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Twenty-five paces to the left; twenty-five back to center.

Loki hates waiting.

Twenty-five paces to the right; twenty-five back to center.

Point of fact, Loki has always hated waiting.

Slow down, Loki, why the rush? Take your time, Loki, too much haste leads to many mistakes. Honestly, Loki, a low, warm flame sustains life better than a bright but transient one.

So on, and so on, ad infinitum--from his childhood to the present--until he usually wanted to strike the smug speaker outright!

Long ago, he would have. In the times when the Asgard were fearless explorers, bold innovators, and disputes might be settled privately, hand-to-hand. When he looked upon his reflection in the mirror with pride, rather than horror and disgust. When four and a half of his current steps would have equalled one single, proud and unapologetic stride.

Before he had unwittingly doomed his people with his reckless curiosity.

He briefly closes his eyes against the pain of it. Loki, Son of Fire, the Impatient, Cunning One. The day that he outsmarts himself--brott vinda!

Oh, but how right they had been about him.

Thirty-five and a third steps to the far left corner, thirty-five and a third back to center.

Against Thor's vehemently stated wishes, the High Council has set no guards at the door to his cell; a shrewd decision that serves a dual purpose.

Thor has grown powerful. Their dismissal of his concerns will remind him that--at least in theory--he serves in his professional capacity at the will of the Council.

So, too, it is a bald insult to Loki, himself.

We trust Loki to honor his word.

Ha! When has he ever adhered to archaic notions of honor save when it might be to his benefit? No, a guard would imply that they believe him to be either a threat or at risk to flee. Their opinion is made quite clear by the lack of one.

After all, where would he go? By what means would he get there? What ally of any account has he not yet alienated? Who among the factions of dissenters would publicly side with him now? Especially following his ignominious defeat at the hands of a þytr of Thor's Taur'i dýrdýrr!

Thirty-five and a third steps to the far left corner, thirty-five and a third back to center.

Loki clenches his fist and draws a deep breath, longing to curse someone--anyone!--at the top of his lungs. But, as quickly as the thought arises, his stomach clenches and his limbs go weak.

The bare truth of it is: he has already cursed them all.

He sits heavily upon the lone chair that the chamber has to offer and covers his eyes with his hands. For centuries, he has sought to mitigate the harm that he and Angrboda had inadvertently wrought. All to no avail.

Thor, of course, himself a former master of the lífkunnandi, had been vocal a critic of their research in those days: And what will happen, Loki, should one of your forað slip free?

Though this twisted body of his rarely feels the cold, Loki shivers. Even now, so many lives since that time, he is unsure quite how it happened...or even precisely when it must have happened. Their security measures, their mastery of the víkunnandi had been impeccable--their monsters had been obedient monsters!

For the first time in many lives, Loki wishes that this body could weep. Angrboda is gone, having failed in her first attempt to enter the langeldr; he, alone, must make such restitution as he can. And now, even those pitiful attempts have been jeopardized.

Long, miserable moments pass until the door panel slides to one side. Sigyn steps through.

"Sigyn," Loki says, and stands immediately. The deep feelings they once shared are long gone, unraveled irrevocably when their three children refused to enter the langeldr. Nonetheless, he is grateful to see one person who, at least, does not actively wish him dead.

His pleasure is short-lived. She steps forward, fists clenched as if she wants to strike him.

"You fool! Of all the ill-conceived, poorly executed plans you've concocted in the past, this one surpasses all. Was your last hlauphriða faulty or have you finally lost your mind?"

He can muster no response.

"I have stood by you in the past, but this, tampering with Thor's dýrdýrr!" She throws up her hands. "You've gone too far."

"It's that bad?"

"Oh no, Loki. It is worse," she says, stepping close. "There were seventeen witnesses called before the Council today. Only three of us spoke in your favor. With Thor and Heimdall allied against you, what chance do you think you have?"

Loki inhales sharply. "Heimdall? He's never chosen a side before."

"Once is quite enough!" she cries. "After all that has transpired between Thor and his Taur'i, you must have known that he would protect O'Neill. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that..."

That Heimdall has taken the wrong approach, he's wasting time. That, though Loki's monster has gone dormant, it might yet awaken again if provided with compatible genetic material. That the Ancients and the Asgard haven't so greatly diverged from their common genetic roots and he is certain that with a large enough sample of genetic material...no.

Loki shakes his head with equal parts disgust and despair. What was he thinking to attempt such a thing?

Truthfully, he wasn't thinking. He was--is--desperate. Too much haste leads to many mistakes, and he's made one too many this time!

He suppresses a laugh--or a sob. What irony. To finally learn patience and humility too late to save either himself or his people.

"It doesn't matter," he says heavily. "Do you know their plans?"

Concerned, Sigyn touches his shoulder. "You are to appear before the Council. Today. Beyond that..." she trails off hesitantly. "Loki, listen. When I said it is worse, I meant it. There are rumors that...well. You still have friends, even if they won't publicly cross the Council. We have secured copies of your research and I have arranged for a ship."

A ship!

For a moment, his heart soars.

Then the bleak reality of their world, as he has shattered and reshaped it, asserts itself. He squeezes his eyes shut. There is nowhere to run from this knowledge. He cannot avoid every polished surface and thus hide from the truth of it.

Loki rubs his hands along his arms as if to warm--or to comfort--himself. Once, he would have embraced Sigyn's plan, with defiance. Damn the Council and its lot of sniveling cowards! But now...no, there is no escaping the knowledge that he has brought this misery upon them, that he has incurred this skuldhofferaeth--as his distant ancestors might have said.

It is his debt to pay, if he can.

"Thank you," he says, squeezing her shoulders. "I appreciate your efforts more than you can know. But it is time that I pay the price for my...for my folly."

Her eyes widen. "Loki, no!"

"Yes, Sigyn, yes. Send the research to Hel, if you can. You know where she is, yes? Let her make what use of it as she can. As for the rest, the Council, I will face what comes."

"This is madness. You don't know what they plan to do to you."

"I can guess," Loki says grimly, more to himself than to her. And whatever my fate, it will be mild compared to what I deserve for dooming us all.

*

It is not the first time he has stood before the full High Council, though he suspects that it may well be the last. Nonetheless, he straightens his spine and lifts his chin; he will face them as befits a bested warrior, not a groveling penitent.

Freyr, smug and sanctimonious, as always, clears his throat and opens the council session. "Members of the High Council, we are convened to pronounce the fate of Loki, Lífkunnandr." He turns to address Loki directly. "We have heard extensive testimony on this matter from your peers and from the representative of those beings you have wronged. We have examined the evidence and we are prepared to render our final and binding judgment."

Loki can barely hear Freyr's words above the pounding of his own heart and the rush of anger through his veins; fury and resentment burns in his throat as if it were bile. What gives you the right? Who are you ignorant cowards to judge the likes of me? he wants to shout, but manages, with effort, to choke back the words.

Clearly his mastery of humility is still imperfect.

Ríg, the eldest of them all, glowers down from his seat. "Loki Lífkunnandr," he intones. "You have established, operated, and concealed an unlawful laboratory. You have unlawfully seized genetic material from one hundred twenty-three thousand sentients. You have performed unsanctioned experiments upon the sentients of a world protected by our highest RÉttr Utlendr. Moreover, in explicit violation of Council decree you purposefully created a sjálfr-annarr of the Taur'i, Colonel Jack O'Neill, with full awareness of, and disregard for the political consequences to the Asgard people and the interpersonal consequences for your victim. Loki Lífkunnandr, you are found to be entirely culpable in these matters before us."

To hear the charges so stated is acutely painful--a reminder of the magnitude of his failure, but of themselves, they are no surprise.

Ríg's next words are.

"Ordinarily, the penalty for these transgressions would be immediate death. You have proven conclusively, time and again, that you have no respect for our laws and no respect for the lives and personal sovereignty of other sentients. However, Councilor Tyr and Commander Thor have spoken eloquently on your behalf."

It takes considerable effort to not broadcast his utter shock to the entire Council; given their personal histories, neither Thor nor Tyr have any cause to wish him well. He has only a moment to process this stunning twist before Vör, executioner of all Council judgments, speaks.

"On their recommendation," she says into the silence, "the High Council has set aside the sentence of immediate death. In its stead, the following, binding judgment will be carried out upon your person."

Though quietly spoken, her words fill him with suspicious dread. He wants to live, of course, but...Why Thor and Tyr, and why now?

"Loki, son of Fárbauti, you are hereby declared by this Council to be svikr and útlagi to Asgard law and a þræll of the Asgard people. As such, you are stripped of your citizenship, your titles--including that of Lífkunnandr, and any and all derivative rights thereof. Those citizens who knowingly aid you will be prosecuted."

His heart stutters. His title--the symbol of his relentless pursuit of the lífkunnandi, the public and professional acknowledgment of his mastery--all gone! Briefly, the floor seems to waver beneath his feet.

"Your assets and research have been confiscated and are now the property of the Asgard people, to be held in trust by the Council. Your guardianship of the planet Áðr Villieldr and its peoples is rescinded. The Council will hold, in trust, its stewardship until such time as an appropriate and qualified guardian can be appointed."

Loki cannot help but gasp, then. What assets he had are of no account and his research is so heavily encrypted that no one will ever break that code. But to lose Áðr Villieldr! They were his people, his creatures for lifetimes. They thrived in his care, he tended them without restraint or thought to personal gain! Who else could care for them as well as he has?

But there are no words he can say to undo this judgment, no protest that he can make. He is nothing, now, no one; he is þræll.

Indifferent to Loki's outburst, Vör does not pause in the pronouncement of his doom.

"Furthermore, you are forbidden to re-enter the langeldr. Your consciousness will end when your current body is dead. Your genetic material and all derivative lines will be destroyed. All record of your consciousness will be removed immediately upon your physical death."

Sigyn was right, he thinks dimly, his body gone numb and stiff. Death and, and worse than death.

There is no comfort in the knowledge that now, he will never live to see the ultimate consequences of his and Angrboda's folly. He squeezes his eyes shut. Warrior or no, he cannot bear to see the triumph on the faces of the Councillors, beings who were so long his enemies. He cannot yet bear to face the magnitude of his failure.

Over the unsteady pounding of his heart, Loki can barely hear Vör's next words.

"Finally, although the Council recognizes that, given the depth of the outrages you have perpetrated upon non-consenting sentients, you are due no leniency, we are aware that your expertise is desperately needed. Therefore, you are hereby given into the custody of Heimdall Lífkunnandist. For the remainder of your days, you will exercise your skills at his direction, under his supervision, if he so wills it." After a pause, Vör concludes the pronouncement with the ritual words, "Do you, Loki, son of Fárbauti, understand this judgment as it is stated, as it will be executed?"

He blinks, stunned. They have given him to Heimdall! His unimaginative, infuriatingly congenial rival!

Resentment and rage, sour old friends momentarily crowd out his despair. Many moments pass before Loki manages to raise his head and say, "I do."

Vör glances at every Councillor in turn then claps her hands once. "Lúka sási."

*

Alone in his cell once more, Loki awaits the escort that will take him to Heimdall's laboratory. There is no window and no timepiece; he has only the unsteady beating of his heart with which to judge the passage of time.

As he waits, his thoughts chase themselves round and round, tumbling, jumbled, a chaotic, uneasy mess.

It could have been worse, you could be dead.

It is worse. You are now a mere thing, Heimdall's toy.

Loki, you fool! You should have taken Sigyn's ship.

And so on, and on. But by far the most uneasy thought of all is the one that he quashes as quickly as it arises, every single time: Why, under the suns, would Thor and Tyr speak on your behalf?

His heart stutters again when they arrive unexpectedly, perhaps to answer that desperately unvoiced question in person.

The door slides open and Thor and Tyr step through; the panel slides shut behind them with the finality of death. Despite himself, Loki shivers.

"Loki," Thor says, his eyes narrowed. "We have some things to discuss with you."

Tyr steps out of Thor's shadow and stalks across the room to Loki's side where he looms, radiating menace. His maimed arm, stubbornly unaffected by the transformative power of the langeldr, dangles uselessly at his side; it is visible proof that Loki's monsters can bite deep.

But it is not the sight of the withered arm that quenches Loki's lingering resentment, that freezes the thoughts in his head, and turns his bowels to water.

It is not Thor's undisguised hatred.

No.

It is the contents of the data slate that Tyr holds in the slim gray fingers of his remaining hand.

A single word.

A name, in fact.

Jörmungandr: his rogue monster.

They both stare down at him as his heart hammers in his chest, each beat bringing him closer to oblivion.

"I--I see," he finally manages to say.

And, perhaps for the first time--acknowledging the fury in Thor's eyes, the malice in Tyr's--Loki believes that, yes, he will get precisely what he deserves.

Áðr Villieldr: the planet (and it inhabitants) of which Loki was guardian.
blóð réttr: literally blood law, the highest of the Asgard laws.
brott vinda: avert.
dýrdýrr: pet, tamed, or domesticated (adjective).
forað: monster.
hlauphriða: the Asgard technology of consciousness transference.
lífkunnandi: the knowledge/discipline of genetics.
þytr: literally "howling". In this case, it implies an unruly, uncultured mob, a horde.
þræll: a being without the rights of person-hood.
lúka sási: it is done, so be it.
òfriðr: war.
réttr utlendr: treaty with another species/planet.
sjálfr-annarr: A single consciousness that has been instantiated in multiple bodies.
skuldhofferaeth: a debt incurred as the result of an act of hubris, tempting fate, or defying the gods.
staðr: an Asgard unit of measure; very small.
svikr: traitor.
útlagi: outlaw.
vígkunnandi: the knowledge/disciple of war.