Asgard is loud.

It's also crowded and uncouth in the square, where the hustle and bustle is at its busiest and most obnoxious. Honestly, Loki's rather taken aback, because he didn't expect Asgard to be this full of people. Despite the cheerful chaos he's been somehow sucked into by simply setting foot into the marketplace after his long, long journey through the mountains, Loki finds he rather likes it.

Smiling, he accepts some bread a young girl with an apron hands him, telling Loki earnestly that her family makes the freshest and most delicious pastries in all of the Nine Realms. "Go on," she urges him. "You don't have to buy this, but really, give it a try!"

He relents, and it really is pretty good; Vanaheim has fresh wheat and everything, but Loki's never tasted anything quite like it. "Thank you," he laughs, and presses a quick kiss to the back of her flour-dusty hand, letting his green eyes shine earnestly at her. She blushes and stammers, averting her gaze from his amused expression.

Loki later walks away with another few hot, fresh pastries in his arms. He grins to himself; he's never really had a problem getting free things from impressionable young women (or men), and he never says no if they're offering. Still, the Asgardians here are nice. He's unfamiliar with their accent, more posh and melodic compared to the roughshod tones of the Vanir, but he thinks he could get used to it.

"What's the occasion?" He asks brightly, when he's charmed another young man into conversing with him and parting with several meat skewers he's very keen for Loki to sample, on top of "anything else you might like to try any time, only because you're stunning." Loki ignores the blatant flirtation but accepts the skewers anyway.

"You're not from around here, are you? It's nothing much," the man scoffs, waving. "The market's always busy, but it's crazier than usual this time of year. I've never seen the point of it, personally, but the Asgardian royalty make the celebrations over the fall of Jötunheim a really big deal. There's fairs and everything."

Loki's smile feels frozen on his face. "Do they, now."

"His Majesty started the annual celebrations about ten, fifteen years ago. I wouldn't know, I was but a child at the time. I knew we were at war with the Jötnar, but having festivals to celebrate our victory over another realm seems a little over the top, don't you think?" He smiles at Loki winningly, unaware of the turmoil flashing behind Loki's carefully guarded expression. "It draws a crowd, though, so I'm not complaining."

He leaves the stall later, contemplative, looking up at the giant monument of Odin in the square. He's never really seen how Odin looked like, so the face plastered onto the figure riding the unmoving, rearing horse is foreign. His seiðr stirs within him, restless, as Loki tamps down on the urge to destroy the statue to smithereens, for all the good it would achieve.

A festival, he thinks dully, keeping his eyes downcast. Rejoicing in the slaughter of hundreds, thousands of people. Senseless war, senseless strife, all for the pretense of a greater but ultimately hollow crown. If Odin hadn't invaded Jötunheim then, if Loki remained the young heir to the throne, he thinks he wouldn't have made a good ruler. Loki snorts gently to himself at the thought: conquering kingdoms, hurting people from different realms along with their own to further their influence... how utterly pointless.

There are musicians, mimes, small performance troupes with their little corners and intricate props. His stomach twists when he sees a bard and some puppeteers under a gazebo re-enacting the battle between Odin and Laufey with crude puppets, making exaggerated commentary as Laufey falls in disgrace to Odin's spear. There are cheers, boos, and cries for more, for encores.

"All hail Odin-Allfather!" Someone shouts from the crowd.

There's a whoop of agreement, and then an old woman croaks, "Down with the Jötnar!"

"And so Asgard triumphed over Jötunheim," the leading minstrel of the troupe declares loudly, frowning at the interruptions. "Gungnir in hand, Odin snatched victory from the maws of the barbarians, and the realm of ice fell to the Aesir, proud and strong and eternal."

Loki grits his teeth; there's a roaring in his ears. He tightens his hands into fists and narrows his eyes. The little wooden puppet of Odin catches on fire, and then the puppeteers are shouting and panicking as they scramble away from it, rushing to gather everything else up in their arms. Loki turns his back on them, the anger an unwelcome rush of heat in his body, unheeding of the cries of dismay as the crowd disperses and they fail to put the small fire out.

The small burning, bearded face of the doll with its eyepatch mocks him. Loki leans against a wall to catch his breath. He can burn all the small puppets he likes or cause trouble for bards of troupes who sing and regale tales of Odin's greatness, but that won't change anything.

Jötunheim is still lost to him, to his people, and Odin's a war general who rode home in glory after he defeated the ruler of the frost giants and slaughtered warriors and babes alike. Loki's just a lost and fallen prince in a realm that would reject him and his heritage at the merest hint of his true nature, a prince whose pride and culture counts for nothing now.

The fire's being put out now, the smoke stark and black against the warm colours of the market. Loki can't even muster satisfaction at the sight of the minor destruction he's caused. He's young, but he feels old and weary and bitter all at once.

Loki pushes his conflicted emotions to the back of his mind, focusing on the here and now. There's laughter coming from his right, near an open space with what look to be knights and a small gaggle of spectators crowding around them, inquisitive and noisy. He needs a distraction, anyway, so he quietly slinks over, unnoticeable in his dull brown tunic. Loki's not worried about his Aesir guise giving him away, but he doesn't feel really in control of his emotions at the moment.

"Oh, come on!" There's a young man laughing, his voice low and rich, flanked by other youths in armour, weapons at their side. "That can't be all you've got!"

He studies the smirking stranger with interest, even if his laugh grates on Loki's nerves just a tad. Arrogant the young man might be, with his grin cocky and condescending as he moves in a circle around something — or someone — that Loki can't see from this angle, but there's no denying he's really rather handsome. Loki's seen (and seduced, though he'd deny it to Eira's face if she ever asked; there are some things he'd never confess to her on pain of death) his fair share of comely maidens and good-looking rogues in Vanaheim, but this man surpasses them easily. He looks like an illustration from scriptures of legends come alive, beautiful and proud.

That being said, he does sound like a right prat, though.

"Please, sire," a quivery voice sounds from somewhere behind the warrior. When he moves away from the source of that voice, red cape flourishing behind him as he throws and catches what looks to be a rotten fruit, Loki sees a scrawny boy scarcely his own age crouching behind what looks to be a magical barrier.

Confused, intrigued and feeling somewhat indignant on the boy's behalf, Loki inches closer, murmuring half—hearted apologies as he elbows his way through the crowd. He peers over the shoulders of a few girls, grateful for his height.

"Please, what?" The warrior rumbles mockingly, echoing the boy's words, before he throws the rot-softened fruit at him, smiling widely as it splatters against the barrier. The boy swipes an arm up to protect himself instinctively, his shield flaring as he winces at the impact.

Loki wonders just how long he's had to endure this.

A maiden with her dark hair in a severe ponytail next to him coughs pointedly, and the man pauses to look at her. "Don't you think that's a bit much, my lord?"

"Are you questioning me, Sif?" The golden stranger's grinning at her, too, but there's a hint of steel to his words. He's someone used to obeisance. Sure enough, the girl, Sif, lowers her eyes, although not without a flash of frustration in them before she murmurs, "No, sire."

Loki feels some admiration towards her, for at least attempting to stand up for a commoner in the face of this man — probably a senior fighter among their ranks despite his age. She called him my lord, Loki recalls; he must be a nobleman's son, then, someone of the court. It can't be easy being a female warrior and having to constantly prove your worth to the other warriors. Sif is the only girl there, slim in build but looking every bit like she belongs with them. She doesn't look angry at the man in a way that would imply her pride is stung, though; her gaze that rests on the boy who's being bullied is concerned, helpless almost.

"Right," he says to no one in particular, making his decision.

When the bully — there's no other name for scum like him, no matter how high-born, in Loki's opinion — picks up another fruit and readies his aim, Loki steps forward, gently pushing the curious spectators in front of him aside. He clears his throat, and the man's gaze snaps to him.

"I do believe that's enough," he begins, taking in the man's appearance fully now that he's closer to him. There's a faint dusting of light stubble on the man's face, he notices, right before said man's face breaks into a disbelieving grin. "You've had your fun pushing someone around already, haven't you, my friend? That's enough," Loki repeats, trying for a friendly smile of his own.

The man throws his head back, and for the briefest of moments, he takes Loki's breath away; damn him, the smug bastard really is attractive, all hard lines and chiseled features. It irritates Loki, and he feels his irritation climb when the man opens his mouth. "Have we met, stranger?" His voice is so thickly layered with disdain that Loki suddenly finds himself wishing he'll choke on it.

"No," he forces out, really irritated now that someone so beautiful could be such a jerk.

"You called me a friend, though, didn't you?" The man steps closer, moving around him slowly, and Loki's heart is thudding furiously in his chest from the proximity. He'd slap himself if he could; he reminds himself fiercely that there's nothing appealing about this man in any way whatsoever other than in the physical sense. "Eh, peasant?"

The man's companions laugh uneasily. Loki bristles, countless retorts at the ready, just lying on the tip of his tongue. "Sure," he replies, deceptively quiet. "That was my mistake." He pauses for effect. "No friend of mine could be such an absolute arse."

The stranger stills, completely, almost as if paralysed for a few seconds, and then he's bursting into raucous laughter. "My word!" He gestures at his lackeys. "Did you just hear what this fool said to me?" He turns back to Loki, looking really amused, now. Loki doesn't understand why, but neither does he really want to. He'd rather not have anything to do with someone like this.

"I called you an arse," he bites out, emphasising each word, "Because you are one. And a bully, to boot. Why don't you pick on someone your own size?"

"I can't believe it," the man crows, still. "You don't know who I am, do you?"

Loki snorts, notes the glint of battle-hunger in the other man's eyes, and prepares himself mentally for a fight. "I don't care who the fuck you are, you're a swine who puts others down just because you can. You're a noble, I suppose, being well-dressed and everything, surrounded by fellow fighters and warriors who trust you and look to you for leadership. And this, this, is how you treat your people?"

Interestingly enough, guilt flashes quickly over the man's face, but it's gone almost immediately. "That boy," the man says slowly, as if rummaging for an excuse, "Is a seiðrmaðr. He's not exactly powerless, and I'm entitled to my fun when I see one of them cowards around here, hiding behind their magic."

Well, that's about the dumbest thing that Loki's ever heard. "He's a child, you fool! And if you think magic is cowardly, then..." Recklessness rings through him, rough and wild, and his seiðr sings with it, restless around this impossible and infuriating stranger before him.

Loki doesn't stop to think how his magic has never reacted to anyone like this before, doesn't stop to think, really, which is the only explanation he'll have later for why he acts so stupidly within the next moment.

"Well, you should take on a seiðrmaðr your age, who matches your capabilities in turn! Or are you more craven than I?" Loki hisses, letting fire flare to life in his hands. The boy's looking at him with wide eyes now, admiring and fearful, flicking his gaze between Loki and the blond warrior.

"You," the warrior starts. "You're one of them!"

"Aha." The other man's voice isn't exactly full of wonder or even disgust, it echoes oddly of eagerness. Still, Loki recognises an opportunity to shame and embarrass when he sees one; he's too skilled with arguments and words to not use it. "So you admit you're too cowardly to take on someone like myself in combat, then, when you'd gladly push around a skinny boy who can't defend himself against you?"

"I could, too," The boy mumbles, but Loki hushes him.

The man straightens, placing a hand on the hammer that rests from his belt. Loki eyes his choice of weapon, surprised. He'd thought that only the prince of Asgard wielded a hammer; it must be catching on, if you actually had trends when it came to weaponry. The man stops, moves his hand away from his hammer, and then looks at Loki again, arms outstretched as if beckoning Loki to approach him for an embrace. "Well, come at me," he mocks, eyes shining with mirth. They're really, really blue, Loki thinks distractedly. "I won't even use a weapon, if your magic is that good."

"You'll regret that," Loki bites, and then there's no warning for him as the man shoots out a hand in a deft punch, making to grab for him. Loki sidesteps him neatly, having participated in his fair share of brawls in the village, reaching out a hand to singe the man's armour. He smiles as the man yelps from the heat, drawing back.

"What's the matter, my lord?" He teases, in a completely different tone from what the girl, Sif, had used to address him. "Am I too much for you to handle? We've barely started, I don't want to get bored of you yet."

A snarl, and then the man kicks out at him. He's swift; Loki ducks, but it grazes his cheek and cuts him, there's the smallest line of red on his face, he's sure, but then he's opening his palm so that light bursts in front of him to distract his opponent. The man really is a good fighter, because he notices the first blooming explosion of light Loki's cradling in his palm and closes his eyes before Loki's trick can do much damage, whirling around with his fist again to try and catch Loki off-balance.

He succeeds, unfortunately, and Loki's thrown to the ground with all the breath knocked out of him from that powerful blow. Loki barely has time to pull himself to his feet when the man's hauling him upright and yanking his arms behind him in a tight grip, threatening. He flinches in shock from the unexpected pain, his eyes blazing, and then he's meeting the man's gaze; he looks triumphant, with a spark of curiosity.

"I ask you again." His breathing is even, as if Loki really didn't give him much of a fight. Loki hates him so, so much right now. "Do you not know who I am?"

"No." Loki gives the same answer. He still doesn't care. "You're not the king, that much I know, he's got an eyepatch. Do I look like I give a damn?" Prats are prats, no matter how blue their blood, no matter how high up, no matter how attracti—

—well, that's a dangerous line of thought.

The blond smiles. It's almost genuine; Loki fights to keep a blush from rising to his face. It drops back to amusement shortly after, and right on to smug-as-fuck territory when his smile widens, showing a hint of teeth. "My name is Thor."

Loki groans quietly, grimacing as recognition sinks in like lead.

Thor, the prince of Asgard.