brodir

If all the realms were made in Ymir's image, then it would follow the the great mountains of Jotunheim were his shoulders. The rivers and streams, that of Aegir, that of Frigg and her Norn sisters, made up vein and artery. And the brightest of the realm's creatures, Thor of Odin's beget and Balder of Frigg's, would stand proud as his shining eyes.

These are the stories that the Vanir skalds sing at their great dining halls, voices rising in perfect sweet cacophany. Loki sits at his place of honor, his ears aching at the sound, but his hands clench tight where they rest in his lap. Balder, a son of prophecy not yet born, is afforded greater honor in Vanir greensight than Loki himself. Loki, secondborn son of Odin, he of silver tongue and golden wit! It has been made clear to him that the Vanir do not mean to offend: Freyja herself has gifted him with a dragonscale tunic of unfathomable value, and her daughters have each given him three dances, but still Loki feels the sting. He has negotiated well, upholding the ancient treaties that must be re-approved each half-millennium for posterity's sake, and he knows that the Allfather will be pleased, if not proud. That should be enough.

And yet few things are enough for Loki, nowadays, for each step Thor takes opens further the chasm between them. One, meant to rule, the other, meant to support. He would do it, gladly. He would rend the blackness of the sky asunder, gladly, if it would bring Asgard glory. Yet a second heart beats within him, as ripe and decaying as a corpse-flower, and Loki knows not how to quiet its rhythm.

When he flies through the stars past the Vanir star system into the familiar warmth of Asgard's shores, he wears his cloak with shoulders squared, with the dragonscales glittering in counterpoint yellow to the green of his eyes. He arrives in Gladsheim's throne room with a sweep of his finery, ready for accolades that he will fight to receive, if need be.

"—you will spend six weeks in Freyr-king's court, under his tutelage," comes the booming echo of Odin-Allfather's voice. Loki cannot help the instinctual desire to draw back at the sound of it, knowing from long experience that quiet composure is meant for the court alone; beneath it, a storm billows. Thor stands before the throne, his head bowed in uncharacteristic humility. Mjolnir's song, usually a drumbeat of white noise to Loki's seid-sensitive ear, can hardly be heard. "For mine has indeed served you ill. Return to your quarters, son of Asgard, and curb your anger in favor of self-reflection."

Loki stands agape in the shadows of the throne room, his aborted attempt at a grand entrance now far beyond his care. Thor — Thor, the eye of Ymir! — being sent to master-negotiator Freyr-king for tutelage, as if he is but an dull apprentice to be bartered. Not only that, but to be treated such in front of the court (a limited court, admittedly — only the council and a skeletal gathering of Einherjar populate the throne room now), is beyond imagining. Who is this, who has taken Odin's place? Who is this, who has taken the pride from Thor's strong shoulders?

And who is this, who stands in Loki's place, a war of cruel joy and crueler sympathy rising within him?

He reports his success under Odin's eye, caring little now for the recognition he had craved. Moments later, not yet divested of his dragonscales, he stands before Thor's quarters, a flick of his fingers unlatching the door for his entrance.