Floriography // A Loki Fanfiction

Chapter Six: Taxus Baccata

Loki was pacing within the gilded orb gate of the bifröst it had become distracting enough that Heimdall blinked, taking his sight away from the nine realms to watch his more mischievous prince. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth the god of mischief walked with folded arms and a face of pensive thought. Heimdall broke that thought when he spoke, "In a hurry to Midgard my prince?"

Loki paused mid-step looking up as if he had not heard what Heimdall said, "No." He lied trying his best to seem innocent.

"I was only wondering because you cannot seem to keep still."

"Yes, well, I dislike having to wait on Thor." Not a lie.

"Are you not going with them?" The word: with, was stressed by Heimdall.

"I am." A white lie. He looked past Heimdall squinting to look down the rainbow bridge to see if anyone was coming yet. He could indeed see his brother and company approaching, "That does not mean I enjoy his tardiness." Ironic, as it was usually him that showed up late to the party.

Winter had just begun in that region of Midgard, though the snow was already knee-deep. The mark left by the bifröst had not just scored the ground it had melted away all traces of the snow around them. It was the first time they had visited the Midgardians during their winter season since the defeat of the frost giants – jötunn, or informally jotun, as Midgardians lumped all giants together with that term. The air was chilly with a unique crisp feel and the song of the forest was very different. While there was life to it, fewer creatures were vocal, unlike the spring or summer. The silence made it easier to hear the noise from the village that was not far away.

Loki was quick to set off, he wanted to find his bearings. Treating the snow like it was nothing he climbed over a small hillside and realized in short order where they had been sent. He was overlooking a village from a cliffside that had a large rock (one covered with snow at the present) at the side of it.

"Looks lively down there!" Thor had followed Loki and was looking down at the people gathering at one of the larger longhouses. His brother likely did not remember this place, maybe the others did. Thor patted his brother on the shoulder, gave him a brotherly jostle, and like an excited child he set off down the cliffside, blazing the path for the rest of them to follow.

Loki looked at the grey skyline for a moment, narrowing his eyes, he knew Heimdall would see the look.

By the time they neared almost the entire village had fit into one building. It seemed more than one village was here too. They were celebrating together. Cheering and jeering, some danced with wide smiles and rosy cheeks. Barrels of mead, wine, and other drinks were being passed around. Foods of all kinds were abundant, their crops must have flourished and hunts been bountiful that year. Music flowed to his ears; drums, wooden clacks, and some wind instrument akin to a horn that produced a low tone.

Thor had walked right in like he belonged, and maybe he did. He blended into the crowd easily, picking up a mug that was not being used and getting a drink. The other Asgardians gave shrugging looks to one another before following suit. Without the flashier attire they usually wore; furs for warmth in their place this day, they all seemed to blend better than normal. It took Loki a moment of looking around to give in and join the festivities. He blended in a much better way than simply acting the part, taking on the disguise of Loke.

The drums quieted down and a skald spoke up, "Við megum ekki gleyma! Fé vældr fræ'nda rógi; fóðesk ulfr í skóge." Slowly the music picked up once more. Did he just say a wolf lives in the forest?

More than one man from the group of skalds sang in poetic rhythm, taking turns or singing together as needed, "Úr er af illu jarni; oft leypr ræinn á hjarni; Þurs vældr kvenna kvillu; kátr værðr fár af illu; Óss er flestra færða; för, en skalpr er sværða," Every line seemed like an oral tradition of remembering important life lessons to them such as that slag comes from bad iron or few are cheerful from misfortune.