was planted on purpose. Someone knew I’d take it.”
Thor’s expression grims. “I’ll meet with Strange as soon as possible. Brother, I promise we will find this villain, and he will face justice.”
“Kind of you.” Loki’s eyes droop. The last thing he cares about is revenge. His survival is a large enough feat. For a while, he drifts. Until a thought steals his sleepiness, and he blurts, “If none of that was real, then what did I spend six days doing?”
Thor ponders for a moment. “Sleeping. I’m serious. Or, that’s what I assume, since your door was barricaded by something unfeasible of your magic alone. I grew suspicious, having heard nothing the entire time. You didn’t eat. And then you left one day and stole peanut shells from our neighbors’ garbage.”
Loki grimaces. “Emeralds are forever tainted. Left a bad taste.” One of his last memories was of the phrase, “dof sheep, lay mine weep.” The meaning remains clouded to him, but it’s more akin to older Midgardian texts rather than what he assumed was Elvish. He’d stashed plenty a relic capable of annihilating hundreds upon a simple phrase. The heart monitor sings. “I had initiated it,” Loki realizes.
“The curse?”
“Precisely. I am…afraid to say it aloud.”
“Just—calm down. You’re drawing attention.”
On cue, a nurse walks in and breathes slowly with him. “In with me, and out,” she says, and Loki listens only to silence the alarms. After a few breaths, they do. The nurse injects morphine, and then leaves. Thor looks scared. Everything beyond this swirls in a pool of warm sap, the drugs clouding his mind with serenity, and whatever his dry mouth blathers eases Thor’s fear. Or appears to.
A sad smile dimple’s Thor’s cheeks. The rest of him shines like the sun, and then sways between every hue conceivable.
“’M okay,” Loki mumbles, so to voice his promise.
Thor’s next words declare, metaphorically, I trust you, but their denotation slips Loki’s mind.
The metaphor is more dear to him, anyway.
His birdbrained brother must’ve finally opened a book or two. Evidently, only the love of a brother can get that idiot to read.