Archive of Our Own

Despite everything Asgard and her people had suffered in the past nine years, Alfheim had not changed one bit from its oak-choked hills and mammoth cliffs, citizens spirited and friendly as ever. The structures there resemble nothing akin to Asgard or Midgard or even Vanaheim’s architecture, clustered in small villages and unanimous in height. Spire roofs and marble pillars adorn every home, bricks splashed with bold, bright colors. 

The flora is entertained in beds scattered upon nearly every square inch of habited ground, flowers of all types and colors planted within, and the fauna are especially unique. Far less friendly than the people, granted, but well-contained inside the tremendous forests. 

Though Loki has yet to decide whether it’s of his own misfortune, he’s walking through those same forests in search of what the locals claim to be “a beast of fortitude and great might.” Brilliantly named Bjørnehundslange, it’s prized for its teeth, which release topical healing enzymes when ground. Loki scoffs. The literal English translation is bear-hound-snake, but he can’t complain about the patent warning. He knows well what an animal called bear-hound-snake might look like or how it might behave. Its traits. What it hunts. What being part-snake might imply, or part-hound, or part-bear—all those genes smashed into one, ugly beast.

To any reasonable man, pursuing such a creature is seen as witless and teeters on the ledge of suicidal. Especially alone. But Loki is neither reasonable nor suicidal, which he supposes just makes him an idiot. Lack of wits aside, he’s doing New Asgard a favor. Maybe that helps, somewhat, but he doesn’t particularly care. He just wants to get this over with. 

For the past several weeks, New Asgard has been plagued with an Earthly virus called Chicken Pox. The cure is simple enough: aloe, zinc, Tongue of Kanir (known as Chamomile on Midgard), Frost of Vimur, and, unfortunately for everyone involved, Tooth of Bjørnehundslange. All ground into a paste and combined with water. And the healers ran out three days ago. 

Loki’s next footfall slips and he has to clutch a branch to keep from falling. When he pulls his hand away, several scratches across his palm begin to bleed lightly. He grimaces, wiping the blood on his pants, and takes a quick look at the branch. It’s absolutely riddled with thorns. Fantastic, he thinks, and promptly resumes his hike.

Why are providing favors always so Norns-damned miserable? He’s been out there for two hours and has found absolutely nothing. Or, perhaps the beast had found him first and was watching his every move from the shadows with salivating jowls. A shiver itches down Loki’s spine. He spins around, scans the energy around him… and finds nothing. 

Seidr flows in rivers across the forest floor, up the red-brown trunks, through the canopy and back down in spirals. Loki feels it as if fabric swathing him, like silk on his fingertips. He grew up in forests, learned to speak the language of wind and roots, thrived in the raw energy that surrounds them. This is his domain. His home. If only it weren’t so goddamned hot. Asgard was never this hot. Neither was, for as long as Loki’d lived there, New Asgard. It’s miserable. He didn’t think it was possible to sweat through leather, but, well, you learn something new every day. Damned Thor and his stupid Midgardian phrases, rubbing off on him. 

Loki looks up at the darkening sky. Days spin quicker on Alfheim, and considering the encroaching night, he knows the chances of finding this beast are slimming by the second. Possible, at most. Unlikely, if he were to be rational. 

Loki finds a large root to sit on and digs through his pocket dimension for his water bottle. He finds it eventually and takes a large swig, listening to the forest around him, keeping an eye on the many nooks and crannies. Birds sing and squawk and make other strange, otherworldly noises. Maybe some of them aren’t birds, but Loki can’t be sure; he’s seen not ear nor claw from any creature belonging to this forest. No squirrels or squirrel-like beasts. No rabbits. Nothing bearing antlers. Only a few strange bugs have proven any sign of life, beyond the cacophony of howls and yips and squeals. 

It feels dangerous, and was forewarned excessively, but the near-anomalous docility of it raises several questions about the truth of those dark fairytales. Maybe it’s Loki’s experience in the many forests of Asgard and Earth that settles this instinct deep into his mind, but he realizes Alfheim’s forests might be a different case entirely. There are threats, yes, but their behavior is scarcely documented. Both in Asgard’s texts and the locals’. Loki’d never met anyone who’d seen a Bjørnehundslange, let alone killed one. The only words said to him in relation had been, “It’s a beast of fortitude and great might,” and, “You would be so unwise as to seek that monster?!”

None of that gives Loki any clue about what he should expect. Excluding, maybe, the first, but it’s still incredibly vague. Why is he out here, again? To maybe cure someone’s possible rash? He’s going to sweat himself to death. Poor Loki, perishing to the blistering sun whilst trying to do someone a favor. Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. Self-sacrifice for the greater good. Or something. 

But he doesn’t feel like dying today, and especially not in this stupid forest. Forget the damned Bjørnehundslange and its damned teeth. He’ll send someone else. Someone dumber and more willing to bear the elements. 

Loki retrieves Stormbreaker from his pocket dimension and summons the Bifrost back home. 

The Bifrost spits Loki out somewhere in the outskirts of New Asgard and he closes his eyes, reeling from the landing. Perhaps he needs to eat something. His last meal was nearly nine hours ago, which he supposes explains the dizziness. Lingering on that thought, he brushes himself off and begins the short walk back to he and Thor’s shared home, sat square in the middle of town next to the harbor. Dusk settles calmly over the village and all the lights have flickered on, shining gold against the rolling cliffs and sea. It’s been summer for a few months, now, but festivals have been withheld until the virus is cleared. The streets are empty and cricket chirping fills the too-silent air. 

Loki enters his house and flicks on the hallway lights. Thor’s not here. Not yet, at least. He’d said something that morning about… fishing, maybe? Loki squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t remember, but he doesn’t question it, either. Thor often stays out late, and 7:00 PM isn’t anything close to his record.  

Loki has the house to himself. Which is always welcomed, of course, but tonight it feels odd. Strange. Like something’s missing. Or something’s wrong. Loki chooses not to linger on the thought, instead hanging Stormbreaker on the coat rack and kicking off his muddy boots. The rest of his clothes are removed with a simple flick of magic, once he’d locked himself inside the bathroom to shower. The hot water feels nice on his aching shoulders and he stands in the stream for several minutes before beginning to bathe himself. 

When he’s done, he turns the tap off and reaches for the shower curtain, but immediately pulls his injured hand away with a hiss. That hurt. Far more than it should’ve. Loki raises his hand to his face and inspects the wounds: four scratches across the width of his palm and clearly inflamed. He bites the inside of his lip and dries himself one-handed, searching in the medicine cabinet for a balm he’d made to treat similar wounds. 

Loki finds the balm and rubs a plentiful helping into the wounds, which eases the pain instantly. Next is a cloth wrap around his hand, as a precaution to bar infection. He sighs in relief, combing quickly through his hair, and then redresses himself in his bedroom. 

He eats toast for dinner and reads pages 233 to 287 of Thomas Wolfe’s Look Homeward, Angel. Thor doesn’t return home until eleven o’clock. Soon after, Loki falls into a dreamless sleep. 

Loki wakes with a start, drenched in sweat and shivering so violently that his teeth chatter. He sits up against the headboard, taking a bleary look around the dark room—and immediately thereafter lurches forward with a gag. 

Slapping a hand over his mouth, he throws the covers off his body and scrambles out of bed, rushing gracelessly into the bathroom next door. Nausea swells at the back of his throat, writhing and squirming inside his gut; he knows he can’t make it to the toilet, so he kicks the door shut and vomits into the sink instead. 

It’s nothing but bile, as expected, but it burns and there’s a lot of it. Loki coughs himself into the next round of retching, and when it finally seems as if he’d ridden everything possible, he begins to dry-heave. Norns, what in all the Nine did he catch? Or was it something he ate?

Before he can ponder further, an intense knocking clears through the rushing buzz in his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

“May I enter?” says Thor’s voice from behind the thin wood. “I want to know why you’re up at five in the goddamned morning. On a Saturday, mind you.”

“Sorry,” Loki gasps, breathless. “It’s just that—I’m having a little—“ He cuts himself off with a gag. When he opens his mouth to speak again, another gag tears from him and he shakes through the third round of vomiting. The floor tilts and heaves below him, head spinning, and he’s too afraid to speak so he stays silent. Just fights for breath open-mouthed over the sink. 

“I see,” Thor says eventually. “So, may I come in or not?”

Loki forces an eyeroll through the pulsing stab of his temples. “It’s your choice. I would pick wisely.”

The knob turns with a click and Thor opens the door, sucking his teeth. He leans against the frame. “You are sick.” 

“An astute observation. No, I’m just spilling my guts for the thrill of it. Of course I’m sick.” Loki furrows his brows. “But… I’m not sure why.”

Thor shrugs. “Maybe you caught something on Alfheim. It’s anyone’s guess, and it’s definitely not mine or yours, so that means you need to stay in bed until you’re better. No buts. We’ll visit Tanja if things get any worse.”

“Tanja and the rest are extremely preoccupied. This is nothing.”

“But it could be something.”

“But it’s not. And it won’t be.”

Thor sighs, pressing the back of his hand against Loki’s forehead. “You are a little warm.”

“Which is to be expected.” Loki pushes Thor’s arm away and turns on the sink tap. “I don’t think I have anymore tea. Where are those pills that got rid of the last one?”

“Under the sink. Or in the kitchen. I’m not sure.”

“Help me look?”

“I think we ran out, actually.”

“Then why did you—“ Loki’s stomach twists. He suddenly feels too weak to argue. “Nevermind. Perhaps visit the market later.”

“I had plans, you know.”

“And I’m interfering? Because of this very minor illness that I can handle myself?”

Thor’s shoulders slump. “Okay, fine, have it your way. I’ll stop by Olav’s on my way home tonight. How does that sound?”

“That’s fine. You should probably go back to sleep.”

“As should you. I’ll make you toast later. And you’re going to eat it.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It depends.”

Loki scoffs. “It might not go so well.”

“But you will try.”

“Fine. I will try.”

Thor grins, clapping Loki firmly on the back. “That’s the spirit, brother. Now go back to sleep. Or I will stay home.”

“Threatening is not consonant with benevolence. Where hath my good King fled?”

“The only person I threaten is you.”

“You’re forgetting the Valkyrie.”

“She doesn’t listen. Sometimes I wonder why she hates you, you’re practically the same person.”

“Aren’t I supposed to be resting?”

Thor’s expression morphs into something vaguely humored and he urges Loki out of the bathroom. “I’ll get you a bucket. Call me if you need help.”

“I can help myself, thank you very much.” 

Loki enters his bedroom and crawls eagerly back under his covers. Beyond the lone window is a wall of darkness; it’s still an hour or so before the sun’s set to rise. Thor leaves and returns with the bathroom’s waste bin, placing it at the side of Loki’s bed, and then gives him a final shoulder pat before bidding their farewells.

Between waking up and where Loki is now, sickness had settled like lead into every part of his body. His head aches, he feels weak, achy, both too hot and simultaneously too cold, and the nausea hasn’t relented—even after vomiting everything he possibly could. All symptoms of many different illnesses, but nothing specific to narrow the answer. It could be a strange stomach bug, or some kind of flu, or maybe food poisoning. Anything goes.

The adrenaline from falling so violently ill keeps him awake. He’d slept only five hours the previous night, and yet he feels as if having drank several shots of espresso. His heart thuds heavily in his chest. He ignores it. Tries to read more of Look Homeward, Angel, but the words melt and shift on the page. 

An hour passes before he remembers to check the wounds on his hand. He unravels the bandage and pauses, stomach hollowing. They’re infected. Red and inflamed and hot to the touch. Quickly, he casts a spell to aid in diagnosis, but his Seidr slips. He tries again. And fails again. That’s… not right. It feels as if reaching blindly for the next rung of a ladder. You know it’s there, but you can’t see it and you keep missing. Or maybe the rung is just gone. Maybe the entire ladder. Where Seidr usually gathers around him is nothing. No silk on his metaphorical fingertips. No shimmering blanket of energy. 

Loki swallows thickly, nausea building in his throat. Why isn’t his magic working? It couldn’t have been a result solely of his illness; he’d used magic plenty of times whilst similarly sick. Looking at his hand, he recalls what one of Alfheim’s citizens had said shortly before his trek into the forest, about a tale of statuesque tree vipers. Loki swears inwardly. The thorned branches. They’re venomous. 

He groans and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. Why in all the Nine didn’t he inspect the branch? Take a sample or anything? There might not be a cure. He might die from this, and without a specimen, there’s no way to fabricate one. It’s in his bloodstream now, he knows it. Feels it. 

Suddenly the sickness makes realms more sense. It’s not just a little prick of Poison Ivy. Whatever this is, it’s killing him. And his magic is gone. 

The scratches begin to sting by noon. By three o’clock, it’s constant, inescapable, and burns like lava beneath Loki’s skin. The soothing balm he’d used earlier did nothing upon reapplication, useless alongside several other balms and pills and cold/hot compresses. 

So, by the next hour, he calls Thor. Tells him to come home, and nothing else. He’ll save the truth for later, perhaps when his head isn’t spinning so much, or his stomach isn’t churning like a storm-battered sea. Secrets are his expertise, and lying to Thor is like playing chess with a goldfish. 

When Thor walks through the door, breathing heavily as if he’d just ran, Loki’s laying on the couch with his hand re-wrapped and resting on his chest. It aches like Hel but he doesn’t dare express it. 

“I was in the middle of something, so this better be important,” Thor says from the entrance hallway. His tone is annoyed, but Loki can hear the anxiety laden between. “And I got those pills you needed.”

Loki doesn’t respond on account of how hard he’s biting his lip. Thor walks into the living room and Loki relaxes his muscles immediately, though his heart thuds quickly like the sprinting hoofbeats of an eight-legged horse. Loki scoffs internally. Sleipnir was never Odin’s horse. Gods, he’s dizzy. 

“Are you alright?” Thor’s voice rumbles through the haze over his ears. “Brother?”

Loki opens his eyes, unaware he’d closed them in the first place. His tongue feels like sandpaper as he drawls a low, “What?”

“I asked if you’re alright, but I see clearly that you are not.” 

Suddenly there’s hands on him, on his forehead, and then under his back, forcing him to sit up. 

“You’re on fire,” Thor says. “You need to take these pills.”

Loki’s uninjured hand is wrenched open and he drags his gaze down to study the pills Thor had placed there. Orange and oval-shaped. Three of them. When he looks up, Thor is gone, so he closes his eyes. Lets the warm fuzz consume him.

It feels like years before he’s forced awake by a large hand shaking his shoulder. Loki peels his eyes open, blinking slowly at Thor’s blurry face. 

“Put the pills in your mouth,” Thor says, and when Loki doesn’t react beyond a raised brow, he takes the pills and forces Loki’s jaw open, shoving them inside. “You are being difficult. Drink.”

The edge of a glass presses against Loki’s lip and he sips eagerly, realizing his extreme thirst for the first time that day. Norns. Maybe he’s not so skilled at this. He’s certainly failed to hide most of the venom’s effects, his sickness on display like stolen gold. But that’s it. Only his sickness. The pain is still buried deep, and Loki isn’t digging it up anytime soon. Thor still doesn’t know. Just thinks he’s incredibly sick. Not envenomed by some elven branch. 

But the reminder lingers and Loki’s ears roar, stomach upturning with a forceful gag. Thor manages to drag him halfway across the living room before Loki’s legs give and he falls onto his hands and knees, vomiting water and his earlier lunch of eggs onto the hardwood. 

His injured hand throbs against the floor and he groans, gagging frailly, but nothing else comes up. Thor forces him back to his feet with two hands under his arms, and once he’d made it there, picks him up with ease. Loki wheezes helplessly, his muscles unresponsive. He sags heavily into Thor’s grip, staring at the ceiling—which pulses and shifts in place and Loki realizes that’s probably not good. 

“What in all the Nine did you catch?” Thor says as he hauls Loki to the latter’s bedroom. “This isn’t something from Earth.”

Loki tries to speak, but his lips are numb and he’s not sure if they’re there anymore. Thor places him on his bed and he thinks maybe keeping this a secret is a bad idea. 

“Thor,” Loki mumbles, slurred nearly beyond recognition. “I’m not… Something’s wrong.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I’d been injured on Alfheim. There… There was a thorned branch. I belie—believe it might’ve been venomous.”

Thor falters visibly. Blinks in shock. Looks at Loki’s bandaged hand. And then unravels the bandages in choked silence, expression darkening once he’d seen the damage beneath. 

“Loki,” Thor begins, slowly. “You damned idiot. Fool.”

“Thor—“

“Why would you hide this from me, knowing I can help? Why, Loki? This is not some minor wound to bandage and forget about. Have you even looked at it?”

Loki turns his injured palm toward his face and stills at the sight. Black tendrils snake from the wounds, up his fingers and winding like vines down his forearm. It looks like it’s rotting.

His heart quivers and he doesn’t stop staring, doesn’t look away because that’s his hand and it’s rotting. Thor presses the trash bin against his chest only seconds before he lurches with a retch. It’s merciless, and doesn’t ease until Thor smacks him on the back, square between his shoulder blades, with a command to breathe. 

Loki can’t, he only coughs, again and again until something in his chest gives and red sprays the back of his hand. Sucking in a desperate gasp, he blinks at his stained hand in shock and shoots Thor a frightened look, but then gags abruptly and more blood spills from his lips.  

“I may require assistance,” Loki chokes when he’s done expelling the crimson fluid that keeps him alive. 

“I’ll take you to Tanja,” Thor says, as if that’ll solve everything. There’s no cure for this. 

Loki tries to say as much, but his eyes slip shut and exhaustion washes over him like hot syrup. He feels the trash bin being taken from his arms and then two large hands, rubbing the swells of his shoulders. 

“Brother, look at me. Stay focused.”

Thor’s voice sounds as if several feet underwater, buried beneath the weight of Loki’s slipping consciousness. He manages a final, fleeting glance at Thor’s worried face, and then the world pinches out like a candle flame.

Loki’s been in the car for hardly two minutes before Thor has to pull over so he can dry-heave out the door. Nothing’s coming up and he’s quivering like a bowstring, the skin of his uninjured hand strikingly pale. The trip takes not even a ten minute walk, but Thor had been adamant upon Loki’s inability to travel such a length on foot. Loki had argued, of course, but his exhaustion ultimately triumphed any resentment over his blatant need for help. The venom’s effects are draining. Crushing. Often to the point where he’d prefer just sawing the damned limb off. 

It’s worse now. The black tendrils creep even beyond the bandages, almost to the crease of his elbow, and the wounds themselves throb agonizingly in tandem with his thundering heart. His bones feel as if filled with concrete; moving is difficult so he doesn’t partake much. Lets Thor handle him, which is humiliating in several ways, but the alternative seems impossible. He knows he’ll die. He knows there’s no cure and little time to find one. He knows he should be scared, but everything feels far away. Irrelevant. Like it’s not his life anymore, he’s just watching. 

They arrive at the healing hut five minutes later. Thor parks the car and assists Loki with his seatbelt, picking him up effortlessly, and then begins the short walk into the tan-and-gray hut. Loki’s been in here before, usually to bring someone else or to assist a healer, but other times it’d been for his own ails: sickness or injury or something else he couldn’t remedy on his own. 

The loss of his magic is a black hole, siphoning the light from his heart. He’s never felt so empty. So devoid of the energy flowing in surplus around the universe. Is this what being human feels like? Walking about, unaware of the beauties that lie just beyond the physical eye? Most Asgardians and Vanir and even Jotun can wield Seidr if trained, but Midgardians rarely possess the ability to alter it in any capacity—the majority can’t even see it. He’s essentially trying to swim in a desert.

To settle any lingering doubts (or maybe his steadfast inability to accept defeat), Loki attempts summoning fireworks from his uninjured palm, and… nothing happens. Of course. His head throbs from the failed attempt and he buries his face into Thor’s chest to block the waiting room lights. The intensity of his malaise drowns any sense of embarrassment. 

Loki is triaged immediately and directed down a hall, then into a small room with a cot in the center. Thor lays Loki gently on the cot and drags a chair close, sitting at Loki’s side and rubbing his chin, clearly lost within his internal worriment. 

Eventually, Tanja and several other healers rush in and begin a series of tests, and by the second hour, they finally match the poison. It’s called Ulvehorn in Asgardian, native to only the wild forests of Alfheim, and carries potent venom in its many thorns. 

“So, is there a cure?” Thor asks Tanja.

“No. Not that we know of.”

“Am I dying?” The question sits heavily on Loki’s tongue. 

“Also no,” Tanja says.

Loki furrows his brow, tilting his head in confusion. “Come again?”

“The venom is not fatal. According to our few recorded cases, it causes extreme illness, but it does not kill. So, as long as you keep that fluid intake up, you will be fine.”

“That’s good news!” Thor says, rubbing Loki’s shoulder a bit too forcefully. Bloody oaf. “What can we do for him in the meantime?”

“I’ll give you some tonics for the nausea and fever, and a balm for the wounds. Expect him to recover in about a week. Loki, try not to throw up so much. It’s making you bleed.”

“What about my magic? Why can’t I use it?” Loki says. 

Tanja sucks her teeth. “It’s sort of like an anesthetic. Basically, it’s blocking your ability to gather Seidr. Everything will return to normal once the venom is ridden.”

Loki sags heavily into the cot with a sigh. He’s going to be alright. Which, with how disgusting his arm currently looks, seems greatly optimistic, but he doesn’t question the word of New Asgard’s most skilled healer. All of this because of some slippery mud. He’d encountered nothing violent on Alfheim, and yet left wounded and sicker than he’s been in centuries. Maybe it’s just his poor luck. Of course something like this would happen to him. 

When Loki is finally discharged and steps outside, the sky is dark and owls hoot their nightly ballad. He feels better, enough to walk, which is a vast improvement from his condition earlier that afternoon. After he’d passed out in front of Thor, he woke in the bathtub, submerged in cool water—but the memories from those few hours are clouded and scrambled. Maybe it’s the fresh air that imbued some life into him. Or maybe he just needed to move around a little. Regardless, he doesn’t complain about the surge of vitality, and climbs into the passenger seat of Thor’s sedan.

The drive home is uneventful and Thor makes minestrone soup for dinner. Loki still doesn’t feel like eating, but he entertains the budding pang of hunger in his gut and finishes a small bowl. He sits with Thor on the couch and tries to read some of J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, but the quiet chatter of Golden Girls lulls him to sleep. 

It seems last night’s minor improvement was nothing but temporary, given Loki’s state upon awakening the next morning. It’s raining outside and thunder rattles the house, not uncommon for June; Loki finds it incredibly distracting, so he throws a pillow over his ear and tries to fall back asleep. Lays there for a while, but he feels awful and it’s not working. He’s cold and shaky and weak and still incredibly nauseous. The bed tilts back in forth and he thinks about the sea, about a small ship caught amidst towering swells. Heaving back and forth. Water spraying on the decks. 

What time is it? Loki slaps his uninjured hand blindly around his bedside table, locates his phone, and wakes it. 9:15 AM. Not terrible, but certainly not his greatest, either. Thor would be proud of the lengthy rest, at least. Sweat soaks Loki’s clothes and the sheets beneath and he grimaces, peeling the covers back and stumbling in the direction of the kitchen. Thor had placed the tonics around there somewhere. 

Loki digs through a shopping bag on the dining table and locates a bottle labeled “for nausea,” popping the cork and downing a quarter. That should be enough. He thinks. It doesn’t really matter, he just needs it to work. When he turns around to walk back into his room, he clips a chair and veers into a wall, forehead striking the wood with a loud thud. Whoops. He blinks slowly and steps around the wall, down the hall, and straight into Thor.

“Pardon… me. Oh,” Loki says, looking up at Thor’s displeased face. “I needed the tonic.”

“What happened? I heard a noise.”

“There was a wall in my way. Rather poor planning.”

“You shouldn’t be walking.”

Loki gestures to his clearly-upright body. “I’ve made it this far.”

Thor rolls his eyes, placing a hand on Loki’s back to guide him to his room. “You have, but you also never know when to quit, so back to bed you go. I fear you’ll hurt yourself.”

“The only thing that hurts is my pride… and I suppose my hand.”

“I’ll look at it once we get you in bed. Come on.”

Loki sends him a glare, but obeys anyway. His sheets are still soaked with sweat when he feels them and a shudder itches down his spine. “These need washing,” he says. “I’ll just sleep on the couch.” 

Loki pulls the comforter off his bed and makes to walk away, but Thor bars him in the doorway. Loki raises an unimpressed brow and says, “Is there an issue?”

“Not really. But I’d be more comfortable with you sleeping in a bed. Not on the couch, Norns know it’s terrible for your spine.”

“You mean your bed? I’m not sleeping there.”

“Why not? My bed is very comfortable.”

“Because it’s not mine,” Loki growls, attempting to shove past Thor’s large figure, but he fails almost humiliatingly. “Would you move?”

“How about we eat breakfast instead? That’ll give us some time to wash your sheets.”

Loki chews the inside of his lip. “I suppose. But I’m not exactly hungry.”

“You still need to eat. Eggs or toast?”

“Caviar and lobster.”

“Eggs it is.” Thor smirks at the exasperated expression Loki fails to hide. “Throw those in the wash. I’ll start it after I’m done cooking.”

“I’m not so incapable, you know.”

“I know. But I like doing it.”

Loki rolls his eyes. He can almost hear the succeeding because you’re my brother and I love you. All that sentiment will kill him one day, if the beer doesn’t first. Loki’s sure of it. 

“Then I shall not complain of such gracious servitude.” Loki grins innocently. “How the mighty have fallen.”

“Oh? But I seem to remember you falling a great many times these past couple days. Am I wrong?”

“Metaphorically, you brute. I fear a tumble from you would send quakes across half of Europe.”

“You speak false. I’m not that large.”

“I jest. And you are.”

Thor takes the comforter from Loki, balling it up in his too-big hands. “You should probably sit down somewhere. I’ll handle these.”

Loki opens his mouth to argue, but notices his shaking legs and obeys sullenly, shoving past Thor to sit on the couch in the living room. He yanks the navy-and-red blanket off the back and wraps it around his shoulders, perching on the cushions with his legs crossed beneath him. This is disgraceful. Unbecoming. He’s forced to conform to Thor’s every wish because of an illness he never should’ve caught. Can’t even stand for more than five minutes without his legs wobbling like upset jelly. It’s not fair. He needs his magic; none of this would be as difficult if it were still reachable. 

The waiting is bitter, but Thor’s nursemaiding is exceedingly worse. It doesn’t help that he likes to do it, either. Thor is king. The related duties do not comprise of caring for his little brother. There are mountains of things that need to be done, and not many people to do them—and yet, Thor would rather push all those importances aside for a single person. Loki does not want his help. Whether or not he needs it… is less important. There’s no reason for Thor to stay. But he’s here, anyway, and Loki knows convincing him to leave is like trying to convince a lion to eat its vegetables. Impossible and irrational. 

His strength is waning and the urge to argue dwindles with it. Though Loki has grown successfully independent of his brother, and is perfectly capable on his own, Thor’s bothering does help. Even if it’s accomplished in the most mortifying ways possible. Loki doesn’t like to be carried. But if his legs are weak and his magic is useless… it’s a little more acceptable, as are the reminders to eat and the doing of his chores. Loki had learned to suffer alone in his adulthood, which makes the perigon change of coexisting (and perhaps learning to thrive) with Thor difficult both in vulnerability and the constant violation of boundaries. 

Emotions are rarely his own anymore. Lying about a few minor things always works, but their closer-than-ever proximity to one another often rains away Loki’s muddy guise. Keeping his injuries from Thor never would’ve worked, he sees that now, but the thought of having to deal with Thor’s over-protective tendencies riled that ancient urge. He doesn’t know why he’s hesitant to spill his weaknesses. But he knows it’s frightening, and it always has been. Like an animal inside him. Fears the predators. But there’s no threats, currently, in New Asgard, and Loki therefore surrenders his attempt to solve the dilemma. 

Seinfeld’s playing on the television in front of him and he watches that instead. The protagonist is an idiot and Loki hates these modern-ish sitcoms, so he switches the channel to a Midgardian documentary. That’s a lot better. Calmer. A clatter of pans from the kitchen signals Thor’s inevitable irritation with the eggs—which, for some reason, is a dish he can’t quite figure out. Loki only eats them because he feels sorry, but he won’t say it aloud until he has a reason to. It’s humorous in a way that makes Loki wonder how in all the Nine Thor managed to become king. He can’t even crack an egg without getting shells in the white. 

The stench of burned oil drifts into the living room and Loki has to stop thinking about it, pressing a hand to his cramping stomach. Nope. This is a bad idea. Why isn’t the tonic working?

Before Loki can remove himself from the smell, Thor shouts into the living room, “Eggs are done!”

Oh well. Loki supposes the worst that can happen isn’t anything substantial, so he sits down at the table and eats. He makes it ten minutes before his stomach revolts, stumbling to the kitchen sink and vomiting twice. Thor’s wide arm curls around his chest and he leans against it, panting shakily over the basin, then hunches over for the third round of vomiting. It stops there and Thor carries him to the couch. Loki sinks heavily into the cushions, closes his eyes, but he does not sleep; the house creaks against the storm’s lingering winds and he listens to that, trying to ignore the throbbing stab in his temples. 

It stopped raining, at least. Loki’d never liked the rain, but New Asgard needs the moisture amidst this dry season, so it’s not exactly unwelcome. Helps the crops grow. Gods. Stop thinking about food. He shakes his head and glues his eyes to the television, but doesn’t pay attention for the swirling in his gut. This is miserable in every facet, every degree, true to the definition. Wildly uncomfortable. Wretchedly horrible. 

Loki squeezes his eyes shut and breathes slowly through the nausea, laying on the couch tense as a stretched band, ready to snap. Or pass out. Thor eventually notices his discomfort and makes him drink from three tonics, which help somewhat. Quell the nausea, but touch nothing else. His head still pounds and he’s sweating through everything. Thor says it takes time to work, but Loki’s already accepted his defeat, pulling the blanket around his shoulders and preparing for another afternoon of torment. 

He feels Thor shift at his feet and closes his eyes, trying to fall asleep. When several minutes pass and he’s still awake, he summons magic to assist and immediately fails, his headache worsening tenfold. Oops. He almost forgot. Damned Ulvehorn and it’s damned venom. He’s never stepping foot on Alfheim again. 

“Do me a favor and smite that hammer of yours upon my head,” Loki groans.

“Still not feeling well?” Thor says.

“Less queasy. But elsewise, no.”

“That’s good. The rest will improve, you just need to be patient.”

“I’d prefer the hammer.”

Thor sighs softly. “Is there any way I can help?”

“I’ve received enough charity from you. None of which was needed, by the way.”

“I can think of several instances where it was needed.”

Loki’s face heats. Thor’s right and it’s insulting: being so indisposed to the point of his reliability. “Maybe in your mind. Are my sheets done yet?”

“I’m not sure. But I can check. It’s probably only a few more minutes.”

“Then check. Or I’m sleeping here tonight.”

Thor rolls his eyes with an upward quirk of his lips and wanders down the hall, out of sight. He emerges a few seconds later and announces the dryer’s finishing. Once Loki’s bed is made, he chooses to lay there for the afternoon and crawls under the clean, lemon-scented comforter. 

He shuts his eyes and falls asleep at last, surrendering to glorious nothing.

Loki awakens with static in his limbs and drool on his face, two large hands shaking his shoulders with force. He drags his eyelids open and blinks at the tan and blond shapes above him, slowly arranging into Thor’s frightened face. He’s crying. Why is he crying? Loki squints his eyes. He feels as if having been hit by a train, body weak and heavy, and the nausea’s returned—somehow worse than ever. 

“You were seizing,” Thor chokes out. “And then you stopped, and you weren’t…” He trails off. 

The furrow between Loki’s brows deepens. A seizure? That doesn’t make sense. He’s been asleep the whole time. Right? With a shake of his head, Loki attempts to sit up, but his arms wobble and can’t bear the weight, so he collapses back onto the mattress with a scowl. A seizure? He’s never had a seizure before, it’s… unusual. Not normal. Not something that happens. 

Loki tries to dismiss the claim, but something in his brain misfires and he says instead, “What?”

“You had a seizure. How do you feel now?”

“I’m sick…” Loki mentally scans his body. Thor’s not making any sense. He feels awful. Colder than usual, and his head hurts, and he’s shaking like Hel, but those are all symptoms of his illness. “I’ve been sick for a couple hours, have you already forgotten?”

That must’ve been the wrong thing to say, given the immediate flash of concern across Thor’s features. 

“Days, Loki. It’s been two days, now,” Thor says, sounding anguished. “Where are we right now?”

“You assume I’ve lost my mind. I can assure you I’m fine.”

“Answer the question.”

Loki pauses. Looks around. The room is small with one wall comprised of rock, simple furniture, a decently-sized rug placed in the middle, and books scatter both the floor and the many shelves anchored on the walls. This is his room, but the location of it slips his mind. Asgard? Midgard? Vanaheim? Alfheim? It could be any of those, but the chances of it being Asgard are slimmer, given the lack of gold ceilings and trims. There’s no paintings, either. Loki had paintings hung upon every single wall of his quarters in Asgard. 

“Not Asgard,” Loki says, simply, because the silence was growing too long. 

“Do you seriously not remember?”

“My head hurts. It’s hard to think.”

Thor’s shoulders slump with a drawn sigh. He presses the backs of his knuckles against Loki’s forehead and his lips curl into a frown, shifting his hand to Loki’s cheek, then down to his neck. 

“You’re too hot. I think your fever might’ve spiked.”

“Hot? I’m freezing,” Loki says, cementing his point with a sturdy shiver. 

“The fever’s getting to your head. Would you be willing to take a bath?”

“I’d much rather sleep.”

“You’re taking a bath.”

Loki scoffs. “Why even bother offering if you’re just going to force me?”

“I don’t know. But your hair certainly needs it.”

“My hair is fine.”

“Care for a mirror?”

Loki scrunches his nose, snapping his fingers to fix it, but nothing happens. Oh. Right. Thor chuckles and heat blooms beneath his cheeks. 

“This usually works,” Loki says.

“Are you remembering?” 

“Remembering what?”

A pause sours the air. 

“Nevermind,” Thor says. “Let’s get you cooled down.” 

Thor manages to drag Loki halfway out of bed before Loki realizes what’s happening; he kicks blindly and his foot strikes a table, pain shooting like electricity up the length of his calf, which rouses a cry from his throat. Thor releases his grip suddenly and Loki falls onto the floor, comforter tangled around his other leg, his back striking the thin rug with a hollow thump. 

“Sorry,” Thor says. “Are you alright?”

Loki blinks dazedly at the ceiling, trying to reclaim the breath that’d been knocked out of him upon impact. “Fine,” he wheezes, after a few seconds of struggling. “I do not like being carried.”

“That’s a shame, because you’re not walking.”

“No, you’re not allowing me to walk. I have two perfectly capable legs that I intend to use whenever I please.”

“You are too ill.” 

A rebuttal sits on the tip of Loki’s tongue, but before he can speak it, Thor picks him up in a bridal carry and tucks him close to his chest. Loki will never admit it, but he knows he can’t walk. Given the shaking of his arms, his legs surely fare no better, and maybe it’s not the worst method of transportation in his current state. At least it’s just the two of them. No other witnesses to behold this utter disgrace of his pride. 

The chill inside Loki is replaced by a sudden wave of heat, prickling down his back and out through his limbs, and he can feel new sweat pearling under his clothes. He groans, inhaling deeply in hopes to subdue the nausea squirming inside his stomach. He’s exhausted. Ready to sleep right there in Thor’s arms, but the thought of that is wildly embarrassing, so he keeps his eyes open. 

Thor carries him into a small room with a toilet and shower. Bathroom, Loki’s brain supplies helpfully, but he’s still lost on which realm this… house(?) is situated in. If only his magic worked. Each realm carries a different energy signature; Loki would know his location immediately if he could just read it. Gods, why can’t he remember? Is Thor telling the truth about his seizure? Has he really been sick for days?

It feels as if reality has shattered and Loki needs to pick up the pieces, but at the same time, his memories feel complete. It’s a paradoxical state between a seemingly linear progression and the fear of looking back and realizing there must be a fault in that line. He needs to remember where he is. Needs to remember why he’s sick at all, because that’s missing, too. 

Thor sits him on the toilet and undresses him, running the tap in the meantime. The water is cool when Loki climbs in and he winces, asking, “Does it have to be so cold?”

“For you, yes,” Thor says. “Relax. You’ll get used to it.”

Loki shoots him a displeased look, but obeys regardless, sinking deeper into the tub to wet his hair. He notices a cloth wrap around one of his hands and frowns, unraveling the bandage slowly. Perhaps it’s the sight underneath that rouses Loki’s memories, but he suspects the cold water plays a decent part. This is Midgard. Norway. Loki’s lived here with Thor for three years, after Asgard was destroyed by Surtur, and he’d been envenomed by a branch on Alfheim two days ago. 

“I remember,” Loki whispers.

He keeps his eyes on his hand, but Thor’s smiles always radiate throughout the room like sunlight. A squeeze of Loki’s shoulder confirms his merriment and Loki rolls his eyes. Empathetic bastard. 

“Spare me your gladness. I still feel awful.”

“We’ll put some cream on those and I’ll give you another round of tonics. I think it’s been long enough.”

“Too long.”

Thor chuckles. “Patience, brother. Lest you take too much.”

“You know I dislike waiting. Especially when the waiting is crammed with such enormous anguish.”

“I would say you dramatic, but this one’s been awful. Perhaps the worst I’ve seen.”

“That would be the venom.” Loki sits up and hugs his knees, chin resting atop. “I suppose I know, now, why Alfheim’s so undocumented. Only a fool would enter of his own will. Hundreds upon hundreds of deadly species, plants, animals, insects… It’s still a little absurd, don’t you think?”

“What? The critters, or that it’s so undocumented?”

“Both. But leaning toward the latter.”

Thor shrugs, squeezing a wad of shampoo into his hand. “Well, I think you’ve already answered that one. It’s too dangerous, so nobody goes in. And when nobody goes in, the books aren’t written.”

“It is sparsely populated. No resources of value. Not many explorers travel there, or live there. And I suspect, same as me, the men who do enter leave wounded and afraid to return. The rest perish.” Loki leans into Thor’s touch, his large hands massaging the shampoo gently into his hair. “I still think it’s absurd. Alfheim was formed nearly six billion years ago, similar to the rest of the Nine—and yet, we have substantially less information about its native species. Just absurd.”

“Maybe it’s meant to be so. Maybe some things should stay hidden.”

Loki’s stomach turns. There’s a lot of things he wishes could’ve stayed hidden. “That’s very wise of you.”

“I am capable of wisdom, much to your teasing.”

“Oh really? Because everything else that comes out of your mouth is utter blather.”

“You know that’s not true. If I recall correctly, you were speaking nonsense just a few minutes ago.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You were. It was actually quite frightening.”

Loki shifts his gaze to the shower wall. He doesn’t remember his exact words, but he does remember the fear on Thor’s face. It’s not a good look on him. Especially when it’s directed at Loki.

“I’m fine.”

“You are still sick.”

“Which means nothing.”

“It means something, given that I had to rouse you from a damned seizure.”

“How is that my fault?”

“I’m not saying it’s your fault, Loki. I’m just… trying to make you understand that this is important. It is not mere illness. You were injected with Norns know how much venom, and you’ve never had a seizure before—“

“Which means nothing.” Loki’s expression hardens. “As I said.”

“You stopped breathing. How does that mean nothing?”

“That is typical for a seizure, and—“

“But that is not typical for you. I’m not listening to this. I thought… Gods, I don’t know what I thought, but I do know I was scared. Would you just—think, for one second, about how your self-carelessness might affect those around you? How it might affect me?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I didn’t know…“ Thor’s lip wobbles and he bites it firmly. “I didn’t know if you’d wake up, to be honest.”

“Oh.” Loki swallows, expression smoothing into something he refuses to label as regret. But he knows. Knows how much Thor frets over him. Knows they only have each other, now. Knows why Thor’s so distressed, and yet the shame of it all—being so helpless—had shadowed this. He would’ve never allowed such blatant need for help nine years ago. But it’s not nine years ago, it’s 2022, and they’ve changed both as people and as siblings. 

There’s a lot more trust, now. A lot more openness, mutually between them, despite Loki’s hesitance to do so. He’s worked on that, but clearly it’s still an issue. 

Thor resumes his washing of Loki’s hair and the latter closes his eyes, sighing softly. It’s nice. Smells nice. Feels nice. Eases his headache, a little, with the pressure. He could stay there forever, maybe if the water was warmer. Eventually Thor finishes and grabs a cup from the tub’s ledge, filling it with water, then pours it over Loki’s soapy hair. 

Loki leans his head back to avoid getting water in his eyes, combing his fingers through his hair as Thor rinses. Next is conditioner, and then his body, which requires him to stand, so Thor assists him to his feet. A bad idea, it turns out, as Loki’s head immediately starts spinning. His vision blackens, heart racing, and he feels himself falling… then his eyes open again and he’s back in the tub. 

“That was a bad idea,” Thor says, sitting on the ledge.

“Did I pass out?” Loki mumbles. 

“For a few minutes, yeah. Are you alright now?”

Loki scrunches his nose. “Not entirely. Perhaps I need to eat something.”

“Hm. Maybe so.”

The nausea had faded and hunger begins to gnaw at Loki’s gut. He feels better, he notices, his temperature more regulated and the various aches fading. Still, he’d prefer his bed over this cold bath, and tells Thor as much. Thor assists him out of the tub and sits him on the toilet lid, patting him dry with a towel from the rack. Loki smells nicer, less like sweat and more like pine needles, which is one of his favorites along with cedar. Reminds him of the forests in which he spent his childhood. Playing with Thor and his friends. 

Frigga always told them not to wander beyond the brambles, but they never listened. Loki’d usually wind up the injured one, and Thor never learned, even well into their teenage years. He misses it, sort of. New Asgard is kinder to him. Both the people and the land. Reminiscing hurts, so Loki thinks instead about what needs to be done in the village. Crops to water. Produce to keep in stock. Citizen disputes to resolve. All in all: there’s a lot.

But Loki can’t assist with any of it until he’s healthy. He can’t even stand right now without feeling dizzy. Thor fetches the cream from the kitchen and applies it to Loki’s wounds. They look less disgusting. The black tendrils are beginning to retreat. Loki allows Thor to carry him back to his bedroom; the effort of bathing leaves him exhausted, so he doesn’t argue. His bed is the green amidst miles of desert, soft, plush, and, most importantly, warm. 

The next morning, he feels substantially healthier, and eats a breakfast of grainy cereal and yogurt with blueberries. He walks for five minutes inside town and does not feel dizzy after. The aches and pains fade and even his fever breaks by afternoon, sweating it out like a switch had flipped inside him, which prompts another shower. He’s able to bathe alone this time, but he knows Thor’s standing outside the door. Damned over-protective sap. 

Loki’s wounds fade from their rotting look to a deep red, then turn pink, then disappear entirely. It’s as if he’d never been envenomed at all, and when those few days of ail recede into the realm of memories, he doesn’t speak about them. Not the greatest memories, admittedly, but he forgets most within a week.

Chicken Pox is eliminated and the Tooth of Bjørnehundslange wasn’t needed at all. Loki seethes about the uselessness of his quest for many hours, about the needless risk of his life, the incredible inconvenience of it. He realizes, after dinner, that it doesn’t matter. He survived. Who cares about the Ulvehorn, when there’s nobody to blame? Loki wishes he could pin it on someone, but the nearest candidate is himself, so he gives up and sits on the couch. 

It’s been two weeks and Golden Girls plays again on the television. Thor’s next to him with an entire plateful of brownies, and they smell delicious. Thor gives him two. They taste just as good.

Later, a glass breaks in the kitchen, shattering into several pieces on the hard linoleum. It’s nobody’s fault, but Loki decides to clean it, and cuts his hand on a shard. He tells Thor immediately.

Loki doesn’t know why. It’s not exactly a threat to his life, but it feels… correct. That Thor needs to know. Just in case. 

Maybe it’s because of all those lectures about his safety, or maybe it’s the scar on Thor’s eye, reminding Loki they’re not the invincible gods portrayed in those Midgardian fairytales. Loki knows Thor cannot lose anything else. Anyone else. It would be the catalyst of his breaking.

Their unity keeps them whole. Loki would’ve denied that nine years ago, or maybe even two, but it grows clearer every passing day. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Thor says as he unwraps a band-aid. 

“This isn’t anything groundbreaking,” Loki says. “So don’t act as such.”

Thor smiles, placing the band-aid on Loki’s hand and smoothing it with his fingers. “I didn’t have any other ones. Sorry.”

Loki looks down at the bandage. It’s riddled upon every square inch with cartoon drawings of The Hulk’s face. He rolls his eyes and says, “Traitor.”

But there is no malice. No spite. It’s June 12th, 2022, in a small village on Midgard, and Loki no longer feels bitter toward his brother. This house feels more like home than anything Asgard had to offer. The people are closer, tensions are lower than ever. Loki doesn’t take the credit. Thor doesn’t either.

But, Loki knows, if he were to ask anyone in the village, they’d claim both of them played a hand. 

Sometimes Loki wonders what would’ve happened to him if he hadn’t brought the Statesman to Asgard. Many past versions of him wouldn’t have. (But that doesn’t matter anymore, does it?)

It might’ve been fate. Might’ve been destiny. But Loki knows he made the right choice. To stay. To trust. To tell Thor about the cut from the glass.