Chapter Text
King Sigurd’s court is a somber affair compared to what Thor is used to on Asgard. It’s fitting, he supposes, as the people of Álfheimr have always appeared more dignified and reserved than his own. There is no boisterous laughter or loud conversation livening up the vast halls of the royal castle, nor is there a constant stream of petitioners and courtiers seeking an audience with the king. Even the colors and design lack vibrancy to Thor, though in truth there is little that could rival the gilded palace that he himself was raised in.
The king is seated on his throne when Thor enters the audience room, and his pale blue eyes travel up and down Thor’s body in mild curiosity before they land on his face. The king was known throughout his youth as the most handsome man in all the Nine Realms, and while time forced him to give up that mantle many moons ago, he is still strong and pleasant-looking, despite the grey streaks in his dark hair and the lines on his face. Thor comes to a stop at an appropriate distance from the throne and sinks down on one knee with his head bowed.
“Welcome to court, Thor Odinson,” King Sigurd says, then gestures for him to rise.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“What brings you to Álfheimr? Are you here on behalf of the Allfather?”
“Not directly. I have travelled between realms this past year on his instruction, but I was on my way home when I decided to make a final stop here to pay a visit to my kin.”
“And we are glad you did. My husband’s kin is my own, you are most welcome here.”
For the first time, Thor allows his gaze to drift over to the figure seated next to the king. Loki’s expression is perfectly blank when their eyes meet, but Thor can glimpse a familiar spark in them that quickens his pulse even after all this time. Loki is dressed in the Álfheimr fashion: flowy robes of silk and chiffon rather than his customary leather, but he still favors hues of green – Thor can glimpse layers of emerald and moss that bring out his eyes beautifully – and he’s wearing more jewelry than Thor has ever seen him in. Long golden ropes around his neck, intricate bracelets around his wrists and forearms, and several rings in an assortment of what is sure to be priceless gemstones. On his head rests a plain circlet of old gold that keeps his loose curls pinned back from his face. All in all it makes for a breathtaking vision; he’s the perfect image of a royal consort as he sits on the throne next to his husband. The silence stretches on for just a moment too long before Loki seems to rouse himself and forces a smile.
“Welcome, brother,” he says softly. He lifts a hand in offering, and Thor is moving before he knows it, drawn in like a moth to a flame, until he’s kneeling before his brother’s throne and can take his outstretched hand and press a reverent kiss to the back of it. He wants to linger, wants to keep Loki’s hand in his and feel his soft, warm skin for a little while longer, but knows it would be inappropriate. So he stands up and retreats to his earlier spot a few feet away, and forces himself to turn his focus back on the king.
“I thank you for your hospitality. I am weary from my travels and would very much like to rest a while before I continue my journey,” he says.
“Stay as long as you like. My servants will attend to your every need.”
The king gestures to the many pages standing to attention along the torch-lit walls, and one of them steps forward at once.
“Please follow me, Your Highness, and I will take you to your chambers,” the boy says. Thor bends into a respectful bow before the king, throwing another furtive glance towards his brother in the process, but Loki’s eyes are downcast and Thor is forced to take his leave without another look from him.
*
Loki does not come to see him that night, nor the next. On the third evening Thor is pleasantly surprised to see the royal couple walk into the dining hall for supper, but Loki does not move from his place up on the dais where he sits straight-backed and stony-faced next to his husband, nor do his eyes ever stray to Thor during the meal. At least not as far as Thor can tell. As the evening wears on he grows increasingly restless, and finally he stands up, planning to walk up to Loki and force him into conversation, but before he can take more than a step towards the dais, Loki’s eyes suddenly flit to his and the look he receives makes it clear that he is to abandon his intentions at once or he’ll pay for it. Defeated, he sinks back down on his chair and refills his wine cup, then empties it again in one big gulp.
It takes another two days before he’s finally invited to his brother’s chambers. Loki receives him in the large parlor reserved for guests and visitors, and while it stings a little to be treated as one, Thor is pleased to note that the room has been decorated in the Asgardian fashion. At least Loki cares enough to keep some traces of his former life in this new one. When Thor walks in, Loki wordlessly gestures to a pair of comfortable armchairs by the window where they sit down on opposite sides of a low table. Thor is offered tea, which he accepts, and food, which he declines. He’s too nervous to eat. Loki asks after his health, and their parents’. Thor answers. Then there is silence. Thor waits. And waits. And then, finally, Loki breaks:
“Why are you here?”
He’s staring out the window when Thor turns to look at him. His brows are furrowed, not in an angry way, more like he’s in pain and struggling to hide it.
“I wanted to see you,” Thor says.
“Does Father know you’re here?”
“I assume so. There is nothing the Allfather does not See.”
“Meaning you did not ask his permission to come here.”
“I make my own decisions.”
Loki’s lips twist into a thin, cruel smile.
“How fortunate for you. I’ll ask again: why are you here?”
“We’ve had no word from you for a long time, and-”
“I’ve been very busy. My husband is eager to ensure the continuation of his bloodline.”
The implication makes Thor’s blood run cold. Before he can stop himself, he looks over at the door he assumes leads to Loki’s private rooms. The thought of what has been going on inside them is nauseating.
“And have you been successful in your… endeavors?” he grits out. Something shifts across Loki’s face that Thor can’t quite decipher – more pain? – then his expression smooths into a mask of quiet dignity once more.
“That remains to be seen,” he says.
Thor wants to move on to a different subject, anything to distract himself from the sudden vivid imaginings going on inside his head right now, but he can’t think of anything. They sit in tense silence until Loki sighs and repeats his question more softly this time:
“Why are you here, Thor?”
It’s the first time Loki has spoken his name in over a year. Thor feels it like a caress. He takes a deep breath, then asks what’s been on his mind ever since Loki left Asgard:
“Do you love me still?”
Loki doesn’t answer. It makes the small, insecure part of Thor wonder if he ever did, but he won’t dishonor Loki by voicing it. In his heart he knows what they had was real.
“Does it matter?” Loki finally says when the silence becomes unbearable. “It makes no difference anymore.”
“It makes a difference to me.”
“Why?”
Before Thor can make his argument, the door across the room is opened and King Sigurd walks in. Loki dutifully stands up to greet his husband, and Thor follows suit, averting his eyes when Loki tilts his head to receive a kiss on the cheek. Thor’s stomach churns with disgust, but he quickly affects a charming smile when King Sigurd turns to address him.
“How now, cousin? Are you well?”
“Quite well, thank you. And you?”
“Marvelous. I’m pleased that my husband has finally received a visitor from home, he’s been quite homesick since his arrival. Isn’t that right, my dear?”
Loki’s only answer is a smile that looks more like a grimace to Thor, but King Sigurd doesn’t seem to notice.
“I’m riding out to a nearby sporting lodge today and I wondered if you would like to join me,” he continues.
“I’d be honored,” Thor says.
“I’ll have them ready our horses,” Loki says, turning to gesture to a nearby servant, but King Sigurd laughs and puts a hand on his husband’s forearm to forestall the motion before he can complete it.
“Absolutely not, you must stay here, my dear. We wouldn’t want to risk anything in case you’re carrying precious cargo,” he says.
For a moment Loki keeps himself perfectly still, like he’s frozen in place, and Thor holds his breath in anticipation of the venomous remark he’s sure is forthcoming. But then Loki simply nods once and says: “As you wish.”
“Wonderful. I’ll see you for supper, my dear. Get some rest.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll meet you at the stables in about an hour, Thor.”
“Very good.”
They stand there in silence long after the king has left the room. Loki won’t meet his eyes, and there’s an indignant blush coloring his cheeks that Thor longs to touch and feel the warmth of, but he knows Loki would cut off his hand if he tried something like that in this moment.
“He seems very protective,” Thor offers.
“Possessive, you mean.”
“Well…”
“You should go and get ready.”
He’s about to argue that there is still plenty of time, and – more importantly – they were in the middle of something before they were interrupted, but Loki is already walking towards his bedchamber.
“When will I see you again?” Thor asks.
“I’m sure our paths will cross at some point. It’s a small castle, after all,” Loki says without turning back.
“I’ll wait for you every night. Please come to me,” Thor says.
Loki’s hand resting on the doorknob for just a second too long before pushing it down is the only hint he receives that his words were heard, but no reply comes before Loki slips inside and closes the door with a decisive thud.
*
A week passes. Thor starts to despair. Is it cruel of him to remain here when Loki seems so reluctant to see him? Should he go home and leave him in peace? But he can’t bring himself to do so. Not until he’s gotten the answers he came here for.
Though he’s only been present for a short while, it’s become clear to Thor already that his initial impression of King Sigurd’s court was accurate. There is little merriment to be found, not even in the evenings when the rules of decorum are usually more permissive. He tries to make new acquaintances to amuse himself and pass the time, but his heart isn’t really in it. Most evenings he retires early, as soon as it becomes clear that the royal couple won’t grace the rest of the court with their presence. Before he arrived, Thor expected that there would be plenty of opportunities to be close to his brother – they were both raised in a court where the royal family spent most of their time in various social gatherings – but that hope is quickly dashed. As the king’s consort, Loki would be well within his right to host almost any kind of sport or entertainment he chooses, or organize any number of events for the court at large, but that doesn’t seem to be happening as far as Thor can glean from his discreet inquiries. At first he wonders if perhaps it’s due to cultural differences, but when he prods deeper he learns that the late queen, King Sigurd’s first wife, bestowed her favors on a number of singers and performers that were employed year-round to provide entertainment for the court. It would seem that Loki’s lack of initiative or even participation in any social life comes down to personal reluctance. On the rare occasions that Thor catches a glimpse of him during the day, his brother wanders the hallways of his new home looking like a phantom of his former self: wan, morose, solitary and detached. More than once Thor has tried to catch up with him, rushing down corridors as quickly as propriety allows in the hope that he’ll get close enough to greet him or even just get a proper look at him, but he’s never successful. He’ll round a corner and Loki will have vanished. After a while the confusion turns into indignation, and Thor finds himself craving a confrontation. Patience was never one of his virtues, and Loki knows that better than anyone. So he really shouldn’t be surprised, Thor reasons, when he decides to show up outside Loki’s quarters one afternoon to demand an audience. He is, however, promptly denied entrance by the guards stationed outside.
“It’s urgent. I need to speak with him right away,” he insists.
“I’m sorry, my lord. No one is permitted entrance right now.”
“On whose authority?”
“The king’s, my lord.”
The anger evaporates at once, leaving behind only a cold, sinking feeling of dread, and he takes an automatic step back. At the tip of his tongue lies another question – is he in there right now? – but he knows full well that he’ll never be granted a response, and he manages to hold back.
“Would you like us to give him a message when he’s… no longer occupied?” one of the guards offers, and Thor could swear that there’s a slight blush to the young man’s cheeks, confirming Thor’s suspicions of what exactly is going on inside.
“No, that won’t be necessary,” he says, and hurries to walk away before he does something stupid, like breaking down the door.
*
He’s seated in the small parlor adjoining his bedchamber that evening, deep in thought, when Loki bursts in unannounced.
“Have you gone mad?” he sneers. “Did you even think about what it would look like to cause a scene outside my chambers for anyone to see?”
“There was no one around!” Thor points out, hurrying to stand before Loki can come close enough to tower over him. He looks angrier than Thor can remember seeing him in a long time; wild-eyed and flushed from his cheeks to his collarbone, his hands in tightly clenched fists along his sides, and it’s such a relief to see him so animated again that for a moment Thor almost forgets about his own anger. Loki stops right in front of him, close enough that he has to tilt his head up a little to keep eye contact as he continues his reprimand like Thor didn’t speak up at all.
“Did you come here just to humiliate me? The rumors have started to spread already–”
“What rumors could there possibly be-”
“I’d no sooner put my clothes on before the idiots outside my doors were panting to tell me of your little tantrum-”
“I did not throw a tantrum-”
“You’re the least discreet man I have ever been unfortunate enough to-”
“Who are you to lecture me on discretion? Your little midday dalliance was plain for all to see-”
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you would throw a fit like this, your jealousy is truly without bounds-”
“Yes!” Thor shouts, loud enough to finally halt Loki in his tirade. “Yes, I’m jealous, is that what you want me to say?”
“I want you to leave me alone!” Loki shouts. “My old life is dead and gone, I don’t want you here as a constant reminder of everything I’ve lost!”
The raging fire inside Thor’s chest is extinguished as quickly and easily as a lit candle from a puff of air. He looks at Loki, who’s standing in front of him now looking as beautiful and stately and untouchable as any true monarch aside from his anguished expression and wide, wet eyes threatening to overflow at any moment, but in his mind’s eye he sees only the little boy he once was, the younger brother that Thor has spent his entire life trying to protect from the world and – with far less success – himself, and it dawns on him once and for all how deeply his failure runs. Loki may have craved power in the past, he may even have craved a throne, but not in this way. Not at this price. Thor’s assumption that he would, at least in time, come to embrace his new life was clearly a naive fantasy, perhaps even a willful self-deception due to his own anger and resentment over the chain of events that led them here. And while Thor has spent the long moons since their forced separation roaming the Nine Realms on his own, constantly searching for new outlets for his grief in drink and violence and meaningless affairs that only fueled his self-hatred and contempt for the world at large, Loki has been here, alone and suffering.
“I’m so sorry, my love,” Thor whispers, reaching for him, but Loki makes a small, wounded sound and steps back before his hand can land, turning away to wipe at his cheeks where the tears must have started to spill at last.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Loki says, voice unsteady, but his eyes are determined when they meet Thor’s again. “When you leave it will hurt even worse, and I’ll despise you for it.”
It's pure instinct this time; a reflex built on a lifelong need to soothe and comfort through physical touch, and Loki allows it, sighing in relief and closing his eyes as soon as the palm of Thor’s hand connects with his cheek. His skin is moist from the tears and Thor strokes it tenderly to dry it off, then spreads his fingers as far as they can reach to hold as much of Loki’s face as possible, from his still-quivering chin and stubbornly set jaw to the soft skin under his eye and the long, dark tresses that Thor gently brushes behind his ear.
“I’m not leaving,” he murmurs.
Loki’s face twists with pain, and Thor half expects him to pull away again as punishment for the rash promise, but when Thor moves closer to brush their noses together in an unspoken apology, Loki not only allows it but seems to welcome it, his own hand coming up to cover Thor’s as if to anchor him there. The desire to lean down for a kiss is almost irresistible, but Thor wouldn’t dare to presume that he still holds that right, so he contents himself with resting their foreheads together. He can feel Loki shivering, and he’s not sure whether it’s from nerves or a reaction to his touch, but he keeps stroking his thumb along Loki’s cheek in an attempt to calm him.
“I ache for you all the time,” Loki whispers, his grip on Thor’s hand tightening, and he sounds ashamed, like it’s a secret too vulgar to be spoken aloud. For a moment Thor is overwhelmed by a confusing wave of relief and agony and yearning that threatens to pull him under and immobilize him completely. He draws in a shuddering breath and pulls back so he can look into Loki’s eyes.
“Because you’re mine,” he says fervently.
“Not in the eyes of the law. Or the Allfather’s, or my husband’s, or-”
“I don’t care about any of that, and I don’t think you do either. Will you please tell me what’s in your heart, just this once?”
“And then what? What use is it? A grand declaration of love won’t change our circumstances, it will only cause more pain.”
Loki is on the verge of giving way to anger again, but Thor can feel his own lips twitching as he tries to suppress a teasing smile.
“Is that what you’re holding back? A grand declaration of love?” he asks. Loki gives him an unimpressed look that is so familiar (yet slightly less effective due to the lingering tears in his eyes) that Thor is almost overcome by the urge to swoop down and kiss away the pout on his lips. He says as much while letting his thumb trace along Loki’s bottom lip, and the clear longing that takes over Loki’s expression instantly transmutes Thor’s momentary lightheartedness into an aching tenderness instead. Still, he moves his hand down to Loki’s jaw in preparation before he speaks:
“Does this mean you still belong to me?” he asks, tightening his hold when Loki tries to shake him off like Thor knew he would. He ignores the furious look of betrayal it earns him.
“You’re being cruel,” Loki whispers.
“Yes,” Thor deadpans. “I’m a relentless demon.”
Loki's lips twitch.
“A seducer of the most wicked kind.”
“Indeed. Here to steal the king’s most precious jewel from under his nose.”
“Not quite,” Loki says, still fighting a smile as he looks up at Thor through wet lashes. “You cannot steal what you already own.”
Good enough, Thor thinks, and finally allows himself to lean down and claim Loki’s lips in a deep kiss.