The Saga of Loki and the Wyrms of Titan

by KC

Disclaimer: All characters owned by Marvel.

Summary: Loki does what he does best – make trouble and have someone get him out of it again. With a dungeon escape, trolling the Avengers, and thwarting an alien invasion.

Clarity. For the first time in months, pure clarity. No pain, save for the scratching inside his stomach that came and went. No cloud muddling his thoughts. His mind, as quick as silver, blinked and roused itself and breathed deep the pure Asgardian air.

His heart smoldered like a cooking fire left too long, sifting the embers into a weak flame. Not extinguished, not snuffed out, still darkly red, but worn from flaring too long. The lost year and all its torments had nearly killed him, coming closer than giants and trolls and gods to finally getting the best of the divine trickster. But he was alive, even if he found himself once again in a prison.

The trick, Loki knew, was patience.

In his dungeon cell, Loki sat very, very quietly. Hours lounging on a bed of straw, awaiting the attention of the king, while the guards stood at the door and looked through the bars. Curious warriors came to gawk at the Jotun freak who thought he was Asgardian, their curses and insults under their breath, pitched just loud enough for him to hear, while he refused to react, staring at the same page of the book his mother had brought him, her eyes lowered in shame...but now the dungeons were quiet. The curious passed on, the guards realized he meant not to move, and the show was over.

In his dungeon cell, Loki sat very, very quietly and wondered why the guards didn't question that he did not turn the pages. So kind of his mother to bring him the book in his chambers with the tassel to mark his place. He didn't even remember what he'd been reading in the days before Thor's aborted coronation. Certainly not this. The Saga of Brecca and Wyrms of Jorvic.

Not a spellbook, not that she would have brought such a dangerous thing to him, but rather a long volume of history to better while away the hours with battle poetry.

He hated battle poetry.

But the book was large enough to cover his hand as he inched it down into the straw. Even unwatched, he had to appear completely impotent. Both Heimdall and Odin saw everything, and his magic was not yet with him.

The muzzle locking his mouth burned. His magic ached to come out, growing within him but with no outlet, and the swell of power would soon become truly painful. He thought of ripping the gag off, healing his myriad small wounds and deep hurts left from his thrashing in Midgard, but he refrained. The only thing now was patience.

Even Heimdall had to blink. Even Odin could be distracted. And every prison had a weak spot.

This dungeon's weak spot, for example, was that it had been his childhood refuge and playground. Odin rarely kept prisoners and the farthest cells were built deep into the stone beneath the castle. Torchlight did not reach the main doors, so he could settle on a comfortable bed of straw, give himself just enough of a glow to read by, and pass long hours in silence where no one could find him. He could fall into each book as if they were water, silently sinking deep so that he heard nothing, not his mother calling for him, not Thor demanding his company, until he reached the last page and rose again like a swimmer breaking the surface, breathing deep.

The dungeon, like a book, centered him, calmed him, and gave him focus, which he wielded like a beam of light on his bookmark.

Truthfully, he thought, his mother should have realized that he didn't use bookmarks. A torn strip of paper between the pages of a sorcerer's book? More like a scrap of a forgotten spell, and he twisted it under the straw, bent it into a wisp of raw potential.

Tearing off the muzzle would be painful, but worse, it would send out a flash of magic like an alarm. All the guards in the castle would rush down, spears and swords aloft, no doubt with his brother and father at the front. But Loki was no brute to blunder clumsily along.

As if tired, he lay his head down, closing his eyes as, unseen beneath the thick straw, his hand closed around the muzzle's edge. Relaxed as if to fall asleep. For a long moment he hesitated, felt sleep hovering so close and wondered if he couldn't spare the hours for actual rest. The day had been long and painful, marched through the castle's long hall with the threat of Mjolnir at his back. The silence of the warriors at their evening feasting was worse than all their jeers. The strained look in Odin's face, the empty ache obvious in his mother's eyes...

No, don't think about it, he told himself. And don't fall asleep.

Oh, but how tempting the thought! He hadn't slept in weeks, he still bore bloody scratches from the fighting, and now, for the first time in months, he didn't feel the Chitauri's constant glare over his shoulder. The dungeon was his first respite since his fall, and the straw was as inviting as any bed. So easy to let his sore muscles relax, and the stones underneath the straw were cool and soothing...and ripping off the muzzle would hurt, it was going to hurt, it was going to hurt so—

Deep breath.

He clenched the muzzle and pulled with all his strength, snapping the metal, snapping his jaw, and gouging his face in one smooth movement. Blood splashed the straw. At the same time he used all the scrap magic in his hand not to hide the muzzle's alarm but to shape it into something else—a replica of himself face down in the straw, fast asleep, and his true presence masked from Heimdall's sight.

Biting off his yell, he curled up on his side and groaned in pain, nauseated. For several minutes he lay still, bleeding on the stone with his eyes squeezed shut. Part of him hoped that the guards had heard the snapped steel or his gasp and would bring healers. Part of him took worthless comfort that no one was coming and that he was alone as always.

He pressed his hand to his cheek, cupping the broken bones, spitting out several teeth from one side of his face. His own magic burst inside him and began knitting flesh back together, as painful as tearing out thick leather stitching on his mouth, and what did that say about his life that he could compare the two? The pieces of his jaw slid under his skin and pressed together again, burning hot as they fused together.

If his magic hadn't been corked up by that damn muzzle, he could have accomplished everything he needed in a moment. Instead he would have to rely on his wits until he could muster his strength once again.

His face was not entirely healed when he turned over and stiffly pushed himself up, staggering as he got to his feet and leaning hard against the wall. Wracked by deep shudders, he dragged in each breath and kept his shoulder to the wall as he moved toward the door. A turn of his hand and the lock clicked open. On the other side, a guard turned, startled.

Loki froze in surprise for just a second—how stupid to forget that locks made noise—then kicked the door as hard as he could. The heavy wood and iron slammed back and flattened the guard on the other side. Loki came out at the same time, dodging the clumsy grab from the other guard and flicking his own spilled blood into the man's eyes.

Heimdall will see this, Loki thought in a fury. Heimdall will see this and Odin will see this and dammit!

Loki veiled himself in shadow, but neither the watchman nor his adopted father would miss two guards battered by a seeming strong breeze. No time left to waste here—he sidestepped the blinded guard and ran up the stairs, breaking open the strong doors and coming into the hall.

Already a dozen more men were running towards him, and he pressed himself against the far wall as they passed, feeling the brush of one's cape on his cheek. Sliding to one side, he masked the sound of his footfalls with their clanking armor. Really, were they trying to make this easy for him? If he wanted, he could use the Casket—no. No, he must not grow bold. Cautious, cautious. He kept his eyes wide and his ears sharp, taking in everything he could. It was night—the starry sky filled the windows at the far end of the hall, and he heard only the confusion of the servants, startled out of their beds by the shouting below.

Stepping lightly on the smooth floors was easy in his soft leather boots. Passing behind the heavy curtains, he went down the corridor that led to the royal family's private chambers, silent on the stairs. The commotion down below grew louder as his replica was found, asleep in an open cell, and then a roar of anger as his deceit was discovered, his replica was touched and vanished.

Now the castle would be crawling with idiots poking their spears blindly in all directions, but even this served to help him. After all, what better to mask his escape than a mad flurry of warriors rushing around like maddened bulls? With each step, he left behind one replica after another, and each one of them darted down a different hall, buying him time.

The library lay at the far end of the castle, tucked out of sight lest Asgard remember that their king was actually educated. At least that's what Loki told himself when teased for holding a book in public. The library was almost always as empty as the dungeons, save for Odin's rare visit.

It was empty now as he stepped inside, breathing deep the scent of ancient manuscripts older than his father, mouldering on the shelf. As usual, he was the only one who'd been inside in months, maybe years. His pen and papers lay on the table where he'd left them, notes he would never finish taking now. A bowl of golden apples lay beside them, still perfectly fresh as when he stole them months ago, and he slipped them into his tunic.

With a turn of his hand, he sent the table flying into the far wall, catching the inkwell in midair as books and loose pages fluttered around him like snow. He stepped into the space where the table had been and looked around himself.

Yes, yes, clear enough, he decided, and poured the ink out.

Pouring out his ink onto the stone floor, he put out his hand and, through subtle turns of his fingers, shaped the splatter into a crude circle, smoothed the edges and refined it. Another smaller circle appeared inside the first, and Loki filled the space between with runes as neat as if he'd written them. He turned slowly, etching in each one, whispering the words despite how speaking pulled at his skin, and set the circle turning over the floor. After a few seconds, the circle glowed a faint green light that pulsed and grew stronger.

As he finished, a shoe scuffed on the stone, a voice breathed in that wasn't his. His head snapped up, driving a bolt of agony through his cracked jaw, and he winced. Not from pain. From...something like embarrassment, the self-conscious shame of a naughty schoolboy.

Standing still, hands clasped before her, Frigga stared ahead without seeing him but knowing he was there. Loki ducked his head even though he was invisible to her. He'd never felt close to Odin, but he'd hid behind her skirts for years. For all his sorcerous knowledge and cunning wit, she was who he went to for help.

Like pulling away a blanket, he let his invisibility slip away, revealing himself. He felt a pang of guilt as she gasped seeing his wounds.

"I'm sorry you have to see this," he murmured, still not looking at her, half-expecting her to rap his knuckles.

"I'm sorry it ever reached this point," she said softly, facing him steadily with sorrow in her eyes. "I would protect you if I could."

He paused. For all he knew, he might never see her again, and the sudden knot in his throat choked him. Just having her there calmed his nerves and gave him the sense that everything would be all right. But the heavy footsteps coming up the stairs like hammers shattered his feeling like glass. Mother was the Queen of Asgard, but she held little sway over its king.

"This isn't what it seems," he said in a sudden rush, sick at heart that he could not lay the truth at her feet but needing to say something, anything. "Everything I've done, all the tricks I've played—it's for a reason, more important than anything I did before—"

"Then stay," she said over him, taking a step forward. "Don't leave. If you have your reasons, then tell us. Your father will listen—"

"Odin will strip me of my magic," Loki said. His anger pushed away his regret and hurt, soothed the knot in his throat so that he could trust his voice not to break. "Cast me down into exile and forget about me, forget I ever existed—"

"No, Loki," she said, pleading as she felt him slipping through her fingers. "He wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't forget the Jotun monster?" Loki said with a bitter laugh. "When it would be so much easier? He wouldn't even have to take time to mourn, just declare a day of celebration and all of Asgard would forgive him—"

Frigga turned her head as if remembering something painful. "Loki, please—"

As she came close to the edge of the circle, Loki held up his hand in warning.

"Do not cross the boundary," he said quickly. "The spell is powerful—it could burst—"

The library door crashed off of its hinges onto the floor, followed by Thor stepping across and Odin after him. To his surprise, Thor did not hold his hammer, but Odin held his spear Gungnir in one hand, looking at him as if his adopted son were any other frost giant. Thor took a purposeful step towards him only for his father to put out his arm, holding Thor back.

Loki met their looks evenly, drawing on his anger as a shield. No longer the scolded schoolboy, he drew himself to his full height, painfully aware that he did not measure up to either of them.

"Tired of playing with my constructs?" he asked in mock innocence. "Or are they all destroyed, discovered false only after they were run through?"

"Dispel the magic," Odin commanded, ignoring his questions. "This was not how I wished to speak with you, but clearly I can postpone this discussion no longer."

"Ah, father," Loki said, sarcasm lovingly entwined in his voice. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather leap down to Midgard than be hurled."

He put his hand out, pushing power into his circle until it glowed like the sun. With a great yell, Thor reached forward, ignoring Frigga's warning, and crossed the circle to grab Loki's throat.

Instead the circle exploded in a hot flash of light that slammed Thor into the shelves, stumbling to the floor as more books toppled down on his head. Around them, the library smoldered and pages glowed red at the edges. As Thor stood, confused by the empty space before them, delighted laughter came from the other side of the room.

"That simply never grows old," Loki laughed, revealing himself standing across from them in a mass of dense shadows that swept over and around him. "Some of us use our wits and subtlety, and some of us swing ourselves around like a hammer."

They stared, and he was acutely reminded of how he looked. His last replica had been made of vanity, the memory of what he looked like months and months ago. Feeling naked without the veil, he put his hand over his mouth in a vain attempt to hide the blood spilling over his lip, hide the bruises and the gaunt edges of his face. He could not help but notice the stark difference of his family standing in light and himself in a growing pool of darkness.

"No!" Thor roared, echoed by Odin.

As they advanced, Odin with his spear Gungnir raised, Thor with Mjolnir hefted in one hand, Loki's smile faded. They moved so similarly, arms wide, broad steps, their shoulders leaning forward. They were so obviously father and son. His gaze fell, rose, fell again, and he turned away from them, refusing to look as the shadows climbed to his shoulders.

"Loki, please!" Frigga cried.

They reached him as the shadows covered up his face, his eyes turning black, swallowed in darkness just as Thor reached out, grabbing a handful of mist that wafted over his fingers and vanished.

TBC...