Loki X Reader || Girl With The Gold Earring

1 | The Abyss

PROLOGUE

"Your Majesty." A hawk-faced, intense man towering well over six feet, Rowan has held the position of Captain Of The Royal Guard for the greater part of his heroic, prodigious career. Never once has he flinched from a gaze, man or beast—but he recoils now as he takes a knee, his armour grating with a screeching of metal.

He can feel The Allfather's one good eye shift heavily onto the dome of his golden helm.

It is not his good eye that troubles him.

It is the other, blackened with blood that never crumbles away, raw, naked flesh that never scabs over. He pictures it swivelling about below its patch, the torn lid narrowing as the fractured pupil tries to bring him into focus.

"Have you any news?" Rowan has not heard his king's voice in many moons and, if he's honest with himself, he has enjoyed every moment of their time apart. He takes a breath before he replies, his chest limited to the confines of his chest plate.

Odin's question is unnecessary.

The answer is scoured over his brow in deep, permanent worry lines. His eyes are heavy and, below his helm, his hair remains limp, squashed flat to his skull from dozens of nights spent on a bedroll. His shoulders sag. There will be more of those nights to come, after this, more evenings spent huddling close to his horse for warmth, snaring squealing rabbits for supper, his clothes smelling of sweat and dirt.

Regretfully:

"Not yet, Sir. But we will keep looking. My men should have reached the Jöttuunn border by now, and they've already searched the majority of the southwest..." Receiving no encouragement he trails off damply.

The Allfather's face twists below his beard, setting the thick white whiskers twitching like the muzzle of a growling dog. His good eye frowns grimly.

"Search harder. I want all my men on this!"

"But, Sir..." Rowan hesitates. "As guards, our job is to—"

"Your job is to obey me! If I say abandon your post you do so. If I say scour the Nine Realms for my child you do so! Do you not know what is at steak? The Vanir—"

To Rowan's horror, a sudden, violent tensing of muscles warps Odin's face into a grimace and, with a horrible sound like breath kicked out of a wounded man, he lunges forward, his one good eye wide and rolling about in his head. 

With difficulty in his armour, Rowan stands, panicked, his king's hands landing on his taught, muscular forearm. 

Odin clutches it with an agonizing grip and Rowan begins looking wildly about, wondering who he could call for help but, of course, all his men are spread over Asgard, harmless and helpful as a flock of partridges. He opens his mouth to holler for a maid or manservant or anyone who may be close by but The Great Hall is cavernously empty, a deserted cave sunk into a mountain of marble and gold. 

"Sire---! Please!" Rown gasps, his king's fingers digging, burrowing into the complicated twists of veins and delicate bones in his arm. "If you can just make it to your throne---I can fetch get help---!"

"No!" The Allfather commands and, suddenly, the attack passes as quickly as it had come. Straightening slowly, his breath returns to a steady, somewhat reedy rhythm. He's still gripping Rowan's arm but, after clearing his throat, he releases him and rests instead on the lip of the window sill. 

"But Your Majesty---!"

"I assure you I am quite alright, Captain. Just a passing dizziness from lack of sleep, you need not concern yourself."