Chapter Text
The Summer Solstice was nigh. The grand feast to celebrate the largest day of the year would last for five days and five nights. People would flood Asgard’s streets till the sun rose again. They would revel in the festivities, drinking mead and ale, while chattering inanely and dancing and mingling with the rest of the jovial crowd.
Summer Solstice was always his brother’s favourite celebration. Unlike him, Loki always preferred the more sombre tones of the Winter Solstice, the way people gathered around fireplaces and took solace from one another, finding the strength to persevere in the long, bitterly cold winter night, when the darkness’ hold seemed all-encompassing, unbreakable.
But, this Summer Solstice was rather unique. It was the first one after his and Thor’s rite of passage. As tradition dictated, their Father and King was to bequeath each of them a special weapon, one fit for the princes of Asgard, symbolising that they would act as sword and shield for the entirety of the Nine Realms.
And Loki could not help but be eager to see what was in store for him. There were many impressive artefacts in the Vault. Which one was meant for him? In the depth of his mind, he hoped for the greatest of all; Mjolnir. He may favour his daggers and magic above all other weapons, but still he desired it, the recognition and awe and approval that came with it. Or perhaps, even if the darkness in the innermost recesses of his heart was something that he would scarcely admit to another soul, he just didn’t want Thor to have it.
The ceremony was long and drawn out. Not to mention that the heat of the summer was stifling, especially when one had to weather it dressed in ceremonial armour. The grand, golden hall was filled with people, waiting to witness the first such celebration since Bor’s kingship, when Prince Odin had been gifted Gungnir.
Odin stood in front of his high throne. In the steps of the dais stood Frigga, the Warriors Three and Lady Sif below her.
Loki waited, kneeling on the floor with a fist held over his heart next to Thor.
“When you came before me, you were mere boys. Now you rise as men.”
At that phrase, as the long-winded speech came to a halt, Loki and Thor rose in unison.
“Thor, my firstborn. Step forward. To you, I shall bequeath Mjolnir. Forged in the core of a dying star. It can be used both as a weapon, to destroy, and as a tool, to build.”
Loki attempted to hold back his disappointment, as his brother grinned and strode forward amidst the crowd’s applause to receive Mjolnir. His serious expression remained fixed on his face. Perhaps Loki’s gift would be equally as magnificent.
As the cheering of the people died down, Odin spoke again.
“Loki, my youngest, step forward. To you, I shall bequeath this ancient tome, which was rumoured to have belonged to the library of Eikthyrnir, to hone the weapons of your preference; your seidr and your keen mind.”
The words of praise were nearly lost to Loki. His gift was an unnamed book, not even the lesser of the artefacts in Asgard’s vault. He was barely able to register the subdued cheering of the crowd as he moved forward.
Odin’s eye, ever knowing and unreadable, was, for once, upon him. He struggled not to reveal emotion as he took the book carefully in his hands. His fingers, itching to move, ran down its spine. The tome indeed looked ancient, even if the cover seemed to have been replaced as if to conceal its age. In any other circumstance, he would have been intrigued. Now, as he chanced a glance on his cheerful brother, something not unlike envy spread its inky tendrils on his heart. He was already showing off his gift to his friends.
Loki waited out the feast that followed, hoping that he did not look to downcast for the occasion. It mattered not, for no one paid much attention to him anyway. Thor attempted to invite him in an outing in the city with his friends, but Loki politely refused, trying his very best not to snap at him. Thor, as it seemed, sensed his foul mood and did not press him any further.
Loki took the first chance to melt back into the shadows and disappear. Or so he thought.
On his way to his chambers, he was intercepted by his Mother. She smiled at him warmly, reaching out to touch his arm. “Darling, are you alright? You were awfully quiet at the feast.”
For a moment, he considered telling her the truth, before discarding the idea. What could she do, other than attempt to pacify him? “I am perfectly fine, Mother,” he replied and allowed himself to slow down and follow her pace.
“The eve is yet young. Shouldn’t a young man such as yourself spend it with more suitable company? Your brother and your friends invited you to an outing and yet I find you here.”
“I am tired Mother is all.” Loki said, the weariness in his tone not really affected.
“Did you find your gift suitable?”
Loki plastered a smile on his face. “Most certainly.”
A frown marred her delicate features. “You know, your Father does nothing without a purpose. Something may seem inexplicable now, but, soon enough, the pieces shall fall into place.”
“Have I incurred his wrath?” Loki blurted out, before his tongue caught up with his mind.
Frigga blinked. “Why would you think that?”
Loki averted his gaze. “I... nothing really. Simply aimless wondering.”
Her grip on his arm tightened minutely. “Loki darling, your Father is not angry.”
Then why did he punish me? Why did he give Mjolnir to Thor, and to me he gave almost nothing? “I know, Mother.” Loki did his best to infuse his voice with a certainty he did not feel in the slightest.
Frigga nodded, though she did not quite seem pleased and they continued their sauntering in silence. Once they reached his quarters, he excused himself, and bid her goodnight.
He entered his rooms, still holding the book in an iron grip. As the doors closed behind him, Loki nearly threw the book to the wall.
But, if there was one thing that separated his temper from Thor’s was that he was aware of the consequences.
Instead, he forced himself to lower it gently down to the desk.
With a flick of his wrist, his ceremonial armour melted away, replaced by his much more comfortable nightclothes. Loki crawled to his bed, slipping under the covers and curling on his side.
He closed his eyes and tried not to think, for he knew that it would be futile. His thoughts would follow well-trotted, predictable patterns that would lead to nothing but despair. Sleep seemed like the only place in which he might take refuge.
It took a few months for Loki to have, for lack of a better term, recovered enough of his wounded pride to allow his curiosity of the tome to lure him back. It was an afternoon after a particularly hectic day, when the burden of his duties seemed nigh impossible to bear, and Loki needed something, anything really, to escape.
The book still lay where he had left it that night, at the corner of his desk, innocuously. Its leather cover was new, with green and gold accents, but there was no title on it. Loki turned to the first page. The paper was weathered, its yellowness and frailty a testament of eras bygone. Loki went no further than that; it was there that the author made herself known.
Wyniver Elethras, Archmage of Eikthyrnir’s Citadel
Loki had never heard of her; but the name of the city sounded vaguely familiar. It was there were he had to pause and glean for any mention of the name of this city. His own personal book collection, extensive as it may be, offered no additional information. And so the next day, he combed the palace’s library records for anything relevant, after making sure that the nameless tome did not offer freely any of the knowledge he sought.
Thankfully, the library’s organisation, as well as his own experience with it, made that task rather easy.
Where fire meets ice, the Wondrous City of Eikthyrnir once stood. Before eons untold the once capital of Vanaheim rivalled the Golden City of Asgard itself. But, as the legend went, its people became too taken with themselves, worshiping their royalty as gods. They became rotten to the core, hedonistic and corrupted. And so the Norns weaved their wyrd accordingly, punishing Eikthyrnir for its people’s sins. Not even the area Eikthyrnir was situated in is known anymore, considered cursed by the rest of Vanaheim’s inhabitants.
It was an interesting story, indicating that some kind of natural disaster had befallen Eikthyrnir, and was even complete with a rather hyperbolic and seemingly manufactured moral lesson. At once it became apparent why the name was familiar; Loki had heard many a tale of this city as a youngling, more often than not from his Mother, a fact which attested to the most probable birthplace of this legend being Vanaheim. Of course, ever the cynical sceptic, Loki had always doubted its veracity. Let his oaf of a brother speculate about the quest of its discovery.
However, after he read about Eikthyrnir’s library, Loki now had a vested interest in proving the legend true.
The Great Library of Eikthyrnir, its halls known for containing treasures unlike any others seen in the Nine Realms, as well as a wealth of spellbooks and magical texts pertaining to theoretical subjects, such as advanced magical theory or the connection of Yggdrasil to the Nine Realms and life itself. Amidst all of Eikthyrnir’s most valuable artefacts, one stood apart; Sæhrimnir. One of the finest dwarven inventions, at first glance the ring could scarcely be described as impressive; and yet it was considered the most potent. It was forged in Nidavellir of uru metal, and it acted as a focus for the seidr of the one who wielded it.
And that was exactly what Loki needed. An artefact of power, similar to Mjolnir. A way to finally reach, or even surpass, Mighty Thor. To step out of the shadows and finally face the sun. Perhaps, his Father had even gifted him this tome as a way to claim Sæhrimnir as his own. He shook his head, pushing away the wistful thoughts. He had still a long way to go before any of this was proven possible. Still, he must, by concocting a feasible plan, cease the opportunity.
The opportunity being a diplomatic visit to Vanaheim. As it was, he could only gather information about possible locations and bide his time till his, thankfully, lonely journey to Vanaheim.
It was the day before his departure for Vanaheim, after Loki had instructed the servants on which of his belongings to pack for him, when he heard a rather familiar knock on the door.
Loki felt his expression pinch and closed his eyes mournfully. “Leave, Thor.”
“Mother said you are leaving for Vanaheim tomorrow.” His tone was clipped, his voice tight with an unidentified emotion lurking beneath the surface, muffled due to the heavy door.
“Yes, I shall. And?”
“And you didn’t see fit to mention it to me.” Ah, anger. With him, it is always anger.
“What of it?”
“Do I have to speak to you through the door? I feel like a fool talking to it.”
Loki glared at the door, as though his brother would be able to see his nasty look through the wood. Then sighed and with a motion of his hand, the door flew open. Thor, who had previously put some of his weight on the door, stumbled, but did not fall through as Loki had hoped.
“Are you certain you simply feel like a fool? I find it far more plausible that you actually are one.”
“Loki,” Thor nearly growled, “I am in no mood for your petty tricks at the moment!”
That hit a nerve. “If that is the case, I don’t even know why you are here in the first place!” he snarled.
“Because you’ve been avoiding me, ever since the Summer Solstice!” Thor shouted. However, the next sentence was spoken softly. “Have I done anything to displease you?”
The retort that had been at the tip of his tongue did not come. Loki fell silent, surprised, before choosing his next words carefully. “It is not anything that you have done. I’ve simply been overly absorbed in other matters.”
Thor relaxed, seemingly accepting the lie by omission. “If that is the case, let us go for a ride together. Since you’ll probably be gone for a while.”
“Of course.” Loki responded, feeling himself unwind as well.