Chapter Text
“ You. ”
“ I. At least, I can only assume you are referring to my magnanimous self, based on the direction in which you’ve extended that irritably gnarled old appendage.”
“You unbelievable --” Darcy’s voice trailed off with the high-teakettle squeak she’d had to grow accustomed to, since becoming old. She had a number of curses with which to afflict Loki on the tip of her tongue, but none seemed quite violent enough to contain the full volume of her feelings. Perhaps actual violence was the answer. Smashing the trickster’s head in with her broom would probably get the message across just as effectively.
“If you kill him, you’ll never get that curse off…” Came a crackling voice from behind her, just loud enough for Darcy’s aged ears to pick up.
“If I kill him, you’ll still be free of that pesky little contract you refuse to tell me anything about,” Darcy crackled back. Momentarily distracted from Loki (who was strumming his glittering lute and ignoring her, the loon), Darcy jabbed her “irritably gnarled” finger at the demon in the hearth instead.
Hissing, Surtur dodged the prodding appendage. The yellow flames of his eyes were somehow reproachful as they flickered at Darcy.
For a supposedly deadly and heartless creature, Surtur was not particularly intimidating. True, the demon’s face was shaped not unlike a charcoal human skull wreathed in flames; but any frightening effect Surtur’s visage might have engendered was ruined by the almost comically overlarge horn-like brows sticking out to either side of a three-inch high head. The old (young) Darcy would have burst out laughing at the sight, and no doubt made a number of jokes about eyebrow grooming. Current (old) Darcy had retained her snark, but not quite as much humor.
“Watch it,” Loki’s fire demon sparked. “If you self-immolate, we’ll both be out of the metaphorical frying pan.”
Old (young) Darcy would have snapped her fingers in appreciation of the pun. Surtur had picked up punnery from Darcy and Loki’s verbal sparring, and had developed something of an ego. Current (old) Darcy was a touch too grumpy to appreciate the wordplay.
“Answer the question,” Darcy said. She poked at the demon again, calling Surtur’s bluff. “If I kill Sir Sings-a-lot over there, will it end your contract?”
“In a manner of speaking…” the fire demon huffed, belching a little tongue of blue flame. “Don’t test it, please. I suspect that course of action will lead us to desolation.”
“Thanks a lot, Smaug,” Darcy grumbled.
Surtur stabbed a violet-flamed tongue in Darcy’s direction, though it was still well-clear of her fingers.
“I preferred The Hobbit in film,” Loki drawled, from his place at the table. “Far more dramatics and tears, as befitting a tale of kings and dragons and the ignominious greed of men.”
“Speaking of ignominity,” Darcy said, catching a whiff of eau-de-sheep, and recalling her early wrath. “Loki, would you care to explain yourself?”
The shapeshifting sorcerer raised one of his trailing emerald sleeves in a dramatic flourish. “Certainly, dear old Darcy. Though I once believed myself a Child of Odin, I, Loki, greatest and most inventive of all enchanters, tragically discovered that my heritage lies in Jotunheim, and--”
“Oh, stop trying to slither out of this.” Darcy snapped. “I don’t need the sob story.”
This time, it was Loki who poked a (decidedly forked) tongue out at her.
Darcy narrowed her eyes. She was quite certain the expression pulled at her wrinkles in a decidedly unflattering way--the more unsightly she looked, the better. Loki’s general distaste for anything not of aesthetic value might force him to actually confront the issue at hand, if only to make her slightly less visually offensive.
“Loki.” She started again, her old voice crackling colder than Surtur’s bluest flame. “Explain the enormous, stinking pile of wet floccus occupying a not insignificant part of this establishment,” she drew in a deep, fortifying breath. “ Please .”
Oddly enough, the shapeshifting trickster almost flinched on the last word. Had she not been paying as close attention to his face, she wouldn’t have noted the way his mouth quirked in chagrin.
Then he cast a baleful green-eyed gaze at the veritable haystack of wool, wet and smelly, that occupied approximately ⅔ of the room. Wool he had magicked, for some unknown reason, into the castle early that morning. Wool whose presence he was going to explain, Frigga help her.
Loki coughed. “Yes. That.”
He coughed again, then strummed a few out-of-tune chords on his bedazzled lute
“It came to my attention that you are...unhappy. Bored, even. I thought a gift of something to keep you busy would be sufficient. I overheard you complaining to Surtur of a lack of fiber to supply your knitting, and thought, as your most generous employer, that I might trouble myself to provide compensation.”
If she were younger, Darcy might have missed the slightest deferential hunch of Loki’s shoulders, the way his eyes flicked down to the floor before back to her. Old Darcy, however, was a sharp old biddy, and recognized the body language of a shy child. It surprised her momentarily. Then she recovered her grouchiness.
He should have asked first , she thought, scowling darkly, feeling the way the expression pulled at her wrinkles. If Odin were a significantly less useless parent, Loki might just have a healthier relationship with open communication. And less...compensative issues.
The thought was almost enough to make her snicker. But that wasn’t appropriate at all for the situation at hand. And if nothing else, Darcy was going to have her retribution in the form of an apology.
“But..” Darcy prompted.
Loki sighed. “But, now I see my judgement was in error.”
Was it possible? Did he look--contrite? Even the glittering jewel in his ear seemed somehow dimmed, the green shimmer smeared over his eyelids more like tragic tears than vain peacocking.
Then Darcy blinked. And realized her own error.
“Don’t you use magic on me, sonny-boy,” she snarled. “Do you know how long it would take to spin this much wool? The time for dying? Even drying the stuff would be a monumental pain in my old--”
“Please,” Loki cried, throwing a melodramatic hand over his eyes. “Spare me the optical impression of your posterior, lest I be consumed by anhedonia.”
“Only if you apologize.” Darcy said, mulishly. Behind her, she thought she could hear Surtur crackling with wicked laughter. (It might just have been her aged, buzzy ears, though.) “Else I’ll treat you to my withered unmentionables. Scar you for life. Teach you not to sass your elders.”
“I…” Loki cracked open one eye, caught sight of Darcy’s expression, and seemed to think better of whatever he’d been about to say. “...apologize. Dear, darling, devilish Darcy--will you ever forgive me for my inconsiderate ways?”
“That’s more like it,” Darcy sniffed. “I shall consider your apology.”
Loki’s puppy-dog-simper vanished immediately. “Most excellent! Then I shall rectify my mistake immediately. With a much more appropriate present, for a woman of your advanced age, I think? Ta, Darcy dear.”
He planted a smacking kiss on her cheek, and with a twirl of shimmering emerald robes and dazzling white teeth, Loki (and the pile of wet wool) vanished, leaving only the faintest odor of minty perfume and sodden sheep behind.
Darcy only very nearly stopped herself from having an aneurysm on the spot. Then she took a deep, steadying breath, and let it go. Then she sat down, cheeks warm with an emotion she did not care to name, and turned towards the fire demon. “Did he just--”
“Slither out?” Surtur rolled his “Yes. Serpentine, slithy cad, isn’t he? With a heart to match. I’d know.”
Loki might be a heartless cad (and other words that would have once turned her ears red just to think of), but he was still her best chance at breaking the curse. Darcy would just have to bear his nonsense for the time being. And in the meantime, she could come up with a few (mostly) harmless ways to revenge herself on the enchanter. Ways that would make her younger, prankster, true self proud.
From the hearth, Surtur chuckled in a hiss of spitting flames. “Remind me to tell you about the time Thor asked for a lizard as a pet, and Loki brought him back a bilgesnipe…”