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Now
They say sewing the mouth shut is an ancient Jotun punishment for liars and those who defile their mouths with unclean acts. It’s probably just a myth, Loki thinks distantly; even Frost Giants would never do that.
Aesir, on the other hand…
Loki is still naked, his cock shrivelled and his back hunched as Thor – hastily dressed in a tunic – presses him down to kneel on the bare flagstones of the bedroom floor. He submits and does his best to stay calm as Brokkr lashes his wrists to the handle of Mjolnir, placed head down on the floor for this purpose.
The wrists are flushed blue. Along with his own newfound awareness, it seems that the excitement of the evening was enough to jar loose the concealment spell laid on his baby self.
‘This creature tricked its way in, tried to kill me,’ blusters Thor, presumably for the guard’s benefit. ‘We will punish it and send it back to Laufey as a message.’
It’s two weeks since Loki discovered his true nature. Tonight, he simply ran out of will to hide.
Earlier that evening
‘You will be king,’ Loki promised his brother, standing beside his chair, as Thor glowered over his mead. The evening’s carousing was dying down. ‘In time.’
‘You do not understand,’ Thor growled, playing with a chicken bone. ‘You prefer lurking in the shadows. I must command respect.’
‘You do, you will,’ Loki assured him.
They had been through this exchange, or variants of it, ten thousand times. In the past, Loki had both burned with resentment and calculated his advantage, nudging Thor towards some amusing blunder or expedient lapse. Now…
‘I will be king!’ Thor grunted and flung the chicken bone away.
Now, Loki just touched his brother’s shoulder. The great firm bulk, the royal red cloth under Loki’s slender, pink, flawless, fraudulent hand. He let it rest just a little more heavily than usual; as if Thor’s touch even through cloth could purify him. The two of them were utterly sundered and yet closer now, were they not? Thor had tasted his first real shame, and Loki, his very flesh, had become shame.
Decisions were for people. A future king was above them; Loki beneath. So he had thrown back goblet after goblet of wine, watching as Thor quaffed even more than his usual prodigious intake of ale. And now Loki’s breath stirred the hair on the back of Thor’s head as he growl-slurred, ‘I am not as sure of myself as I was.’ And his hand came up to his shoulder to grip Loki’s, hard. ‘Can I be sure of you, brother?’
Loki drew a sharp breath. Could it be this simple, in the end? Surely not; as so many thousand times before, Thor was asking for comfort and counsel, such as he could only receive from one of an equivalent rank. Nothing more.
Awareness of anything more, and the stifling thereof, was Loki’s job. To grasp and deny that which could not be spoken, still less explored.
Except he no longer knew what he was, or could be, or could withstand. After a day of rage and tears, even the spark that drove his tricks and his schemes had left him. He could not abide the monster he now knew himself to be, yet abide it he must, or die. And so he had become deep and still, as if that way he might not notice himself.
Still less did Thor know Loki; and so his brother wanted him. And this was, at last, the night when Loki pressed in closer behind his brother’s chair, and Thor’s free hand crept unresisted to Loki’s groin and found there what it sought.
*
As he followed Thor past the impassive guard (Brokkr, the favourite, who hated Loki and his lies the most) into his chamber, Loki felt a last stab of uncertainty as to whether
he had imagined the tone of his brother’s voice, the intent in his wandering hand. Perhaps it had been simple drunkenness, and Loki was now just going to hear a few more hours of complaints and be expected to dredge up counsel on some political trifle that his brother found challenging.
Then the door closed behind them, and doubt ceased.
It rapidly became evident that Thor had not been with a man before. (Didn’t everyone break those inane social rules? But then, if anyone was going to earnestly and unimaginatively obey them it would of course be the golden prince.)
He did not touch Loki’s cock; barely acknowledged it. Evidently his pride had been hurt that day, and he needed redress. Tonight his weaker brother was four scrawny limbs to bruise and pin; an arsehole and most of all, a mouth. Loki knew well how to please that way, but Thor did not even seem to want his skill, simply his submission.
He guessed soon that they would never speak of this after. Loki had never felt so torn, and silenced, and necessary. All his sordid malignancies – perverse lusts, chill resentments, wry unwinking mind – had finally made sense when he touched the Casket of Winters and beheld the corruption beneath his illusion. Now, as Thor had him kneel on the rug, and murmur My king; as he begged and kissed and licked and choked; as Thor finally came down his spasming throat and cast him aside, the shock of sprawling on his face, heaving and shaking, at last dragged the disparate shards of Loki’s self into harmony:
monster.
*
Thor fell asleep almost immediately. And Loki generally found this was for the best with bedfellows of the kind who might take offence at finding themselves next to another man. It gave him time to collect his wits and settle cross-legged on the covers, checking his bruises and scrapes as they settled into throbs and stings.
Thor had been so abrupt, so rough, that the pain had simply been pain, and the humiliation, humiliation. No time for the curious alchemy Loki had found at the hands of other aggressive partners. For hundreds of years he had wondered how it would be with his brother, and now he had the answer – empty.
No, the emptiness was his. Thor had found him of service. But that was unlikely to last. He should return to his chamber and some time later today or tomorrow Thor would encounter him in the halls and grunt at him and this would never have happened.
Thor snored.
Loki didn’t move.
He reached out a hand to stroke Thor’s tangled hair, to better see his face. The golden brother, who had defended him as a child from bullies, tried to teach him manly combat, wished truly that Odin would not so obviously favour him because it made his little brother feel bad, tolerated all Loki’s tricks… Loki adored him. And wanted to reach out and hook up the eyelid to reveal the bright blue eye which at last must see.
No. Loki wanted nothing but to flee and hide. He stirred –
Thor awoke.
‘Loki,’ he said blearily but calmly. A simple greeting?
‘Thor,’ replied Loki, keeping his voice steady. The tightness in his chest eased, in spite of himself. Might Thor accept what they had done?
Might his brother hold him?
Thor froze. His eyes went wide, then a punch to the cheek sent Loki flying off the bed to the floor. As he scrambled up, his brother jumped him from behind, drunk enough to stumble but soon twisting Loki into a wrestling hold, and Loki glimpsed himself in the great mirror that hung on the wall.
Red eyes, blue flush spreading across his skin.
‘Monster!’ snarled his brother. ‘You have ten seconds to explain yourself or I will break your neck.’
A bit obvious. Very Thor.
Thor was likely expecting a very Loki response. Accusation and evasion.
But Loki was so tired that, once Thor released him to kneel, he simply began to explain. His impervious flesh on Jotunheim, and the realisation it triggered. His origins, and the All-father’s plans to make him of use. Frigga’s connivance. The inevitability of Thor’s ascension to the throne. ‘So, you see, this is very good for you, brother. You’ve no need to worry. You’ll be king.’
Recounting the injustice, Loki felt a flicker of his lost spirit, and did not trouble to keep the bitterness from his tone. And one small mercy: Thor, though flushed with drink – while Loki’s bodily change had rendered him sober – at least listened without further violence.
At last he opened his mouth and said slowly, ‘How I am to believe such things? This is beyond any trick. Loki? You are … you are…’ Thor trailed off and gestured up and down, as if taking in Loki from knees to cock to head and back to his cock.
Loki sighed. ‘… male?’ he prompted helpfully. ‘A Frost Giant? Your brother?’ Who knew which of those Thor would consider the worst. ‘You wanted to be sure of me: here I am.’
Thor said nothing for a long time, simply leaning against the wall and staring at Loki as if expecting him to mutate further. The mighty Thor was reduced to bewildered silence and Loki, this simulacrum, was the cause.
Rage would be more bearable.
‘Look, I didn’t drag you in here, did I?’ Loki reasoned.
Thor grunted at that and pushed away from the wall. ‘It was your doing,’ he growled. ‘You deceived me. As usual!’
‘Did I? Really?’
‘Why must you act like a woman?! Why must you lie and cheat and make a game of me?’ Thor advanced on Loki, and at last the fury flared in his eyes, hot enough to hide the hurt. Loki backed away.
‘Why can’t you face what you’ve done? You’ve wanted to fuck me for eighteen hundred years. Even if, I have to say, your skills are lacking.’ Oh, well, best stop thinking about it before you hurt your brai—’
The blow that hurled Loki across the room to crack his head against the wall was almost as sweet as the oblivion that followed.
Now
But he soon enough comes round.
Brokkr saw Loki enter, so he must be included in what follows. As he and Thor prepare him for punishment, Loki revives fully. Grit digging into his knees, a draught curling around his left thigh, dried semen flaking from his chest. His ragged breathing. After a fortnight of feeling half-gone, he’s finally present tonight.
He’s permitted to close his eyes as he hears the tiny whisper of the thread, and keep them closed as Brokkr’s hand twists in his hair and yanks his head back as far as it will go. He cannot help twitching, or trying to, but his head does not move. It only tilts slightly, under guidance not his own, as he is positioned for his brother to begin work.
‘Make sure he stays still,’ Thor tells the guard, voice as cold as Loki has ever heard it. Though regret would be worse, would it not? Regret might stay Thor’s hand, when it is better to be through and done.
Thor pinches Loki’s upper lip between thumb and forefinger. ‘Gah…’ He can’t help letting the sound escape, and Brokkr’s hand tightens in his hair. Black and red shapes swim before Loki’s eyes. Please just do it –
Words are gone. As the needle pierces Loki’s flesh, a shock of cold shivers out from the spot, pursued by a bloom of pain that seems to double the size of his head. Thor draws through the thread – fibres catching at first then slipping smoothly through the wound – and shifts his hold to Loki’s lower lip to create the first stitch. And it comes again, that chill and lurch of fire, but this time the chill is briefer and the pain both blunter and greater, expanding to fill the world.
He feels blood and drool sliding down his chin, dripping onto his hands. Thor is on the second stitch; perhaps a third of an inch from the first, if he can judge…. And although the pain of the third undoes Loki completely so that he screams and writhes hard enough to jerk away from Thor in spite of Brokkr holding him in place, with the fourth he seems to detach from himself and spin a little in cold air and he can judge: there will be some eight or ten stitches in total, once the work is complete.
‘Hold still, damn you,’ Thor mutters roughly, though Loki is doing so now; the fifth stitch. The mash of throbbing pulp that his lips has become is alien – is he dying? if only – but he is fortunate in that his tongue remained free; Thor might have bidden Loki hold it between his lips to be sewn as well.
It would take more than a needle to pierce his heart, the core of abomination.
*
The dull throb of his straining scalp, the explosive agony of his jaw. The humiliation of worsening the pain with the twitches and whimpers and jerks that come in spite of himself. It circles on all sides and will soon close on the stubborn spark of I am Loki –
(No, that resists. Thor would have to smash his skull with Mjolnir to extinguish it, and Loki is not so fortunate.)
At last his lips are fully sealed, able to move only the tiniest fraction, the inflamed nubs between each wound rubbing together. Thor hands the thread to Brokkr, bidding him in a murmur to tie it off, and Loki slumps forward as if trying to kiss the rough fingers that now check their work, teasing a nail under each stitch to test its soundness.
Partially freed from constriction, Loki is trembling uncontrollably. The trembling becomes shaking, his knees knocking against stone and the manacles rattling as Thor takes the cloth from the nearby bowl – a clatter of water as he squeezes it out, and wipes Loki’s face of blood and tears and snot and slobber. Still Loki keeps his eyes closed, trying to focus on the hand that grips his chin as the other wipes.
The worst is over now. Loki’s big brother is wiping his eyes. Through the blur of fresh tears he sees the blue of his wrist darkening to purple with the marks of Thor’s fingers.
Why has Thor not sewn his eyelids shut? Has he no mercy?
*
‘Open your eyes!’ Thor growls.
Loki obeys. His brother’s face is close to his own – close enough to kiss – peering intently. After a long moment’s scrutiny Thor seems satisfied of something, perhaps that Loki has not been driven so insane by the punishment as to not recognize him, and nods and lets Loki’s head drop… The anguish crashing through his body as his chin hits his chest sends him lurching so hard to the side that his knees sprawl out sideways from under him. The noise that forces its way out somehow is a kind of screaming hum. Loki is lying on his side on the rug, spasming, his hands jerking, still bound to Mjolnir.
Thor drags him up by his hair.
‘Mhfft,’ manages Loki. Somehow the botched speech is more degrading than total silence. What word did he intend, anyway? Blood drips to the floor.
‘Out!’ Thor roars. ‘Right out! Don’t lurk outside the damn door!’ Loki is confused for a moment before he realises that Brokkr is still here. Was; he hears the guard’s hasty exit.
‘It’s… done,’ Thor mutters.
Am I dying? Please.
Thor is untying him from Mjolnir. Helping him to his feet with a hand under his left armpit. Loki can only scream, the sound a farcical bubbling moan, and spasm in on himself. ‘Steady,’ cautions Thor, and helps him sit on the bed, or at least Loki assumes this has happened as he feels fur against his bruised naked arse.
‘Loki…’ murmurs Thor. ‘I…’
Loki’s brain blurs out the rest. Of course, because he’s in agony! And the agony is hilarious, because he’s a monster, and what else is there, but even as the flicker of rational consciousness in the corner of his mind tries to focus on what Thor is saying. Loki opens his mouth to laugh – but of course his mouth is no mouth any more, and the laughter that wells up inside him at the understanding drowns in the wash of foulness around his tongue and teeth.
‘… had no choice,’ Thor is saying. Babbling. ‘Do you think I would lie with a man of my own free will?’
Does he expect Loki to answer? Evidently. Loki obliges with a gargled, excruciating laugh. Opens his eyes wide; they feel fixed open, as if the muscles in the lids will not work. Thor does not heed him anyway.
‘You have humiliated me…’ Thor’s voice blurs and distorts; distorts and blurs. ‘You cannot be a Jotun. Just cannot be! You killed my brother and took his form! This is some kind of trick to steal the throne… What have you done?’
Another blow to Loki’s cheek shoves him back against a pillow. He feels his skull is impaled on fire spiking through his lips. Then he’s upright again, staring at Thor, and for a moment he thinks his brother might kiss or lick the congealing slime that smears the remains of his lips. ‘Heal yourself,’ Thor orders. ‘You’re supposed to be a sorcerer.’
Loki just stares. Pretty lights flash between his face and the other: blond and bearded, now twisting with panic. Aesir. Loki is sorry he cannot speak. He’s sorry for everything. Feels rather serene about it, though.
‘Why didn’t you resist?’ Thor demands. ‘Why didn’t you resist?’
Loki feels very still.
‘Why don’t you heal yourself now?’
Loki is not quite here. Though he tries to say with a look, Exactly how powerful do you think I am?
‘All right. I’m going for Mother,’ says Thor. ‘You say she already knows you’re a…? Yes. Mother. Just stay here. I’ll be back soon.’ He pats Loki’s knee, then hurries towards the door.
Thor is gone and Loki is left in silence.
*
Once Loki is alone, he swivels his head to face the mirror, and views the obscenity.
It lies as if flung with its back against a soiled pillow and its arms limp at its sides. Its eyes are pools of red and its still-pink chest mottled with blue like mould and splattered with drying scarlet. Its lips are a distorted puffy mass, woven through with a clumsy zigzag of coarse black thread. The thing wriggles weakly against the furs and dribbles filth.
Loki closes his eyes and thinks, as if he was eighty again: Mama is coming.
Mama. Odin’s bright queen, who always refused to believe the slander that he lay with men, or to see how he looked at his brother. Who assured him, You are our son.
But he wore his fair form then.
Has Thor gone for good? No, the functioning sliver of Loki’s reason reports in: Thor said I’ll be back soon.
We will send it back to Laufey.
Thor brought him here to be sure of him.
But it’s Loki who’s finally sure. With the latest wave of pain, a scalding euphoria washes through him. He knows it: everything is my fault. Everything. Or even if a few things are not, well, sweep them up together for neatness and to make sense of it all at last. I am the mere violation: the thing that must not be.
The purity of this realisation exalts him. He draws up his knees to his ruined face and moans a laugh: as a child he wanted to prove himself to Thor by killing Jotuns, and now Thor has truly seen him and everything is my fault. The thought shimmers serene and lovely, a physical flicker at the corner of his eye. Loki rolls onto his back as if to follow its progress, and the sturdy ceiling beam seems to pitch as if it will fall on him.
The monster may not have much time. Thor and the Queen will come, and they will drag it from this refuge and flog it and banish it to Jotunheim. It should not embarrass them with that trouble.
Loki convulses. The vomit gouts up from its stomach and it sputters and thrashes instinctively, then forces itself to lie back, still so that the burning scum settles thick in its throat. There is a one more moment when it might or might not inhale, and that floating second is beautiful. If the monster were to live to be ten thousand, it would never feel as clean as it does in EVERYTHING IS MY FAULT.
It curls up warm in the sticky furs, snuggles as tight as it can. Its hands and feet prickle with numbness, and it inhales.
Bestial panic. The monster cannot help gasping, sucking more sludge into its lungs, and its stomach reflexively expels more and the filth in its mouth blazes silver, consuming the last of its reason. It has gone as far as it can go; they can force it no further.
I love you, it thinks as it dies.
*
Thor dithered over whether to send a guard or fetch his mother himself, and so he brings her too late. He perches on the edge of the bed, feeling huge and awkward, while Frigga works frantically, her shaking voice mangling the spells.
The naked, blue, blood- and vomit-spattered body stinks. It lies curled in on itself as his brother Loki used to when protecting a book or some girlish toy he thought Thor might mock or take from him.
This creature could not have been suffered to live. Though it might have been kinder to slay it outright; Brokkr should have said so. Thor feels a little fuzzy. His knuckles throb where he punched the thing with such force. He’ll have to explain a ruckus like this to the All-father. And tell Loki, too; what will his brother say when he hears about…