The Lokistone

Lokistone 7

"There are many who would rather meet their bitterest enemy in the field,

Than their own hearts in their closet."

~Charles Caleb Colton, Lacon, 1825

Loki could not remember the last time he had slept. Weeks. Months, perhaps. Sometimes in recent past he had sat in one corner or other and stared at nothing. Other times, he had merely feigned sleep. But never had he lost himself altogether and rested—truly rested. And this night was no exception.

He stood with folded arms in front of that same crooked window, staring blankly out of it, as the inky darkness faded back to be replaced by dismal gray. His hands stayed locked in fists, and he held the inside of his lip between his teeth.

A breath of wind stirred the grass out there. He blinked slowly.

The sky gradually lightened. Day dawned—as much as it would up here in these savage hills.

He blinked again—quicker. His brow furrowed.

He straightened.

It was the seventh day.

Ghosts of voices, sing-song children's voices, trickled through his memory.

First day, to come to thee

I'll track thy feet in snow.

If that doth fail, on the second day

I'll follow the scent I know.

On the third day I'll cross the streams

And rivers where thou wouldst go.

The fourth shall bring me to the trees

And to thy own dear meadow.

The fifth I'll seek thy weapons—

An arrow from thy bow.

The sixth I fear I'll find thy blood—

So steps assured, to the gates of Hel,

I'll come to thee by magic spell.

Seven days.

Loki spun to face the front door, suddenly overwhelmed by the sensation that someone was about to stride through it.

The shadowed door stayed motionless. The quiet wind moaned against the thatch.

Loki swallowed, his heart beating faster. He dropped his arms and silently crossed the room to the window by the table. He slipped around the chair and drew back the curtain with two fingers.

Nothing. Just dim, empty moorland.

His heart did not calm.

"Just an old song," he muttered, shutting the curtain and glancing back through the room.

Yes, another old song—a song he knew backward and forward. Every child of Asgard did. It was a song of urgency—it told how long someone could stay missing before his loved ones feared the worst, and what measures his family and protectors would take to regain him.

He paused, gazing unfocused at the dusty floor, listening. Then, with slow steps, he returned to his customary north-facing window.

The morning light opened up a bit more. Rustlings issued from her bedroom—she was waking. Loki let out an abbreviated sigh, turned and entered the tiny kitchen, and with a flash, unconjured some more of the raw elk meat—not much—and a long, thick bone, and put them on that metal plate. Then, he returned to his perch.