Chapter Text
Loki had made a mistake.
A massive mistake. A mistake of colossal proportions. One might even call it a giant mistake, but even upon thinking that he could hear Thrúd winding up to punch him in the jaw for making such a horrible pun.
Not that she'd be punching him anytime soon. Or, well, she might. The context of that punch would be different, of course: no playful punches between the Valkyrie of the Tempest and the God of Mischief.
What with him… killing Odin and all.
Yeah.
It took everything in him to keep a straight face as he strode up to the entrance of the Great Lodge. With a nod to the guards, he entered the hall, shook the snow off his boots, and slipped past the table, eager to vanish into Odin’s Study, and more importantly, the cavern.
Greet the residents in the hall. Slip through the crowd of servants hauling mead and meals out of the kitchen. Smile and wave, take a hard right, one foot on the stairs—
“Loki!”
He halted in his tracks, biting down a curse. Then he called up a jovial grin and whirled around. “Bragi,” he said, stepping forward and greeting his fellow god with a firm clasp of the arm. “How’s it going?”
“Quite well, my friend, quite well.”
Bragi squeezed his forearm, hard enough to bruise. Loki carefully kept his smile loose as he returned the favor. A heartbeat later, they let go. Loki’s skin ached under his vambrace, but he didn’t let the pain show.
They had never quite trusted each other, the Poet and the Trickster, but then again, no one trusted Loki to begin with.
“You’ve been gone for months,” Bragi commented. “And now you’re back, and you won’t even take the time to down a single drink?”
“‘Fraid not,” Loki said, faux-regretful. “Busy. You know how it is.”
“The All-Father is really running you into the ground, eh?”
Loki’s back still smarted from when Odin had tossed him into a cliff. He smiled blandly. “You could say that, yeah.”
“Take a break,” Bragi said. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Drink with us. Just one.”
“It’s never just one with you lot,” Loki said, casting an eye over the others in the hall.
“Surely your business can’t be that important.”
Outside, a low whistle began to sound. Loki glanced out a window. The branches shivered and bent under the force of the wind, and the clouds darkened, ever so slightly.
“Hm, I suppose not,” Loki said, forcing lightness. He angled himself away from Bragi. “Just let me to report to the All-Father real quick and I’ll pop right back into the hall.”
“Oh, he’s not here,” Bragi informed him.
I would hope not, Loki thought. I fed that fucker’s corpse to my fucking dog.
“Then I’ll drop this off at his desk,” Loki said. He reached into the pouch by his side, digging around for something and pulled out a—
Bragi raised an eyebrow. “A… stick of charcoal?”
The sky grumbled. A branch broke off of the tree just outside the window, snapping under the force of the wind.
“It’s a special stick of charcoal,” Loki lied. “Magic prophecy powers and all that.”
Bragi squinted. “Looks pretty normal to me.”
“You know the All-Father,” Loki said, palming the charcoal away. “Always with his weird projects and everything.”
“Hm,” Bragi said. “I suppose.”
Crrrack!
The others in the hall jumped at the unmistakable sound of thunder.
“Right,” Loki said. He patted Bragi on the shoulder—though it was more like a shove, to be honest—and he turned away. “Uh, gotta go!”
Heart racing, Loki fled down the stairs, four steps at a time. He swerved around the corner, shoved open the doors to Odin’s study, and opened his mouth. “Hindra!”
Chaos erupted around him as objects went flying to block the door. He ducked a coat hanger and dodged a small flock of books before kicking in the door to the Rift. Through the ceiling, he heard a voice scream with rage.
“Loki!”
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” he chanted, sprinting down the stone ramp. As he ran, he pulled the Mask of Creation off his belt. It began to tremble in his grip, and the writing on it glowed a sickly green.
The earth quaked. Loki skidded to a stop in front of the Rift, blood rushing in his ears. He held up the mask: complete and whole, and he swallowed.
Twelve years. Twelve, long years of stalling and lying and biting down the rage that had simmered in his blood. Twelve years of studying under Odin, of wringing him dry of every secret he could be persuaded to talk about. And now he was here.
Him, and the Rift that Odin would never get to see.
He sucked in a breath and raised the Mask—
“LOKI!”
The ceiling caved in, sending dust and debris into the air. Loki swore and shoved the Mask back into its place on his belt. Then he drew his bow and nocked an arrow.
The dust shifted.
Loki dove left as Mjölnir cut a path through the air. He loosed his arrow and was rewarded with a thunk and a hiss of pain.
Thor stepped out of the cloud of dust, his eyes glowing with rage. Loki’s arrow was sticking out of his right arm. He broke the arrow at the shaft and tossed the wood away, lightning dancing over his skin. In that moment, he embodied every single one of his titles: God of Thunder and Storms and Strength, the Prince of Asgard and the Champion of the Aesir. Were Loki not forced to deal with his hangovers every other day, he might have been impressed. Instead, he was simply terrified.
“Loki,” he snarled.
“Hi,” Loki replied.
With a roar, Thor called Mjölnir back to his hand and lunged.
It was all Loki could do to stay out of his way. He dodged, weaving around Thor’s furious swings with light feet and a racing mind. He could not win in a fight against Thor: especially not in a melee, with no time to prepare and stack the odds in his favor.
That was why killing Odin was a mistake. He’d planned for every single aspect leading up to the All-Father’s death, but he didn’t exactly plan for the consequences.
“Stay still!” Thor roared. He threw Mjölnir. The hammer missed Loki by a hair and smashed into a shelf of priceless artifacts.
“So you can kill me?” Loki huffed. His bow would do him no good, at this point, and he slipped it into its latch on his back. “I think the fuck not!” His eyes landed upon a wooden chest, on the other side of the cavern, and before his logic could catch up with his intuition, he began to run.
“Coward,” Thor yelled. He leaped forward.
Loki jumped up into the air, neatly avoiding Thor’s graceless lunge. He landed on the stone and tucked into a roll before popping back up to his feet and continuing his sprint.
“Flís!” he intoned, and he raised his fist. With a desperate punch, he smashed through the lid of the chest and pulled out the treasure inside: an unassuming tree branch, untrimmed and wild.
“Oh, thieving as well?” Thor hissed. “It wasn’t enough to kill him, but you have the nerve to rob us, too!”
“I try not to half-ass things,” Loki said, a near-hysterical chuckle bubbling out of his throat. He raised his left hand to his mouth and bit, letting his canine tooth break skin. As soon as the blood began to flow, he scrawled out a quick set of runes on the tree branch.
Thor twirled Mjölnir around in his hand. Loki was forced to dive out of his way once more, clumsily avoiding the strike, even with half his attention occupied with pouring as much magic into the branch as he could spare.
“A twig?” Thor muttered.
“Hey, it's a nice twig,” Loki snapped. He had picked it himself, on one of his many jaunts across the realms. Good wood, it was: stiff and strong with an even grain, and perfect for channeling magic. He’d been saving it to use for his next bow.
Using it here was unintended, but probably just as good. Assuming it worked. Without any time for second-guessing, Loki closed his eyes and let the Jötunn magic swell in his hands.
“Hævateinn,” he said, naming the improvised weapon.
The twig burst to life. Its branches grew with magical speed, blooming bright with flowers of unnatural colors. Loki flung the living wood forward, imitating a javelin throw. Honestly, he just needed it to slow Thor down so he could get to the Rift, but his aim was better than he needed, and it nailed Thor right in the balls. And then rooted him in place. And then grew a vine, which flung itself around and nailed Thor in the balls, again. The God of Thunder let out a slew of curses as he struggled to break free.
Not one to question his good luck, Loki abandoned the fight and ran for the Rift. He plucked the Mask off his belt as he approached.
The wood was cool to the touch. It always had been. Even after sitting in his pockets, even after dunking it into the fiery pits of Muspelheim. The Mask, for all it was, sat in his hands, pleasant and cool and mesmerizing in its simplicity.
The whole world seemed to warp around him, but the Rift alone stood still: beckoning, waiting for Loki to look inside.
Odin had obsessed over this Rift. For centuries. It was for this Rift that he warred with the Vanir. Tortured his subjects. Slaughtered the Jötunn. This was the Rift of Creation, which held all the answers, past and present and future. Supposedly.
Loki didn’t know what would be inside, but he did know he was terribly curious.
For twelve long years, he had resisted his own curiosity. In reality, he had translated the pieces of the Mask long ago. He could’ve retrieved the final piece of this damn thing at any moment. But he needed the time, time to plan and prepare and get Odin to let down his guard long enough for Loki to sick Fenrir on him and leave Loki with the keys to the truth.
Because Loki’s vengeance went beyond that of life and death. Killing Odin was not enough. Destroying Odin’s afterlife was not enough. No, Loki’s vengeance was personal. He would be the one to get the answers, and Odin would not. It was the worst thing he could think to do: to shatter Odin’s dream and steal it for himself.
Loki reached for the Rift.
“Coward.”
Thor’s voice, though strained, still boomed across the cavern. That one word dripped poison. A horrible cocktail of disdain and disgust.
Loki knew better than to respond, but he took the bait anyway and turned around.
“Cheap tricks and lies,” Thor hissed. “That’s all you are. Nothing but a treacherous coward.”
“You know,” Loki said, his voice laced with condescending sweetness, “I could say the same thing about Odin.”
“All you have is luck,” Thor ranted. “All you’ve gotten is through luck. If it weren’t for your damn luck, you’dve died long ago.” He strained against the branches holding him in place. The wood groaned, but ultimately held.
Loki’s answering grin was anything but kind. “Luck is all I need.”
“Ha!” Thor croaked out a laugh. He shot Loki a withering glare: but it was one laced with satisfaction. “Your father could have used some of that luck.”
A flood of rage bubbled up in Loki’s chest. The smile fell off his lips, and he shot Thor a furious glare. “Don’t.”
“And why not?” Thor cackled. “It's true, isn't it? That old fucker would've needed all the luck to best me on my home ground—”
“Shut up.”
“—I still remember his face,” Thor continued. “The look in his eyes before I killed him. Do you know what he looked like?”
“You shut your damn mouth!”
“He looked terrified. Just like you.”
“I’ll fucking kill you!” Loki snarled. He dropped the Mask and leaped forward. His bones began to shift: his canines lengthening, the hair on his limbs thickening into fur. It was the wolf and not the man that went for Thor’s throat.
Another mistake.
It was Mjölnir that blocked his path—Thor had managed to free his arm—and the hammer hit the wolf straight in the jaw. The wolf reeled back and howled.
“If I can’t win,” Thor hissed. “Neither can you!”
Then he threw the hammer.
It caught the wolf in the chest, and he flew through the air. The world rushed by around him, all motion blur and divine lightning, and Loki, shattered back into his normal shape, twisted around in the air and tried to get a grip. As soon as his muscles stopped seizing, he could cast a spell, soften the blow of his impact. But then he caught sight of the Rift, growing ever larger in his vision, and his eyes widened. He was on a course for creation, with no brakes in sight, and in a panic, he realized that his rage had bested him once again.
Wait, the Mask—
The air was warm.
Groaning, Loki pushed himself up—and failed. Spluttering, he tried to spit the taste of dirt out of his mouth.
His muscles spasmed. Thor's final strike was still working its way through his system, and he nearly fell over twice during the act of sitting up, but he managed to make it. Incredible that the air was warm. Did Thor knock Loki hard enough to send him into a different realm?
“Let’s guess,” he said to himself, before he opened his eyes. “Warm air. That rules out Midgard, Niflheim, and Helheim. I don't hear any storms, so not Alfheim. Air smells nice, so it’s not Svartalfheim. I can hear plants rustling, so it’s not Muspelheim, but the air is dry, so it’s not Vanaheim, either…”
That left Asgard and Jötunheim. He took a deep breath and sighed. No way Thor could knock him into Jötunheim, so naturally he was back in his gilded prison. He supposed that made more sense than Thor literally knocking him into a different realm.
“Okay, Asgard,” he muttered, and he finally opened his eyes.
It was not Asgard.
Sure, the skies were clear, and the grass was green. But the fauna and flora were all wrong. There were wildflowers—Midgard wildflowers—and if he strained his ears, he could hear the low tones of bird calls and forest wildlife. He marveled at the sound.
Could there really have been a place on Midgard that Fimbulwinter did not reach?
No. No, that was impossible.
I’m still unconscious, then, he decided.
With nothing left to do, he got up and began to walk.
Honestly, the whole thing felt rather like his childhood. It had been a decade since he had last experienced Midgardian weather like this, and he thought maybe he could even recognize some of the trees. Any moment, now, he was certain ghosts of memories would begin to appear, but he might as well enjoy the quiet while he could. He wandered, following bunny trails and natural clearings, taking care not to break too many sticks beneath his feet—
And then the forest opened up, and he walked out onto a cliff.
Which overlooked the Lake of Nine.
Which was liquid, and not frozen.
And there was a giant snake in the waters, curling around the lake and circling Tyr’s intact temple.
They say the World Serpent was flung through time during its fight with Thor.
“You've got to be fucking kidding me,” Loki said into the empty air.
After getting his bearings on the banks of the lake, the next thing he did was shift into a wolf and make his way to the nearest Mystic Gateway. It was surprisingly difficult. He had an excellent memory, but the landmarks had shifted over the years: both from Jörmungandr displacing the lake, and from Fimbulwinter icing over everything and reshaping the slopes. But he found it, eventually.
As to why he was traveling as a wolf? He was awfully close to home. The homestead was, perhaps, only a few more miles away. He didn’t know how far into the past he was. If he was even born. If his parents had even met. If they were here. If he ran into his mother or, fates forbid, his father, he’d—he’d—
Perhaps better to not risk it.
He kept up a steady trot, taking in the scents of early spring. There was still snow on the ground, but it was a mushy, half-melted thing rather than the eternal blizzard Fimbulwinter had been. Green was beginning to peek through the ice, and as a wolf, he could pick out which animals had passed by.
Finally, he arrived at the gateway. After making sure he was alone, he shifted out of his wolf form and pulled out his travel stone. He held it up, and the rocks began to shift—and then he paused.
Where, exactly, was he supposed to go? At this point in time, travel to Asgard was locked. His travel stone might get him into the realm, but what would he do? They wouldn’t know him. Heimdall might murder him on sight because he would not have guest rights this time around.
But Odin held the Rift of Creation. If there was a chance that the Rift could bring him back to his time, then maybe it would be worth it to try. He could lie to Odin just long enough to get access to the Mask, and try to go back…
To what? a part of him asked. A bloody death at the hands of Thor?
At the very least, I could look inside the Rift.
You’d have to kill Odin again before you could do that.
Actually, killing him a second time doesn’t sound too bad—
A raven’s cry pierced the air.
Loki sucked in a breath. In a heartbeat, he’d leaped onto higher ground and shifted back into a wolf. Who would it be? A god from the past, unaware of his presence? Or worse: was it someone from his time? Thor, here for vengeance? Had Odin somehow survived Fenrir’s stomach, and now chased Loki across time to settle their score?
The birds cleared. Loki dared not blink.
The person who stepped out of Odin’s ravens was not Thor, or even Odin himself. It was a man with a lean build and a shaggy beard, and when he looked up, his eyes, icy blue, seemed to glow with an unhinged frenzy.
“Alright, Guardian,” Baldur muttered, studying the forest clearing. “Where are you?”
Loki was clever. He had always been clever. He saw opportunities in the most unlikely of places, and he loved solving the puzzles and mysteries left behind by those who had come before him.
He was, however, not very wise.
Loki followed Baldur.
He still didn’t know how far in the past he was, but if Baldur was tracking down his mother, then he felt obligated to watch out for her. And though he doubted he would be able to do much, and though he really hoped Baldur left the Wildwoods empty-handed, there was a part of him that did want to see his mom kick Baldur’s ass. If it came to it.
Just from watching, though, it seemed as though his secret wish would not be granted. Baldur was doing a horrible job of tracking. He kept wandering in circles, spinning around, and cursing loudly every time he lost whatever tracking spell he was using. It was almost pitiful, really. The fourth time they ended up in the original clearing, Baldur lost his temper and punched a boulder, shattering it into pieces. The fifth time they ended up back there, he used his head to shatter a boulder instead.
“What the fuck is happening? Baldur muttered to himself. He held up a knotted charm and shook it, as if that would do anything to help out. “Fucking magic. Can’t trust any of this shit!”
Loki could not laugh—he was a wolf—but he very dearly wanted to.
“Ugh.” Baldur scowled and pocketed his tracking charm. “I’ll just wait at their damn house, then.”
Their damn house?
…Wait a second.
Baldur set off through the Wildwoods, his steps clear and purposeful. It was a driven walk: a far cry from the frustrated wandering of the past hour, and against Loki’s will, gears began to turn in his brain.
Loki stalked Baldur, bordering on desperation. When they reached his childhood home, the roof was already caved in.
After scattering his mother’s ashes, he and his father had spent their first two weeks back in Midgard repairing the roof and stocking up for the winter. The time between Baldur wrecking their house and them fixing their roof was relatively short: only about four months. Out of thousands of years of history, how is it that Loki managed to land himself in the now, of all times?
On the bright side, Loki did not remember confronting Baldur at his home for a second time. Outside of their first encounter (which he spent the entirety of hiding in the basement), Baldur didn’t appear again until the mountain, and then Helheim, and then in the shadows of Thamur’s corpse. So that meant Baldur was wasting his time. No doubt Atreus and his father were out on some exciting adventure. All Loki had to do was sit tight and keep watch until Baldur got bored and left—
The gate creaked.
Both Loki and Baldur snapped to attention as two figures entered the homestead. One, a familiar young boy with short hair and a bow slung over his back, and the other…
“Welcome back,” Baldur said, with a jaunty little wave. The words were meant for the man, but his eyes flicked over to the boy, and an amused smile crossed his cracked lips. “Huh. That your kid?”
The boy sucked in a breath. The man—his father, in the flesh — stepped forward, summoning the Leviathan Axe into his hand.
“How rude,” Baldur said. He cracked his neck and rolled out his shoulders, and his tattoos lit up with frost magic. “Same shit as last time, then?”
Oh, no, Loki thought. This is not the same shit as last time.
And before he could so much as utter a spell, the fight between Baldur and Kratos began.
Fists and steel, frost and blood—the two gods clashed with a violence borne of desperation: one, desperate to protect, and the other, desperate to die. His younger self stood back, firing off arrows when he could, assisting his father, and Loki was paralyzed like a coward.
He was seeing ghosts.
Every little action: the swing of the axe, the one-two punch, the parry and the subsequent counter—it choked Loki, rooted him in place with a mesmerizing fascination that he knew was grief but felt like drowning. The last time he’d seen his father fight was the last time he saw his father alive. Details he’d thought were forgotten were here, in front of him, in the flesh. His father was alive.
And worst of all: Loki did not remember this fight.
Baldur laughed as he dodged an axe swing. He raised a glowing fist and slammed it down: only for it to be met with a shield. Kratos brought up a knee and smashed it into Baldur’s gut, but the other man didn’t even react: he just kept laughing.
“Ljösta!”
A light arrow sliced through the air and bounced harmlessly off of Baldur’s invulnerable skin.
“Not gonna do anything, kiddo!” Baldur cackled. “But that gives me an idea!”
Abruptly, he dropped into a slide, passing underneath Kratos’s next blow—and he ran straight for the boy.
“Ah!” Atreus swung his bow, but it was only a stick of wood. He hadn’t grown into it yet. Baldur batted it aside and grabbed Atreus by the collar. He raised a fist—
And another hand caught it. Before Baldur could land the punch, Kratos stepped in and twisted his arm, shoving him away and giving Atreus the space he needed. The boy scrambled away. Eyes blazing, Kratos viciously elbowed Baldur in the nose—a dirty move that would stun even Thor—but Baldur could not feel it, and he barely flinched.
They started wrestling, then: weapons abandoned, a vicious tangle of bloody limbs and endless rage. Punch. Kick. Headbutt. Bite, scratch, kill. They were evenly matched—until they weren’t.
Baldur flipped Kratos onto the ground and started raging away.
“So disappointing!” he screamed. “Fight me! Hurt me! I dare you!”
With every statement, he slammed another fist into Kratos’s face. Blood stained the snow around them, leaving the ground in a shocking mess of white and red. More arrows flew through the air, but they could not stop the onslaught. Baldur’s fist hit landed once more, and Loki caught the look on his father’s face: dazed and confused and so very tired.
Loki snapped.
With a roar, the wolf leaped from its hiding place and slammed Baldur away. The invulnerable god crashed into a nearby boulder, but before he could get back up, the wolf was there, snapping at his tendons with terrifying precision. It aimed for the joints. Baldur couldn’t feel the pain, but even he needed his muscles in one piece in order to be able to move.
“What the fuck?!” Baldur screeched. He charged up his arms with frost and blasted the wolf straight in the chest.
It flew through the air and crashed through a tree, but adrenaline was stronger than pain. The wolf rose again and jumped, narrowly missing Baldur’s throat. It landed in the snow, Baldur backed away: and then they were circling each other with wary eyes.
A low growl rumbled in the wolf’s chest. The whole world was tinted red, and it thirsted: for the fight, for violence, for Baldur’s blood to spill across the earth.
“Didn’t know you had a fucking dog,” Baldur hissed. His muscles flexed, preparing for another attack.
The wolf could not give him the chance. It jumped forward, teeth bared, and knocked Baldur to the ground. Snarling, the wolf tore out Baldur’s throat slashed open his chest, digging, scratching, clawing. It took minutes for Baldur’s body to still. It took even longer for the wolf to cease its attack.
After a long, long time, the wolf slowed, and it backed away, panting hard.
“Hello?”
The wolf whirled around and snapped.
Atreus yelped. Beside him, his father stepped in between the boy and the wolf, an axe held out in silent warning.
“Father, he’s hurt—”
“It’s dangerous,” Kratos said.
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Loki hadn’t heard that voice since he died, and he instinctively drew back, his heart hammering in his chest.
“He helped you!” Atreus said. His eyes locked onto Loki’s, shining bright with childish compassion. “Look—his ears are lying flat and he’s crouching. He’s not gonna hurt us. You’re scaring him.”
Loki panted. He raised his gaze, and for the first time in twelve years, he made eye-contact with his father.
Brown, narrowed eyes drilled into his soul with a wary glare. It was a stranger’s gaze. Loki knew, in his head, that his father was an intimidating man, but he never realized just how easy he had it. This was a glare without the loyalty. Without the promise. Without the love.
In an instant, all the adrenaline swept away, and suddenly, he was aware of every injury he’d taken in the past day. Stab wound from Odin. Lightning strikes from Thor. Frost-burn from Baldur. His whole body ached, and his legs began to tremble.
“Come on,” Atreus said. Gently, he pushed past Kratos’s arm and held out a hand. “You’re hurt. We can help you!”
Loki turned tail and ran.
A young voice shouted, calling for him to stay, but Loki did not— could not— listen. He leaped over stones and weaved between bushes, taking the hardest possible path he could find, and he ran, half-blind with panic and raw, unfiltered grief. And finally, miles away from the homestead, he ducked behind a rock and shifted back into humanity, clutching his open wounds.
There were many threads tangled in his mind at the moment. Why was he here? How did the past change so quickly? His body ached like a bitch, he didn’t know how to go home, and he had no clue what he was going to do next.
But above all, his brain kept chanting one thought over and over again, louder than all the rest.
He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.