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thebifrostgiant · 5 years

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If You Know Where to Look - Part 9

Summary: in which you search, and Loki watches. The storm breaks

Part 1 / Previous

Read on Ao3

Word Count: 5,011

Rating: T (for now)

Pairing: Loki/Reader

Chapter 9: Any Port

Flecks of water flash in front of Loki's discerning eyes, silver and hazy as they catch the dreary half-light of the cloud-choked sun. He takes a long breath, the air cool and thick in his lungs, fresh from the rain and carrying the clean, damp-sharpened scents of the forest, resin and lichen and piquant woodsorrel. As he exhales, the vapor of his breath fans out in a pale cloud, drifting like the mist that curls around the roots and shrubbery at the base of the tree trunks.

The silence of the weald is broken by the rapidly waxing patter of the rain and the wet squelching of Fóthradr’s hooves. The storm had broken out in earnest a short time ago, and already Loki is soaked to the bone, hair dripping into his eyes, tunic and breeches waterlogged and heavy and clinging to skin that has gone chilled and clammy, mud lathered over his calves and the sides of his horse from Fóthradr’s sloshing gait.

It’s miserable, and Loki pats Fóthradr’s neck, consolation and apology in one, as he eases him to a standstill. Yet the trees have a composure to them that is calming, upstanding and enduring, the severity of the weather nothing more than a passing disturbance to their steadfast patience and dignity. He eyes a tall, mature linden tree, older perhaps than himself, with its wide, full crown bearing the weight of the wind with scarcely more than a ripple passing through the leaves. He sits straighter on his horse’s back, leaning slightly forward over his withers.

Loki watches the forest like Heimdall All-Seer watches the realms, not the smallest detail slipping his quiet notice. He keeps his horse, too, well in his attention, trusting Fóthradr’s senses as much as his own, and more besides, knowing the stallion can hear better than he, distinguish fainter smells, feel the shift in the earth caused by a mere fallen leaf.

It is because of this that he notices immediately when the flank muscles under his thighs tighten and bunch up, when the mottled ears begin flicking cautiously back and forth. He hears nothing but the wind, sees nothing but the rain, but he knows it’s only a matter of time before he finds what Fóthradr has already perceived. It could be nothing more than some daring animal scampering about, careless of the water lashing down from the sky, or it could be the precise reason Loki is back again in this forlorn place, defying the storm.

Fóthradr clamps the bit between his teeth and takes a step backwards, snorting loudly.

“Easy,” Loki tells him in a soft voice, adjusting his hands on the reins. He squeezes with his legs, asking him to walk forward, but instead, Fóthradr starts to tremble, truly spooked. Loki’s body shakes as well with the force of it, and he absently runs his fingers through the tangles of the horse’s wet mane as he casts his gaze around again, far less comfortable than he was moments ago. Still, he sees nothing. But he knows something is there.

He draws forth a small knife, the blade of it no longer than his finger, but still wickedly sharp on both sides, and clasps it tightly in one hand, holding on with the other to both the leather strap of the reins and the hairs on the base of Fóthradr’s neck, preparing to lean forward and swing off his back.

Before he manages to do so, Fóthradr bolts, running from the unseen threat in a way he hasn’t done since he was saddle broken. Loki jolts, thrown off balance, and grits his teeth in irritation and slight fear. He struggles to maintain his hold on the slippery horse and keep the knife from lodging into either himself or Fóthradr, gripping as hard as he can with his knees and reaching for the reins that had slid loose during the sudden take off. His fingers brush them for a split second before something collides with his chest, and he flies off Fóthradr altogether.

He lands with a dull thud, the softened ground taking the bulk of the impact, but still hard enough to knock the wind out of his likely bruised ribs, and the knife skitters out of his grasp. He heaves his body out of the sucking mud, and thrusts his feet under himself, heels gouging the crumbly moss, gasping breath back into his lungs. His hair swings about his face wildly, clumped in waves that obscure his vision as he looks around for his horse, for his knife, for whatever the fuck knocked him down. He bares his teeth in a snarl, breathing heavily through his mouth, feral and filthy, and he once again comes up short.

He hears a twig snap and whirls in the direction of the sound, weaponless, but with arms braced to strike out. He has just enough time to glimpse something coming toward his head before it hits with a crack. Pain flashes white and hot before being overtaken by the black backdrop of nothingness.

***

Now is a bad time for the corridors to be deserted, you think, dizzy and out of breath from running so hard, from the urgency that lends your feet speed and strength. The stiff slippers you’d been given to wear are rubbing angry blisters into the tender skin of your ankles, and you spare a panic-addled thought for your soft leather boots, missing them for a second before shaking your head of your ridiculous sidetracking.

You careen around a corner wildly, smooth, gripless soles gliding on the polished floor, and throw your arms out for balance. Huge, engraved doors loom over you, meeting in an arch so high you tip your head back to look at the top, breath sawing through your dry throat. The throne room, you think, it has to be. They’re the largest doors you’ve seen so far, heavy wood trimmed in gold, and you can think of no other reason for such an ornamental threshold.

The King, the Allfather will be inside. The thought gives you pause, for surely he would be gravely insulted to have a measly little servant girl clamber before him uninvited. Then you throw open the doors, leaning into their weight, because it’s exigent, his son, both of his sons-

You step forward into a torrent of rain and a darkening sky. Stunned, you let the doors clang shut behind you, staring open-mouthed at the grounds around the palace. Outside. That is... unexpected, and the rain plasters your hair against your neck as you stand in a momentary daze, running unchallenged down your skin in rivulets.

You turn to your left, but there is no one, so you try the right. No guards, no sentries stand at attention at the entrance, and your face falls. Shouldn’t there be... Isn’t there supposed to... And you realize you don’t know, because you haven’t seen this place before, hadn’t been awake when you came in, and all you do know is that you can’t seem to find anyone at all, and there probably should be at least some people around, but where they’ve gone or why they’re missing when you need them so badly is an ill-timed mystery.

Should you go back in, and try harder, shout louder, search more thoroughly? Get lost again and waste even more time? a dark voice whispers. You try to ignore it, reaching for the handle on the doors, because you had seen Prince Thor, knew he couldn’t be that far, you should be able to find him and Loki-

You stop short. Prince Loki had been spending a lot of time in the forest, according to Bǫlverkr, doing something so cryptic he wouldn’t let loose the secret even to confide in his brother. Would he be there now, even in the midst of the storm? It’s not impossible, if his undertaking is so very important, and from your limited estimation, you’d reason that he doesn’t seem the type to shirk from some duty just because it is unpleasant. The stories of his clothes covered in blood, your blood, so vivid you can almost picture what it was like, remind you of that.

You give the palace doors one lingering, worried glance and take off at a run down the steps and the broad pathway, feet slapping against wet stone and the occasional puddle, heading in a straight course for the bordering greenwood.

***

Unaccountably, you find yourself following the trail that you know well enough to recognize even through the fog and mire. Each step you take, slowed with circumspection and the pain of raw, oozing skin, brings you deeper into the forest. You really miss your boots now. You shiver as the wind snatches the heat from your drenched body. You can’t recall ever being so wet, half-drowned by the storm that hasn’t let up in the slightest.

The forest is vast, towering above you and stretching around in all directions for farther than you could hope to walk. It feels an impossible task, like searching an entire river for a single pebble, but if the prince is here you have to find him. He had likely saved your life, you realize, thinking not for the first time about what might have become of you had Einvald had his way in dragging you off when his offer was rejected, once you were useless to him and nothing more than just some stray farmhand with no purpose. At best, you might have ended up like Pínaluk, bitter and envious and forced to work for an abhorrent master. You understand it now, why she resented your existence, your freedom, your favor. At worst... You think of Hreinn and the lecherous gazes of the men at the camp and you shut your eyes to force the images from your brain. Einvald might not have killed you, but you know there are things worse than death. You at least owe it to Prince Loki to try.

So you sweep your matted hair up, tie it back and out of the way, and trudge through the slick sludge the earth has become, ignoring your hurting feet and the goosebumps and the horrible sticky feeling of saturated linen all over your body as you look between each trunk and brier thicket, just in case.

Lightning bursts overhead and lights the sky blue for an instant, and something small and shiny catches the flare up ahead. You pick your way to it, leaving the trail and climbing unsteadily over rocks and roots and scraggly little bushes that snag on your clothes and leave tiny scrapes on your skin. You crouch down to look, and in the dimness, you make out the shape of a dagger, half buried in the mud. You pick it up, slinging off the muck and examining it more closely. It’s carefully whetted to a needle-sharp point, the edges thin and fine enough to flay. There are pellucid green stones embedded in the handle, decorative more than functional. Emeralds, you realize, costly and valuable. Befitting a prince. It’s a slim chance, but maybe...

You scan the ground, hoping, and find shallow dips in the mud, semicircular and fading fast as the rain washes them smooth. You follow the hoof prints as fast as you can, coming across a ragged span of scuffed up moss, looking remarkably like a body had skidded, or perhaps been dragged, across it. It doesn’t bode well.

There are impressions made distinctively by boots leading away from it, deep ones, diverging from the horse tracks and much fresher. You swallow. Too late. You’re too late. Bǫlverkr got here first and found Loki, and hauled him off somewhere, maybe to kill him if he hadn’t already. It’s an awful thought, imagining the prince’s body bloody for a different reason. Even if you hated him, it was still a terrible fate, killed without contrition in cold blood, with no chance to honor himself in a fair fight.

But the tracks are recent, enough so that you convince yourself to stop fearing the worst, and with a twinge if sympathy for the horse, you let them guide you, walking as quietly as you can, in pursuit of the prince.

***

The wayward prince sags beneath his own weight, crumpling to the ground in a heap. Face slackened, marred with blood and dirt, he doesn’t look nearly so intimidating, and Bǫlverkr allows himself a flinty smile as he nudges a limp arm with the toe of his boot. Unresponsive, motionless save the thready swells and contractions of his chest as he breathes, pathetic. Perfect.

He lowers himself to his knee over the prince, heedless of the mud and water, and lifts the inert body enough to yank the hands behind the back and tie them, as a precaution.

With that accomplished, he lifts the prince into his arms, sinking further into the earth. He carries the body a short distance to the spot he’d decided on prior, far enough from the main path to be unnoticed, yet recognizable to anyone who knows of its existence. Loki’s lolling head jerks back and forth with the movement, and Bǫlverkr lets it. No doubt his neck will be sore later, he thinks, with a small flicker of amusement.

When he reaches the glade, deep in the center of a ravine and ringed by a coppice of pines, he drops Prince Loki and pushes him upright against the gritty trunk of one of the trees. He unties the tough, unyielding thong of leather to reposition Loki’s arms, wrapping them backwards around the tree’s girth. He cinches the strap doubly tight, enough to ache. When he steps back, the prince’s body shifts forward, pulling involuntarily against the binds. No doubt his arms will be sore, too. Bǫlverkr smirks inwardly.

He walks around the tree until he is in front of it, squatting down before the ensnared prince. He rolls Loki’s head further forward, letting it rest on his shoulder in a caricature of gentleness as he runs his fingers through the prince’s dark hair, parting the knotted strands at the back of his neck. He slips his other hand into the front pocket of his satchel, drawing out a small velvet pouch. He pushes his fingers into the top, opening it one-handed, until his fingertips brush the bead within.

It’s tiny, no larger than a linseed, and Bǫlverkr holds it carefully as he brings it to Loki’s nape, fixing it to the fine, short hairs there. He ruffles the prince’s hair, letting it fall back into some semblance of order and then stands, walking the perimeter of the clearing until he is beneath the canopy of an overhanging bough, and there he waits.

***

The storm stops with a suddenness that is nearly alarming, leaving a resounding silence hanging in the air. You hold your breath, creeping along the highest, driest parts of the forest floor to keep your steps from loudly splashing through the accumulated pools of water. You think you’re going the right way, the way the footprints had been leading, but they had rapidly been scoured by the pounding rain, and the encroaching shade of twilight is no aid.

The earthy smell of moist bark and churned litterfall is overwhelmed as smoke wafts over your face, stinging your nose and eyes. The lightning... it hadn’t struck, had it? You spin around in a circle, head swiveling for a glance at a fiery red wall, closing in to devour you, but there is nothing. The trees are watchful, suspicious, but not burning. You look behind you and you can almost see the direction the billowed stream of it is coming from. You don’t imagine there are many people who would be starting a fire right about now, and you know it has to be Bǫlverkr. What he’s doing with a fire you don’t know, don’t want to know. But you can’t turn back now, not when you’re all but certain Prince Loki is with him, in danger. And so it’s no choice really, you follow it, covering your mouth with your wet tunic and coughing despite it, eyes blurring from the thick white smoke.

When you come to a crest of a hill, you’re left staring down into a gully of evergreens, and Bǫlverkr and the grey-haired man are sitting, apparently at ease, aside the flames, huddled into the warmth to dry their clothes and hair. The grey-haired man occasionally lifts a mug to his lips as they talk quietly, the utter picture of nonchalance. You scan the expanse, looking for a familiar head of black hair or a flash of green, and you find him, almost hidden in shadow, behind the trunk he leans against, chin against his chest, obviously unconscious even from the distance. But not dead.

There’s no way for you to climb down the sheer sides of the gully unnoticed. As it is, all it would take is one of the men to look up and spot you crouching atop the ridge, with nothing but the falling darkness to hide behind. Even if you were to shimmy along the edge until you were behind them, the slope is too precarious to try and navigate noiselessly, sightlessly, the ground too loose and rocky for any measure of surreptitiousness. No, you can’t sneak your way in, but perhaps... perhaps you don’t have to.

You step back, out of sight, and gently tuck the dagger into the band of your leggings, letting your tunic fall over it and conceal the evidence. Then, heart stuttering, you carefully walk down the least steep part of bank, in full view of Bǫlverkr and the other man.

***

When he opens his eyes, it is nothing at all like waking from a dream.

There’s a painful pressure in his head, behind his eyes, and something throbs along his temple. Fóthradr, he thinks muzzily. He remembers falling off the horse. Must’ve hit my head. He goes to reach a hand up to probe at his forehead, and tenses in dismay as he realizes he cannot. His arms are immobile, twisted and pinned behind him, all at once sore and chaffed where they meet the bark of the tree his back is against. Something is very wrong, something had happened. The hairs on his neck tingle uncomfortably, and there’s a hollowness in his stomach that can’t be explained by his rising gorge. Panic forces its way into his throat, but he doesn’t let it take hold, doesn’t let it further cloud his head.

Quickly, Loki drops his chin back to his chest, ignoring the rolling pang caused by the movement, and closes his eyes almost all the way. From the sliver of light still remaining, he looks around, otherwise appearing to be in the same state of sleep or unconscious he had been moments prior.

He’s in a clearing of some sort, nestled in a deep ravine filled with fallen needles and stinking of pitch and hot ash, still uncomfortably dank in his sodden clothing. A fire burns against the darkening sky, and beside it sit two men. Loki’s assailants, he presumes. One of them is rather nondescript, with drab clothes and light brown curls and beard that wouldn’t look out of place on any Asgardian. But the other is unmistakably one of the Álfar, having comely features and argent, free-flowing hair draping over his mantle-clad shoulders, deliberately uncut, for the Elves believe their hair to be a source of power. Both of them seem uninterested in him, engaged in mild conversation, but that prickle of worry crawls back up. The presence of the Elf makes this seem far less likely to be a ransom attempt, and Loki begins to entertain the idea that his life may be the stake of this design.

And then he hears the muffled crunch of wet gravel underfoot, the creak of pulpy twigs too swollen with moisture to crack. Someone else is approaching from the ingress of the ravine. He can’t quite see from his position, can’t roll his head far enough to look, even with his eyes fully open, but by the sound, the unhurried lightness of step, unintentionally so, the person is not particularly large or heavy — perhaps female — and confident in their carriage.

The strange new arrival comes nearer, eventually into his field of vision, and backlit as they are by the fire flickering in the dusk, all he can make out is a straight-backed figure with long hair pulled up into a tail.

Sif, Loki thinks at first, and for a moment, his mind blanks with relief he’d never expected to feel at the sight of her, not since they were children, carefree and guileless in their youth, not since before things had gotten so complicated and muddled. But as his head clears, he starts to notice the subtle differences. For one, Sif is taller, nearly his own height, and her clangy warrior armor would not have allowed her such a soft tread. It is not his compeer on a rescue mission. Despondency stings in his chest, more sharply than he’d care to admit, as that flutter of hope withers as quickly as it had sprung. Even his horse is gone, and though he takes some solace knowing that Fóthradr is clever enough to find a way home, Loki is alone. The woman who now stands in the midst of the clearing is simply dressed in a loose tunic and leggings, with no weapons or mail, but he cannot see her face, and knows not who she is or for what purpose she has come.

Apparently, the men do not know either, for the Elf jumps to his feet and the Asgardian, though still seated, picks up a short stave — probably what he had used to knock him off Fóthradr, Loki thinks with a wince at the memory — and holds it ready.

“Who goes there?” one of them, Loki isn’t sure which, calls out, and the woman says nothing, but draws closer to the fire, near enough for the men to see her face in the glow, though her back is still to Loki.

The Elf laughs, ease returning to his bearing.

“Put down the staff, Bǫlverkr,” he says, settling back down. “It’s just the girl. I do hope you’ve brought us more of that lovely wine, little servant.” He sounds vaguely indulgent, like he’s talking to a pet or a toddler, not at all concerned.

Bǫlverkr, as the other man is called, seems more wary, and does not loose his hold of his weapon.

“She is not here to get us drunk, Lyngvir,” he snaps at his companion before turning to the woman. “Why are you here, girl? Who sent you?”

She shakes her head rapidly, still not speaking, and Loki can see just enough to notice her shift so her hands are clasped behind her body.

“No one sent you?” Bǫlverkr asks, seeking a confirmation.

She shakes her head again, and Loki starts to realize that perhaps she cannot speak.

“Why are you here?” the man repeats, short in patience and temper.

She hesitates, but eventually turns to point straight at Loki.

Loki freezes, a deer caught in a trap, hoping they haven’t seen the gleam of his open eyes, hoping he’s misinterpreted what he’s seeing. But surely there is no mistaking the evidence on her face.

Bǫlverkr scoffs, stalking over to stand right before the woman, yanking her chin up so they’re eye to eye.

“If you try and save the day, little servant,” he threatens, mimicking Lyngvir’s appellation in an undertone, “You will be lucky to make it out with just a scar.”

She jerks her head side to side, shaking him loose and frantically denying that allegation simultaneously.

She puts her hands out, asking for a chance to explain, although why she doesn’t speak, Loki isn’t sure, because he now knows that she is capable. But all the same, he’s not sure he wants to hear what she’d say, not sure what she’s playing at but willing to wager that it favors him ill.

She had been with Einvald. It’s the one thing he does know for certain. He’d thought her fear and pain to be genuine, but if it hadn’t been, if it had all been a ruse... After all, someone had seen fit to attack him, tie him up, and wait, for something he can only imagine will be even worse. It’s not unlikely that someone along the line would want revenge for the detrimental aftermath of his subversion, be it Einvald, for greed, for imprisoning his subordinates, or the girl, for forcing her into servanthood. He knows resentment for him burns within her, burns like its reciprocal within him, knows it from the strained look in her eyes as he told her of her appointed position, the clipped tone to her voice. Would she retaliate when his life hangs in the balance for his crime that was no crime at all?

Bǫlverkr steps back, raising his eyebrows in silent exasperation and granting her a moment.

Then she does something Loki could never have expected, and it makes him feel giddy and sick and strangely betrayed.

She reaches a hand up to drag it across her scarred cheek in a slow, deliberate cutting motion, and then aims her finger at Loki once more.

***

You point at the prince, hoping to get across your meaning, the lie, hoping you look angry, indignant, and that the men cannot tell that your knees are shaking and your stomach has gone tight and queasy.

Understanding dawns in Bǫlverkr’s eyes, along with something more sinister, his dark eyes throwing back the firelight in a dangerous dance.

“You’re here to settle the score.” He acknowledges it with an almost approving tip of the head. You nod, putting every scrap of affectation you have into the gesture. “I’d give you a knife if I had one.” He shrugs, then offers, “But if you want to go over there and kick him in his royal treasury, I won’t stop you. Daresay he won’t either,” he adds wryly before his face becomes shrewd. “Why don’t you speak?”

You raise a hand to your throat, clutching. I can’t, I can’t, you try to convey, floundering a bit because the question has caught you off guard. You’re saved from Bǫlverkr’s calculating gaze when Lyngvir laughs, loud and piercing in the quiet glade.

“How’s she supposed to answer that? Do you expect her to pantomime that she’s unable?” he says incredulously.

Bǫlverkr turns to him with a glower, clearly cross at being mocked for the senseless question.

“What I am attempting to inquire,” he rectifies through his teeth, “is whether she was born mute, or if something had happened to cause it in her.”

Lyngvir hums lightly, face scrunching as he mulls the idea over.

“Perhaps it was Prince Scarmonger here” he suggests, with something akin to sympathy curling through his amusement. “Scared the wit right out of her tongue, poor wretch.”

“Yes, perhaps,” Bǫlverkr says thoughtfully, looking at you with that unnerving glint once more. You let some of your fear suffuse your countenance, counting on him to mistake its source. “You don’t have to worry though, girl.” His eyes flick to where Loki is slumped. “He’ll be gone any moment now.”

A chill runs down your spine that you’re powerless to stop, and you step closer to the fire, playing it off as a shiver from the evening air, the cold, wet clothes, the memory you don’t have of Loki butchering your face. You had thought... surely if they meant to kill him, they’d have done it by now. You’d thought maybe there was some other plan, something else they were waiting on. But... Gone. The ring of finality, the surety of the word suggested something permanent, something fatal. But the brief look at the prince. Did they mean dead? Or just... gone? Was someone, something coming to take him? Any moment, you wonder.

And now that Bǫlverkr has said it, it seems he and Lyngvir are anticipating something, standing and occasionally casting expectant gazes on the prince.

You lick your lips, thinking, worrying. Maybe your guess at poison was right. Maybe they’d forced some toxic draught down his throat, maybe he is already in the process of dying.

You turn your head to Loki and nearly startle, rooted to the spot, finding bright eyes open and looking back at you. They stare, owlish in the filmy darkness, betraying nothing though you know he’s heard every word, seen every action. Prince Loki looks away, breaking the connection that seemed to bore through you. And then, able to move again, you take your chance.

Leaping forward, you dash like mad across the clearing, sliding to a stop on your knees behind the tree trunk, by some stroke of luck avoiding being cut by the jostling of the blade at your waist. Your hands find the tie, working half blind to loosen the sap-sticky leather faster than the men can catch up, already hearing their confused mumbling behind you, gritting your teeth as you yank and pry at it.

Loki grunts in pain when his arms swing free, pushing up on his palms to find purchase, scrabbling backwards against the mud and detritus. You reach your hand down, an offer of help, and he, with a measuring look on his blood-streaked face, stares up at you for so long, you’re sure you’ll feel the blow from Bǫlverkr’s staff any second.

“Come on!” you shout, abandoning any pretense of muteness as you scowl down at the prince. There’s an an outraged gasp from Lyngvir, Bǫlverkr, you don’t care which, horrifically close. You don’t have time for this, for him to make some kind of second-guessed assessment. You shake your hand in vehement impatience. With a jerk of a nod, Prince Loki takes it.

And the world around you goes black.

Part 10

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