Loki X Reader || Girl With The Gold Earring

9 | Reunited Blades

Y/N and Loki clear the rest of the palace fueled by frantic energy and a strange game of What's The Time Mr Wolf—sprinting silently on the tips of their toes whilst out of sight, then slowing to an inconspicuous walk when slinking past the evenly-placed palace guards.

Below their armour, each guard's eyes are more steely than their menacing helm could ever hope of being.

Y/N's breath halts in her throat at each one, her blood loud in her ears as the shadowed pupils monitor her every move. She finds herself wondering if one can somehow walk like an Asgardian, whether one can smell like one---if their feet can sound like one as they touch against the marble floor.

Perhaps Loki is wondering the same thing because his usual confident stride has narrowed into a brisk, stiff walk.

-- ❈ --

Despite her dress sticking to her back, fear has made Y/N cold by the time she and Loki reach the door to the servant's courtyard.

As Loki eases the door open quietly, a roll of hot night air swamps the small corridor, warmer than Y/N's blood.

She steps into it cautiously, keeping tight to Loki's heel.

There are few servants outside now, most of them probably down in the cool underground mess hall, enjoying their evening meal. 

Outside, Y/N and Loki wade through the humidity as though it were a bog, parting hanging bed linen and airing rugs like reeds.

Thyra the horse is waiting where Y/N had left her, enjoying the shelter of a walnut tree. She raises her head as Y/N and her companion approach, slightly startled at their urgency.

Y/N retrieves her backpack stashed below the shrubbery and soothes Thyra quickly, untying her reins. 

Loki had been left to wilt in his rooms for weeks, stifled like a vase of flowers in the dark, but he stows their luggage with fast fingers and mounts the horse with well-practised ease.

In front of him, the reins slippery in her clammy hands, Y/N brings Thyra up into a walk.

She keeps close to the shadowy fringes of the courtyard, hyper-aware of the few servants still sweeping up after the busy day, gardeners drizzling water onto the prickly plants, some delivery boys carting away their empty crates.

Any second, Y/N expects one of them to raise their head from their work and shout for the guards in that hissing, snake-like tongue.

The stone gates loom ahead, glowing with the silvery light of the moon, and she aims for it, wishing she could kick Thyra up into a run.

They pass some men tending to what looks like a broken fountain, and Loki pulls his hat low to his brow.

The men carry on with their work, and Y/N's grip loosens on the reins.

The tips of her fingers are pale.

-- ❈ --

The gate passes overhead—intricately carved statues twisted together to create a heavy stone arch—and Y/N winces, imagining it collapsing around them, a wall of stone trapping them inside.

It remains standing, however, and shrinks into the distance as Thyra continues to steadily plod in an unwavering line.

A long, wide stretch of road leads away from The Vanir Palace like a red carpet, the dirt light as a powder; churned by wagons and carts into floury dust. Although presently not as busy as it was during the daytime, several vehicles still trundle up and down, lanterns swinging over the front of their carts.