Loki

by Mackenzi Lee

  “Was it me?” When Frigga didn’t reply, he pressed on, “What if I chose now to never leave the palace, or Father put me in prison, or I fled to somewhere far away from here and never returned to Asgard?”

  “You cannot live to fulfill or avoid what may come to pass,” she replied.

  “But that’s what father does when he looks in the Mirror, isn’t it?” Loki asked. “He looks for dangers he can avoid.”

  “You are not dangerous, Loki, but sorcery is. Magic is corrupting—only the strongest sorcerers are able to control it. Most are controlled by it. Your father has seen kingdoms fall to magic. He is wary. That’s all.”

  “Then let me learn to control it! If he is so afraid it will overtake me, why doesn’t he teach me to prevent that from happening?”

  “Because learning control means learning magic. His hope is, in keeping you ignorant, he will keep you from accessing the full extent of what you can do. It is”—she paused, and he felt her selecting her next words as carefully as a fine silk scarf from a drawer—“not a decision on which your father and I agree. But he is the king.” She looked up at Loki, her eyes sparkling. “I know what it’s like. I know that hunger. I know it doesn’t pass. It only grows stronger.” She took his face between her hands, the same way she used to when he was small and would press her nose against his forehead. “But you are so young and so powerful. You have so much before you, so much to learn.”

  “So let me learn.”

  “I will.”

  He had not expected that. “You...what?”

  “I should have taught you long ago about the power you have, and how to use it,” she said. “Your father and I both should have.” She picked up the damp cloth again and wrung it out, the blood turning the water a rusty brown. “If you wish to learn sorcery, I will teach you.”

  “Teach me what?” he said, his voice biting. “How to start fires and shift my form and other little tricks to impress the court, but not too much to scare them? You’re too late to civilize me. You let me live feral for too long.”

  “I’ll teach you how to control your magic. How to wield it.” Frigga’s voice came suddenly from behind him, and when he turned, she was standing in front of the window, her hands folded over her stomach. For a moment, he wasn’t sure which was real, his mother framed by the light or the one sitting at her dressing table watching him. They both turned to him, her eyes on every side of him, and he felt pinned between them. “There is magic in everything upon our planet. It is energy, and it lives in the air, the earth, you and me. And some of us are born with an innate ability to control and manipulate that energy.” The edges of her form at the window began to fade, then curl and smolder like paper catching fire. He turned to her at the dressing table. Her eyes were fixed upon him. “I will tell your father I am teaching you. But what you are learning will stay between us.”

  Loki stared at her, unsure what to say. He had always thought of Frigga in perfect union with Odin, her soft touch balancing his battle-hard edges. She supported him. He conferred with her. They fell in line together, their opinions and policies stronger for the absolute support of the other.

  But Frigga was not his father’s. She was her own.

  “The energy of Asgard is drawn to you,” she continued. “You can’t help that. How you use it is just practice, like strengthening your muscles and learning memory from repetition, but how you control it—that is the skill. To own your magic instead of letting it own you.” She stood up and held out a hand to him. “I can teach you that. I should have long ago.”

  He didn’t take it. “Is that what Karnilla was meant to teach Amora?”

  Frigga’s hand fell. “Amora is different from you. Your father and Karnilla both had concerns that she would be too powerful to control. Odin’s decision to imprison her was not a sudden one. It has been a subject of discussion between them for some time. Her actions today only accelerated it.”

  Loki swallowed hard. The guilt creeping up his throat burned. “What will happen to her?”

  “That will depend upon your father and Karnilla.”

  “And what will happen to me?”

  He had meant it as What will my punishment be? But when it came out of his mouth, it weighed so much heavier than he had expected. What will happen to me? What will happen to me and this power I have? What would happen if he chose to fight it? And, more than that, what would happen if he didn’t?

  Frigga reached out and touched his cheek. “Patience, my son.”

  Odin did not assemble the court for Amora’s trial. It was only the king on his throne, with Frigga, Karnilla, Thor, and Loki all standing at his side as she was brought before them, her wrists chained behind her. She was still wearing her feast day dress, smeared with dust and blood from the vault, and her hair was lanker and coarser than Loki had ever seen it.

  Loki wasn’t certain what his presence here would accomplish, but he kept catching himself leaning onto the balls of his feet, like his body was bracing for an attack. Perhaps he would be punished alongside her. Perhaps Odin wanted him to witness whatever he would do to her as a warning. The chains around her ankles clinked against the floor, a delicate sound that seemed more suited to putting on jewelry. No one had sponged the blood off her face. No one had healed her bruises.

  Odin did not stand when the soldiers halted their progress at the base of the stairs that led to the throne. He just adjusted his grip on Gungnir. Across the platform from Loki, Thor, and Frigga, Karnilla stared down at Amora, her lips pressed tightly together. With two dark braids falling around her face, she looked even paler than usual.

  “Amora of Nornheim,” Odin said, his voice the one he used for court meetings and assemblies, though there was no one else present. The resonance made the room feel even emptier. “You have been charged with treason, theft, destruction of a sacred relic, and robbery. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  With her head still bowed, she replied, “The charges are a bit redundant.”

  At his side, Loki felt Thor stiffen. Odin’s brow creased. “Excuse me?”

  “Are not theft and robbery the same, my king?” she asked. “I think you’re trying to inflate the list of charges against me with synonyms.”

  “Silence!” Loki had expected the shout to come from his father, but it was Karnilla who raised her voice instead. Amora flinched. Karnilla stalked down the stairs, her cloak rasping with every step. “I gave you everything. A kingdom to inherit. Schooling to use your powers. A home.”

  “A cage,” Amora retorted.

  “And this,” Karnilla said, her voice rising again, “is how you repay me. You disrespect your king. You disrespect me. You take the tools you have been given to control your power and you cast them aside. You let your strength corrupt and control you.”

  “I do not want to be controlled,” Amora argued. “I am powerful, so let me be powerful!”

  “And it is that power that is your undoing,” Odin interrupted. “I asked Karnilla if she would speak on your behalf. I asked your delegation from Nornheim if any of them wished to vouch for you. Not a one of them did. No one will speak for you, Amora.”

  Loki should have spoken. He wanted to speak. He felt the words on his tongue, ready: It was me. I’m the one you should punish. I’m the one who is too strong, too dangerous.

  When he looked up, Amora was watching him. She had given herself for him, but neither of them had expected this. He bent his head and stayed silent.

  “Your powers are too strong to remain unchecked, and you refuse to check them,” Odin continued. “As such, you will be banished to Midgard, where you will remain for the rest of your existence.”

  Loki had to bite back a gasp. Death at the executioner’s hand would have been more merciful, for this was death in its slowest form, its cruelest. On Midgard, there was no magic, no power to be channeled, power that her life force was tied to. Her magic would fade, and she would fade with it. The thought of it made his skin crawl, the idea of losing his
magic slowly, slowly, slowly, one drop at a time extracted from him by the world he was forced to live in. It was dishonor. It was pain. It was death. Were Odin any kind of merciful king, he would have let the ax fall fast and finished it here and now.

  Amora’s eyes widened, that rare flash of fear blazing incandescent, consuming her whole being. Whatever she had expected when she had spoken for Loki in the vault, it was not this. “Please, no.”

  “You will be taken now to the observatory, and the Bifrost opened for you,” Odin continued, as Amora’s voice rose in a scream. “It will not open to you again.”

  “No! Please!” Amora struggled. “Karnilla, please, don’t let him do this to me! Please!”

  At a nod from Odin, the guards began to drag her away, but she was thrashing like a tethered falcon. Say something, Loki told himself. Save her. But he couldn’t speak.

  “Karnilla, please! Your Majesty, have mercy! Mercy!” Her knees hit the ground, and Loki felt it like an earthquake tremor. “Put me in your dungeons. Let me rot there. Trap me on Nornheim, throw me through a wormhole, but please, not this!”

  The guards abandoned their chains and hauled her up by her elbows, dragging her backward down the hall.

  “Karnilla!” She twisted, her supplications shifting. “Frigga! My queen, my lady, please, have mercy! Intervene.”

  “Mother,” Loki said very quietly, but he felt Frigga’s fingers against his back.

  The guards were almost to the door now. Amora’s voice was now a blistering scream. “My queen, please! Please—Frigga! Loki—wait! Loki please, tell him—”

  The doors slammed, and Odin finally stood, turning to Loki. He felt Thor shrink away from his side, dodging the beam of their father’s anger, even if it wasn’t directed at him.

  Frigga took a step forward in between them. “Odin, let it be—”

  But Odin held up a hand. “Let me speak to our son.” Frigga fell silent but didn’t retreat as Odin approached them. His step seemed heavier than usual, and he leaned heavily on his staff as he stood before Loki. “Consider this your warning, my son,” he said, “of what will happen if you too become reckless with your power. Your title will not protect you again. I will not let you be the undoing of this realm.”

  And there it was. What Odin had seen in the Godseye Mirror, laid bare at his feet. Now he knew. Thor knew. They all knew which prince would turn against Asgard.

  Loki felt his throat tighten, his hands closing into fists at his side.

  He could have spoken up. He wanted to. He wanted to be like Thor and argue with his father and come away from it feeling righteous and right, knowing Odin would be secretly pleased with his hot-headedness and the way he stood his ground. But he was not his brother. Insolence would not be a sign of strength, but defiance. He and his brother may play the same game of his father’s devising, but the rules would never be the same. Darkness moves in a different way than the light. It is always there before the light. It has to be faster, and smarter, and stealthier.

  Loki was not his father. He was not his brother, or his mother. He was Amora, and she had been led away in chains and banished to Midgard. He had to be smarter and stealthier than she had been. He had to learn everything he could, and never let on how much he knew.

  He did not feel like a prince. He may never be king. He wasn’t made to be a soldier, and he wasn’t certain if he wanted to be a villain. He wasn’t certain if he had any say in that matter.

  The only thing he knew for certain was that he was powerful.

  Powerful enough to end the world.

  Thor was the first one to complicate their diplomatic assignment to Alfheim.

  He and Loki had been thoroughly briefed on the culture of the Ice Elves and protocol within the Ice Court. A culture that dictated that guests do not speak first in the presence of royalty. And yet the moment that Prince-General Asmund entered the antechamber where they had arrived, Thor said, “Asmund!” The greeting carried all the way to the high ceilings, making the icicles hanging from it tremble. Thor’s voice, like everything else about him, seemed to have been created for a battlefield.

  Perhaps it had been an unintentional mistake, or perhaps Thor had remembered and simply ignored the rules, wanting to assert his dominance, as he had grown more and more fond of doing lately. Perhaps Thor had truly fallen asleep during their lecture instead of just “resting his eyes” as he had claimed and he was truly oblivious to his error. Whatever the case, Loki made a mental note to remember that, whether or not this mission went badly, it was Thor who had mucked it up first.

  It likely wouldn’t matter—Loki was sure he would somehow still be blamed if this assignment didn’t go as planned. Loki could have been three realms away and tied to a chair, and Odin would somehow still find a way to pin responsibility on him for any trouble.

  But Loki usually wasn’t three realms away from trouble. And certainly never tied to anything.

  Loki did not travel often with Thor on assignments from their father across the Nine Realms. He had never excelled on the battlefield, and had been told that in negotiations, his gaze was disconcerting, so sharp that the nobility of the other realms may cut themselves upon it.

  He and Thor were old enough to be considered men in the Asgardian tradition, but Loki was still the less muscled, the less blond of the princes. Every conversation with foreign leaders began with some comment about how little he looked like his father, or how much his brother did in contrast. Perhaps Odin didn’t like to send him out simply to avoid wasting time on those observations. And while Thor was aggressive and loud in a way that could be misconstrued with leadership skills, Loki spoke softer and didn’t put his fist through as many walls; somehow people read that as him being slippery.

  There is something about you, Thor had told him once, that people just don’t trust.

  But he was trying. He had spent the last several years throwing himself into his studies, working hard, working smart, working to be a better soldier, a better sorcerer, a better prince, a different man than the version of him his father had seen turned traitor to Asgard in the Godseye Mirror.

  Odin was growing weary. He stood slowly, complained of his joints, fell asleep after two goblets of mead, sometimes at the table before the feast was even over. And the princes were of age. But with every day that passed, no matter how hard Loki worked, it grew more difficult to pretend that Odin truly was weighing his options when considering an heir. The day was coming when Odin would hand over his crown, and it felt already decided whose brow it would rest upon.

  That was the trap of seeing the future, Loki had begun to think—if Odin had never looked into it, never seen Loki leading an army, he might be considering him for kingship. And if he were king, why would he lead an army against his own people? Perhaps the future was only inevitable once you began to shape all your actions to fit it.

  But Loki was trying, every day, to prove himself different from what the future had promised his father he would become. And now he was on Alfheim, with Thor, on an assignment from the king—brief the Ice Elves on the situation of the missing Norn Stones and assure them that Asgard had the situation entirely under control.

  And at least it had been Thor who had made the first mistake.

  Prince-General Asmund paused in the doorway, ranks of guards behind him, glancing at each other. One of the guards, his long white hair braided into elegant strands around his face, let his hand wander to the pommel of his sword, like he might be personally called upon to dispatch the son of Odin.

  Asmund crossed his arms over his chest, the silver threads in his tunic catching the wintery light and gleaming. His hair was long and blond like Thor’s, but while Thor’s was the color of sunlight, Asmund’s was blond in a way that seemed to lack pigment. His skin was white too, so pale it had a blue sheen to it. The skin of all Ice Elves was like this, as if they were forged out of the heart of a glacier. They all seemed formed from the snow, built to blend into the frosted landscape that covered their ho
meland. Just the sight of the fair-haired Prince-General, the faint ridge of frost upon his brows, made Loki more acutely aware of how cold it was here, but how little he felt it. Thor had been shuffling and shivering wrapped in his fur-lined cloak, but Loki didn’t mind the frigid temperatures. Curious.

  When Asmund stopped, clearly taken aback by Thor’s breach in protocol, Thor took it as an invitation to stride forward, a hand extended for the Prince-General to clasp.

  Loki winced delightedly. Mistake number two—the Ice Elves did not shake hands. The Ice Elves avoided physical contact whenever possible, believing even a tap upon the shoulder to be a gesture of unbearable intimacy.

  Asmund looked at Thor’s hand, then up to his wide smile and bright blue eyes. Loki waited, half hoping his brother would get slapped across the face for his boldness and half ready to jump to his defense if he did. Then, laboriously, one finger at a time, Asmund took Thor’s hand. It was a stiff gesture, the performance of an act he’d heard described but never seen himself, but Thor immediately grasped him up to the elbow and slapped him on the back hard enough that a few ice crystals flew from his hair. “It’s good to see you, General.”

  And Asmund smiled.

  Loki could have set the world on fire. Here he was, in a deep knee bow that was making his muscles shake, having studied Ice Elf etiquette until his eyes had crossed in preparation for this assignment, and Thor had done the decorum equivalent of kicking down the door, yet the prince had not called for their immediate removal. How did Thor manage to win over every man he met with just a smile?

  “Welcome, Thor, son of Odin,” Asmund said, the words reaching Loki’s ears in Asgardian as the Allspeak translated for him. Asmund’s eyes flicked over Thor’s shoulder, to where Loki was still bowing so low he was about to become one with the floor and said, “And to you, Prince Lonely.”

  Loki gritted his teeth. “It’s Loki.”

  “Isn’t that what I said?” the Prince-General replied.