Many thanks to DarthxErik and Suzanne for being my sounding boards on this one. I dearly hope it interests all of you. 3

LLL

A decade has passed since Balder's death. Loki stalks the halls of Asgard—flippant, wicked and solitary, sowing chaos and disorder. When he is expelled from Thor's entourage, he unleashes a vengeance that nearly rips the court apart. In its wake, he flees to Midgard, where he discovers a young queen, an English garden, and the forgiving truth behind a forgotten language.

LLL

"The law of harvest is to reap

more than you sow.

Sow an act, and you reap a habit.

Sow a habit

And you reap a character.

Sow a character

And you reap a destiny."

-James Allen

LLL

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS

Alydia Rackham

LLL

CHAPTER ONE

"MARIGOLD"

Long white fingers languidly wandered across the cold strings of a silver lute. The bright answering chord rang through the stone arches, echoing hollowly off the unyielding pillars and icy smooth floor far below.

The thin young man carelessly cradling this delicate instrument reclined upon the narrow stretch of a wooden beam that bridged the hallway. The beam had been hewn and placed a lifetime ago, to support an aging wall that threatened to crack. He rested his head back against the carven elbow of an obliging granite sentinel, letting his unkempt raven hair spill down over the statue's forearm. His own elbows rested on nothing but air, as the beam was narrow. He could feel every single bone in his back, shoulders and hips as he lay on the wood, facing the shadowed gray ceiling that curved twenty feet above him, one ankle crossed over the other. He could feel his ribs press against the underside of the lute, which lay across his chest. His white, angular face tilted as he studied the filtered afternoon light upon the smooth rock. His right hand diddled across the strings again.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate ones, coming this way from below him to his left. He took a shallow breath.

"A youth walked out one day, one day

He met an aged man by the way

His head was bald, his beard was gray

His clothing made of the cold earth and clay

His clothing made of the cold earth and clay!"

His voice swelled with only a shadow of the pleasing tone he used to be famous for. Still, he carried the tune, making certain every word was clear.

"He said 'Old man, what man are you?

What country do you belong unto?'

'My name is Death, hast heard of me

All kings and princes bow down unto me

And you fair youth must come along with me.'"

The person walking slowed down, and the young man heard a sigh mingle with his own playing. He went on.

"'I'll give you gold, I'll give you pearls

I'll give you costly rich robes to wear

If you will spare me a little while

And give me time my life to amend

And give me time my life to amend.'"

Another sigh. A deep one, this time. The footsteps stopped as the person—a great, tall man—stopped just beneath.

"'I'll have no gold, I'll have no pearls

I want no costly rich robes to wear.

I cannot spare you a little while

Nor give you time your life to amend

Nor give you time your life to amend.'

In six month's time, this fair youth died

'Let this be put on my tombstone,' he cried.

'Here lies a poor distressed youth

All in his prime, he was snatched away

His clothing made of the cold earth and clay.'"

He finished with a flourish and lifted his hand straight up.

"Your lute is out of tune," Thor muttered from right below.

Loki rolled his eyes, picked up the lute, carelessly hung it out over the abyss and let it go.

It whispered as it tumbled, as if in muted cry.

Clunk-clunk-!

Thor's hands clattered against the wood and strings as he clumsily caught it. Loki grinned at the ceiling. A third sigh, low and labored.

"What are you doing up there?"

"Is there somewhere else I ought to be?" Loki asked, raising his eyebrows. "I'll admit, I've forgotten to check my schedule."

"Come down."

"No, thank you."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to," Loki replied, casually folding his arms over his chest.

"Fine," Thor muttered. "I'm going to give this back to Mother, since you're obviously finished with it."

Loki ground his teeth, sat up, and slipped off the beam. Easy as a whisper, he slid down the side of the statue, catching his hands against the stone's sweeps and edges, to control his fall.

His bare feet slapped the floor as he landed and trotted forward a few steps. His loose black shirt fell askew in the process, its wide collar completely exposing his left shoulder.

Thor stood in the center of the corridor, wearing cotton and leather—suited for sparring—and draped across with a deep maroon throw cape. He watched Loki, the late light catching in his vivid blue eyes, and touching one half of his handsome, rugged face. He looked tired.

"You oughtn't wear that," Thor halfway gestured to him with the hand that wasn't holding the lute.

"What?" Loki asked innocently, calming his rough breathing.

"Those clothes," Thor said. "They haven't been washed in days—and you know that sight makes Mother unhappy."

"That sight," Loki repeated, sneering as he dipped his head forward. "Ah, well…" he glanced down at his left shoulder and the ugly, spidery black veins that crawled across his white skin. He drew himself up and lifted his chin. "I find they look rather dramatic. And I always enjoy a bit of good drama."

"Yes, I know you do," Thor resigned. Loki lifted an eyebrow.

"Which is more than I can say about your hair." He stepped closer, frowning. "Why did you cut it? And so unflatteringly-short at that?"

Thor ran his hand through his shorn golden hair, then dragged his fingers down through his beard.

"Mother prefers it. You ought to cut yours," Thor advised. Loki snorted.

"And…why would I willingly wear the mark of servitude and slavery?"

"Not slavery—not here!" Thor suddenly thundered, pointing at him. "But servitude, yes! Servitude and humility and loyalty to your mother and your king and your house."

"Loyalty?" Loki hissed, pressing close to Thor, his eyes blazing. "You need me to cut my hair to prove that?"

Thor stared back at him, piercing through him with a brilliant, lost and stormy gaze. Loki coolly lifted his chin again.

"I will take this, thank you." He reached out and grabbed the neck of the lute.

Thor snatched Loki with both savage hands—one hand around his upper arm, the other around his neck.

Loki went ramrod straight, jerking his head back. Thor clamped down hard, his grip shaking. He clenched his jaw, and pulled Loki closer, staring straight into him.

"How long, Loki?" Thor gritted. He shook him. Loki's bones rattled. Thor's fingers dug into his skin, and pain shot down through his scars.

"How long will you put Mother and Father through this? Why can you not…Why can you not…" Thor's voice broke, his grip weakened, and he ducked his head. Loki grinned widely, and chuckled.

"Why so somber, hm?" he mocked, taking a step back, and pulling out of Thor's slackened hold. "Tomorrow you'll have brave warriors vying to become part of your entourage—as members of your inner circle, so faithful! so concerned for your safety! have taken drastic measures to remove the careless, delinquent one amongst the company. Such loyalty. Such love." Loki placed a hand over his heart and canted his head as he watched Thor's eyebrows draw together, his breathing unsteady, and his eyes shine as he fixed on Loki still. Loki's grin broadened, and he swept his arm in a grand gesture, taking three steps back. "Rejoice, Mighty Thor! You are alive, and it looks as if you shall remain so." He bowed slightly at the waist, touched his fingertips to his forehead and then flicked that hand out in a small salute. "You're welcome for that, by the way."

Thor sucked in a breath, locked his jaw and swallowed. Loki straightened, turned on his heel and laid the lute across his shoulder, then strode away from Thor down the corridor, lazily whistling the morbid tune of the song he had been singing before.

LLLLL

"As I was walking all a a'lane

I spied twa corbies making mane

The tane untae the tither did say,

Whaur sail we gang and dine the day, O?

Whaur sail we gang and dine the day?"

"Don't you dare sing that revolting song around me." Lady Sif didn't lift her face from her work. She sat on a narrow couch in the low shade of a marble patio outlooking a small, lush garden. The breeze touched her loosed black hair and the edges of the skirt of her purple dress, and the vividly-colorful fabric that lay draped across her lap. Carefully she stitched a seam with golden thread, and never looked up—even when Loki jarred the strings of his lute with one hand and set it carelessly against the armrest of the couch with the other—it hit her elbow. She stiffly moved her elbow off the rest and kept stitching.

"Have a care what commands you let fly, and to whom, Lady Sif," he warned, coming around in front of her and giving her a pointed look. "This is my house. If I want to sing about crows ripping out a corpse's hair, I can if I like." He sat down on the stones in front of her and stretched out on his back, parallel with her couch. He glanced up—her pale face still tilted toward her work, her comely mouth only slightly tight. One black eyebrow delicately lifted as her needle glimmered.

"You may sing whatever you wish," she bit out. "But I don't have to listen."

Loki chuckled, pillowing his head in his hands.

"You must be madly in love with him."

"Ow!" Sif gasped. He glanced over at her—she stuck her thumb in her mouth, her wide black eyes flashing to his. He smiled.

"Obvious, is it not?" Loki lifted his eyebrows. "You're doing the queen's mending." He gave her a look. "Exactly how desperate are you?"

"I am not—I'm not…" her face flushed red. "How dare you?!"

Loki laughed.

"Come on, why else would you have my mother's dress? She has seamstresses to do that." He reached out to finger the fabric. She jerked it away from his reach—uncovering a vibrant orange dress beneath.

"Ooh, what's that?" Loki sat up and pinched its hem.

"Stop it," Sif lashed out to pull it from him, but didn't tug hard. He held on, knowing she wouldn't rip it.

"Five gold pieces a yard, I imagine," Loki mused, studying it. He ran his fingers up and down the silken edge. "This is yours?"

"Let go," she ordered. He ignored her.

"Is this for the feast tonight?" he asked, glancing right up at her as she blushed. His nose wasn't far from hers. He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. "Are you nervous, Sif?"

"Why would I be nervous?" she snarled at him, taking a fistful of the fabric just above his hand.

"Lady Freya is taking the trial tomorrow," Loki reminded her. "Soon, she could be fighting right alongside you. And alongside Thor."

Sif's knuckles turned white.

"Freya is married to Tyr," she bit out.

Loki shrugged. Sif pulled on the dress. He didn't let go.

"Are you implying that Freya will be unfaithful to her husband?" Sif demanded.

Loki smiled crookedly, watching her face.

"I'm implying that Freya is beautiful," he answered, slowly sitting back. "And Thor has no wife to be faithful to."

He loosened his grip, and Sif furiously pulled the dress free.

"She can ride and shoot, but she's worthless with a sword," Sif shot back, smoothing the skirt. "Tyr, Gall and Danehall have far better chances. They are all diligent, valiant—fine warriors. I've seen them." Sif burned him with her gaze. "It will be one of them."

Loki chuckled again, grinning like a wolf. He climbed to his feet, bent down and kissed Sif roughly on the head. She shoved him. He gave way, turned and casually kicked her sewing basket. Its contents spilled out and he stepped over them without breaking stride.

"I wouldn't wear that dress if I were you," he called back to her. "That color looks ghastly with your hair."

LLLLL

"And on that bed there lies a knight

Lully-lullay, lully-lullay

Whose wounds do bleed both day and night

'The falcon hath borne my mate away...'

By the bedside there stands a stone

Lully-lullay, lully-lullay,

A leal maiden was sat thereon

'The falcon hath borne my mate away…'

With silver needle and silken thread,

Lully-lullay, lully-lullay,

She stems the wounds where they do bleed.

'The falcon hath borne my mate away.'"

Loki's lone voice echoed down the dim hallway. His bare feet made prints in the dust. He lengthened his strides and dragged his steps—he skated down the hall, leaving long swaths behind him. The torches did not light when he passed. They had died when it happened, and had never revived.

Loki spun gracefully, slid to a halt, and paused in front of a singular door. A locked door. Locked and barred.

He stared at the beautiful details carved upon it—stared at it sideways, his breathing slowing to nothing. Silence filled him.

Half an age he stood there, waiting. Eyeing the seam between the double doors.

He waited.

Finally…

A trumpet sounded. Far overhead, in the utmost tower of the palace.

A long, lonesome set of trailing notes.

The herald stopped. The fragment of song echoed across Asgard, and down through the falls and the valleys. Every member of the kingdom drew to a halt at the sound of it, and called their memories back just a short decade—a hand's breadth of time. A yesterday of years. To a night of blood and venom.

Loki closed his eyes. The echoes faded.

"How long, indeed," he murmured.

He opened his eyes. Gazed at the door.

Snorted, and smirked.

Then, he wandered in a disjointed trail back the way he had come, purposefully mussing the dust as much as he could, and dirtying his feet and the hems of his trousers.

To be continued…

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