Chapter Text
The sun was far too bright. It burned his eyes behind closed lids. Annoying, grating. Just like everything on this insignificant little planet.
He took a deep breath in… and nearly choked. The air was sticky and heavy, and he nearly felt like he was drowning. It was hot and disgusting. Insects buzzed around his face, and he huffed in frustration, swatting at them and sitting up. The sun was still too bright, so he had to shield his eyes as he scanned the area.
A swamp. Lovely. As if the rest of this miserable planet wasn't punishment enough, Odin - the miserable bastard - had to dump him in the sweaty ass crack of civilization. Come to think of it, there was no civilization as far as he could see. Granted, that was hardly very far. Trees and brush grew thick all around him, and if he squinted, he thought he could see a slight hazy shimmer in the air.
Damn. It was hot.
“Adding insult to injury, I see,” He muttered, getting to his feet. Mud squelched between his fingers, and he grimaced. “This couldn't possibly get any worse.”
The swamp was utterly indiscernible all around him. A perfect place to get lost. To wander in circles until he dropped dead. Odin would love that, he was sure. Let his monstrous frost giant son die of the heat, surrounded by muck. How fitting.
He scowled and began trudging in a direction he hoped was North. The sun lingered directly overhead, no use at all. He was not going to die here, he thought to himself. Although after what couldn't have been more than ten minutes, despite feeling like an eon, he was forced to reconsider. The heat was oppressive, and with no tangible shelter to be found, dying seemed like a welcome respite.
He kept walking despite the dizziness starting to take hold in the back of his mind. Of course, Odin would sap his strength, reduce him to a mere mortal. He would scowl if that didn't mean catching a few dozen more of those blasted insects in his mouth. After thirty minutes, he considered begging on his knees for Hiemdal to open the Bifrost.
Twenty minutes after attempting that, he found himself stumbling and swaying. It was far too hot to be trekking through rugged terrain without water whilst rapidly losing it. Just as he was contemplating how many individuals he'd be willing to kill for a drink, he caught sight of a slight shimmer on the ground. Ignoring the squelching of mud in and around his boots, he ran for it. Blessed relief, he thought. Only when he reached the water’s edge did he realize otherwise. The pond was murky and still, not at all good for drinking.
With a few nasty curses in a few ancient tongues, he chucked a stone into the muddy water and sighed. Just then, a log sprang forth and snapped a menacing set of jaws at him, nearly removing the lower half of his left leg. Turns out, what he'd thought was a log was in fact a vicious reptile. Naturally. Because what out in this disgusting wilderness wasn't trying to kill him?
The terrible thing lunged for him again, forcing him to scramble back. His foot caught on a stray root, and he stumbled, crashing into waist-high grass that cut like blades. The terrible beast slunk back into the water, and he breathed a sigh of relief, closing his eyes for just a moment.
Something moved in the grass next to him.
His eyes snapped open just in time for a large snake, banded in bright, threatening colors, to hiss and strike. Sparks of green flung it away. He'd never been more grateful for magic. Filthy creature.
“I hate it here,” He grumbled to no one in particular.
However, exhausted as he was, he hauled himself out of the sharp, cutting grass. He needed water. Or alternatively, the casket of Jhottenheim, with which to freeze himself. Perhaps it was his accursed ancestry that ensured he was so miserable, or perhaps no sentient creature belonged in this place. He was beginning to lean towards the latter.
He covered another mile or two, fighting his way through bush, bracken, and more reptiles, when finally he caught sight of a flash. A tiny, metallic shine through the thick vegetation.
Salvation.
Or… maybe not.
As he approached, he found a silver… well, he didn't quite know what to call it. It had two windows, a door, and a sort of awning stretching out from the roof, with a chair sitting under it. Behind it stood a metal drum that looked to be full of water, and next to that, several red containers. Some were empty, and others held an unknown substance, but he assumed it was meant to power whatever was making that horribly loud humming noise. Large enough to be a lodging of some sort, it seemed to be attached to a well-used vehicle.
At the very least, it meant that someone was around and that was better than nothing, so he crouched in a bush and reviewed his options.
The lodging displayed no personal touches that he could see, aside from a sticker on the back of the attached vehicle that read “Go Away.” From that, he assumed that whoever lived here was unlikely to be overly sociable. No matter. He was sure he'd be able to talk his way into their good graces. Now, what accent to use? He didn't quite know where he was, so he'd just have to pose as a traveler. Easy enough.
He stood, and as he approached, a curtain in one of the windows shifted. He was being watched, so he did his best impression of a weary and terrified young man… to his regret, it wasn't all that hard. No sooner had he set foot into the clearing than the door opened and the distinct “shuck chik” of a Midgardian weapon could be heard. He quite liked Midgard's weapons. They were brutal things. However, he wasn't very fond of them being pointed in his direction.
“Wait! Wait!” He threw his hands up. The woman who appeared in the doorway looked to be young, just emerging into adulthood. She had wild, bright red hair pulled back into a ponytail and skin as pale as a ghost’s. Odd for someone who lives in such a place, he thought. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. And large, mirrored lenses covered most of her face. Instead of eyes, he only saw himself. However, the most interesting feature to note was her lips. They were black, but lacked the shine of any sort of stain or pigment.
He couldn't recall ever seeing such a feature displayed by any human.
“You're trespassing,” She said, expressionless. Or perhaps her expression was hidden behind those glasses. He didn't like them. There was something unsettling about not being able to see someone's eyes.
“Yes,” He acknowledged, taking a step closer. “But not by choice, I assure you.”
She didn't lower the gun… or move at all. “By what then?”
“Circomstance?” He chuckled, trying to put her at ease. It didn't seem to work. “I was out observing wildlife.” That's one word for it. “My vessel suffered a most... inconvenient mechanical failure. Total engine expiration, I’m afraid. I’ve been walking for hours.”
A brow lifted over the edge of her glasses. “Alone?”
“Yes,” He said slowly.
The woman readjusted her grip on the gun. “No one comes out here alone. It's fucking stupid.”
He forced himself to smile. “You're alone.”
“I like my privacy,” She said, just as easily. “And I'm a local. You're not.”
“True, I am not.” He scrambled to think of something plausible, but the last time he'd been on Midgard, he'd mostly been confined to one of those flying contraptions. “I confess, I may have overestimated my own preparedness. One tends to get lost in the data and forget the... visceral nature of the field.”
“You in college?” She asked. He wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but he nodded anyway.
“I am.”
The woman seemed to roll her eyes, but he couldn't really tell. “You smart people are always so stupid,” She said with a sigh. Then, finally, she lowered her gun and gestured for him to move closer. “Let's get your dumb ass some hydration. You like iced tea?”
“Iced anything would be lovely.” Oh, the irony.
She made a noise that sounded almost like a laugh. “I bet.” Unloading her gun, she stuck the unused shell in her pocket. It appeared that Midgardian women were wearing pants now. Good for them. “Beware of the dog,” She said over her shoulder as she opened the door to her lodging.
“I beg your pardon?” He barely had time to phrase the question before a hulking grey form appeared in the doorway, growling and barking. Its owner whistled sharply, and the big furry thing straightened, though it still eyed him wearily. Now this was a creature he recognized from his very first excursion to Midgard. It was the same breed of dog that the Northmen used to hunt with. Sturdy, loyal, and intelligent companions. He quite liked them.
“You can beg,” The woman said with a smirk. “Frigga’s a sweetheart though. She won't hurt you. Probably.”
The air in the clearing seemed to disappear. For a heartbeat, the buzzing of the cicadas and the wet heat all around vanished, replaced by the memory of silk robes and the scent of spiced wine.
Frigga.
It was a name that tasted like a sanctuary. It was the name of the woman who had taught him how to weave illusions, how to turn his brother into a frog, and, as he now knew with a bitter, searing clarity, how to live a lie for a thousand years.
“Frigga?” he asked. His voice didn't crack; he was well above that, but it lost its honeyed glaze. It sounded hollow, like a bell struck in a vacuum.
“Norse goddess,” Kat shrugged, already turning back toward the trailer. “Badass dog needs a badass name.”
Loki didn't move. He stared at the grey beast. It was an insult, surely. To name a common hound after the Queen of Asgard was a blasphemy. And yet, looking at the dog's steady, watchful eyes, he felt a traitorous surge of grief.
Grief he shouldn’t feel. That woman had lied to him. The thought was a jagged stone in his throat. Every smile, every lesson... all built on what? Bones and blood and the intention to use him like a political game piece.
“Goddess of love and magic,” he said, forcing his lungs to work again. He managed a thin, ghost of a smile. “You have... impeccable taste.”
The woman looked back at him for a moment, seeming to evaluate him. “I suppose…” She nudged the dog away from the door and disappeared inside.
Shaking some rather confusing thoughts from his head, he followed her. From a bulky red box of some kind, she retrieved a pitcher of iced tea and then a pair of cups from a cabinet overhead. They were wooden and seemingly handmade. She filled them and passed one to him.
“What did you say your name was?” She asked.
“Dan Cooper,” He replied with the same charming smile he'd used almost ten years ago. “And you are?”
She did that thing where she looked him over again. “You can call me Kat,” She decided.
“Pleasure to meet you, Kat.”
“Same to you… Dan. So, you're a Bio major? Where are you studying? USF? UCF? FGCU?” She trailed off, and it took him a second, but he figured these must be schools.
“UCF. I’ve spent the better part of three years documenting the behavioral hierarchies of various reptilian subspecies. Fascinating creatures. Terribly misunderstood-”
“Not really,” She cut in, her tone flat and unimpressed.
He smiled politely. He wasn't used to being interrupted, especially not by someone who looked like they’d been raised by wild boar. He hummed tightly and continued. “Well anyway, I have to gather so many observation hours. The department is quite... rigorous regarding their field-hour requirements. A tedious necessity for one’s degree, as I'm sure you've also experienced.”
“Not really, no.” She shrugged, leaning back against the counter of a tiny kitchenette.
“Ah, pity.” He bit back a smirk. Of course this woman wasn't educated, and he enjoyed making sure she knew he was. But then she continued.
“I was a folklore major. Useless degree, I know. But at least I got to stay inside. I'll take dusty old books and ancient languages over mosquito bites any day.” She frowned. “O’course, I never did finish… guess that makes me a failure on two accounts.”
Well… perhaps she wasn't a total simpleton, after all.
“I wouldn't say that,” he said. “It's never too late to stop learning.”
“Mmm…” It was only for a split second, but he was sure he caught a flicker of rage curling at the corners of those black lips. “Right. You academic types are always saying that.”
He scoffed. “Academic types? Surely you mustn’t exclude yourself, now. To study folklore, one must have a love of history… and humanity, no?”
Yet again, she studied him. Then she chuckled, conceding. “True. You can tell a whole lot about a person from the stories they tell.”
“Indeed,” he said. “There are few things better than a good story.”
“Oh?” Turning around for a moment, she placed her cup in the sink, and he watched from behind as she removed those mirrored glasses. “And what's yours?”
He opened his mouth to offer a charming, carefully curated fiction, but as she turned around and met his eyes, he found himself frozen. Not by fascination or some such nonsense, but quite literally frozen. Try as he might, he could not look away. See, her eyes weren't really eyes. It was more like looking out at the cosmos if it could be spread out before him. A smattering of stars amidst a vast inky blackness. It swallowed him whole and plunged him into the dark.
Then came a terrible, burning pain directly behind his own eyes and something else infinitely harder to describe. Like a needle piercing its way through the tapestry of his soul and stitching together each thread, each shredded piece, every dark and writhing insecurity, before pulling it all out through his eye sockets to be held up to the light. It was a psychic flaying that left him raw and stripped bare.
She wasn't just looking at him. She was looking at him. Everything and everyone he was. Altogether. All at once.
Her invasion wasn't just a memory or two; it was a sensory siege. He felt the phantom chill of the Casket as it touched his skin, but this time, he couldn't look away. He watched his own hands - the hands of a prince, a sorcerer, and a son - turn a wretched, frosted blue. He felt the ridges of the Jotun markings rising like scars under his skin, a map of a heritage his people loathed. Ruining his brother's coronation didn't matter anymore. Not once he'd seen that.
Running to his mother next to confirm what he now could see but could not believe for a second. Because it couldn't be true. He knew who he was. He could be anyone, but he was a son of Odin… Right? Surely he was the god of lies, but to lie, one must know the truth. What was it? Where was it?
Odin, bursting in, eyes cast upon blue skin and red eyes.
“I, Odin Allfather, cast you out!”
And falling.
All the way.
Back to Earth.
It felt like being shoved back into his body. Messily, haphazardly, uncomfortably. He was dizzy and disoriented. He felt his head hit the linoleum with a dull thud. He was shaking, his breath coming in ragged, humiliating gasps.
He looked up, his vision blurred, to see the mirrored lenses already back in place. Kat was leaning against the counter, her arms crossed, looking down at the heap of a god on her floor. She didn’t look impressed, or fascinated, or even angry. She looked like she had just read a particularly tragic obituary.
“Well… Hey there, Loki.”