Loki: Wrong Son of Odin

[moonshadows]

The spell settles around us, arms and legs bound in chains of ice. A few tugs convinces Hogun and Fandral that they’re not going anywhere, while Volstagg stills with quickened breath.

Thor laughs. “Ice? Really? You throw ice against us and think that it will serve you?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Sif says sharply, “It is serving them.”

“Brother,” Thor says easily, “Why don’t you show them how horribly mistaken they are?”

I smile, the blue already seeping into my skin. “You have made a horrible mistake indeed,” I say, hearing the rasp in my voice as the shift completes.

The chains of ice caress my skin, begging, pleading to be used. They writhe at my command, freeing my companions, but no one moves. It is the first time they’ve seen me like this, and I laugh with delight. The ice-shaman cowering behind his master flinches, sharp, angular fingers plucking at the equally angular arm clothed in silk and satin. Just to show off, I call the ice chains and they wrap around me, forming chill armor. I spread my arms in a welcoming gesture somewhat ruined by the blades of ice that form in my hands, and when I smile again, the lordling flinches.

“As they say on Midgard, you fucked with the wrong Son of Odin.”

The ice-shaman tries to run, but I fling one blade at his feet and from it, ice grows up around his feet, ankles, knees, thighs. He can’t even fall over, so swiftly have I done it. The lordling pales, his stretched-looking angular face bearing an expression of dawning horror.

“Oh, but perhaps I should introduce myself.” The rasp is glorious, really, perfect for a melodramatic purr. Naturally, I do just that. “Loki Laufeyson.” I sweep a courtly bow. “…your doom.”

The lordling looks around, seeing nothing but new-fallen snow marred by our tracks and his. “Perhaps I was a bit overly-hasty,” he shrills. “Naturally we recognize the Allfather’s authority in this domain and I would be thrilled to have you as my guests at the Conclave so that my brother-lords can agree with me on this!”

“We accept your hospitality,” Thor declares with loud cheer.

I send the chains slithering back into the snow and let the flush of life back into my skin, and the minute relaxation in the lordling’s eyes tells me when mine have returned to their usual pale grey. “Glad we could come to an understanding,” I say lightly.

The ice-shaman mutters and strikes his prison, which shatters obediently. Then he tenses and gestures in my direction. The wall of ice springs up before me in plenty of time to intercept the razor-sharp shards shooting for my vitals, then retreats.

“That’s a violation of guest-right,” Volstagg points out helpfully.

“Why, indeed it is!” The lordling’s eyes bulge in his narrow face, mostly from panic. “His life is yours, Prince Loki.”

“For me? How sweet.”

The ice-shaman pales as the ice creeps up around him again, struggling futilely against the inexorable imprisonment by an element he thought was his to command. My skin stays warm and flushed, which is probably where the panic is coming from.

“Let this be a lesson.” My voice rings out coldly. “My brother is second to none in honorable combat, but I am the one you do not wish to have as your enemy.”

The ice reaches the shaman’s shoulders. He opens his mouth to scream, and it dives inside. From the way it flows, it is painfully obvious to the lordling that more than just his mouth is being filled. When the ice finally retreats, the shaman is frozen in place for the space of three heartbeats. Then I snap my fingers, and he shatters like the ice that had sheathed him. The lordling swallows, hard.

“Come, let me show you my keep, honored guests!” he shrills with barely-restrained terror.

Thor smiles warmly, with just a hint of smugness. “Lead the way.”

“Fucked with the wrong Son of Odin?” Fandral asks as we amble along behind my brother and the lordling.

“It an expression the Midgardians have,” I explain. “They are must less restrained in their affairs than we are, and they use the word for emphatic punctuation. In this instance, it indicates that one is hilt-deep, if you will, in a situation that has been discovered to not be what was expected.”

Fandral nods thoughtfully. “Not an expression I’d use, of course, but it has a rustic kind of crude charm.”

I laugh and clap him on the shoulder. “You have just summed up the majority of Midgard.”