Loki Imagines

Curse of the Witches

The celebrations have barely begun, yet they're already starting to run dry.

It's not like Asgard is a place that doesn't know revelry. The long golden halls were practically designed for feasts and gatherings, the coffers always full for flagons of mead that never seem to run dry. It all culminates in a tidal wave of wealth and splendor, one that seems willing to drown any visitor whole. Loki, however, has had a lifetime to step out of the tide. He does so now.

Maybe it's his pride talking, telling him to leave before he grows too tired of the gathering. Thor has won another conquest or defeated another monster, the same old story. From the second he burst through the doors, hammer held triumphantly to the sky, the cheers could drown out even his brother's thunder. It's a scene Loki has seen many times before, mere details changing with each telling and occurrence. Perhaps that is why he finds himself slipping away.

Loki has perfected the art of disappearing. The larger the crowds, the easier it is to disguise yourself among them. Technically, he shouldn't be able to do this at all. He is the son of a king, a god in his own right and the brother of the hero they're all celebrating today. But Loki has always stood aside, never quite adhering to the same mold of glory and grandeur that his brother wears like a second skin.

Some days, this wears on him like a blade. Today, however, Loki is fine with it. Let him step away, let him not be seen. Today is not a day for chastened anger. His footsteps echo through the halls, growing louder as the din of the celebrations fades behind him. He receives a few stray stares from Asgardians still making their way to the hall, curious as to why an Odinson would be leaving a festival instead of arriving, but few pay him any mind.

The brisk air of the night is a tonic against the heated fervor of the golden halls. Loki pulls his emerald robes closer around him, letting the cloth spare the cool metal of his armor from the wind. He's a Frost Giant, of course, the cold has never been more than a hindrance, but he likes to put on the illusion of being just like all the others. Illusions have been his specialty for a long time, at least this one is a charade he can keep up.

Loki lets his feet wander the grounds, carrying him further and further from the light spilling out from the grand palace. The night still clings to the scene, an inky darkness pooling around the trees and golden spires of buildings all around him. Loki has probably wandered every inch of this gilded city, but today he chooses to stray further from the towering buildings and instead into the thick outcroppings of forest that surround the palace.

He is not expecting to see anyone here. The Asgardians are besotted with their golden prince, the heir to the throne and the glorious son of Odin. He is the making of the myths, the one they flock to when there are problems to be had. Loki, on the other hand, is the silver to the gold, the biting frost that must follow every prosperous summer. He has had millennia to come to terms with his status as a shadow; tonight, it serves him well. Every single thing in all the worlds can be used as a tool or a weapon, even the rumors. Let no one see him here.

There is a certain corner of the forest he must visit tonight, the one spot in Asgard that stubbornly refuses to yield its secrets to him. There is a cave carved out of the rock face further along the many cliffs that line the area. They say it was built by the practitioners of seiðr, ancient Asgardian witches who could operate even out of Odin's watchful eye. The Allfather may be a god of magic himself, but there are always scraps of witchcraft that cannot be controlled.

It reminds Loki of himself. Maybe that is why he travels there tonight, walks and walks until he is standing before the rock face. It is blank of any markings or openings, with nothing to indicate that it would ever be a remnant of seiðr. But Loki is of magic borne, and he can hear the last indications of spells spiraling out from the rock. He presses his palm against the cool surface of the cliff face, searching for some form of entrance. The rock remains stubbornly bare.