"Growing Pains" - Loki + Thor (AU movie!Marvelverse) - {Chapter VII}

[wordsworn]

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A/N: …Man, I really cannot shut up. LONG CHAPTER IS LONG, it was sixteen pages in Word, sob. E-cookies for anyone who a) makes it all the way through this chapter, and b) catches my nod(s) to The Hobbit. |3

Cross-posted in the comments of Round 1 @ norsekink.


{ .VII. } {In Which The Dragon Is Faced And Loki Makes An Important Decision}

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“Loki, this is madness!”

It’s been four days, all filled with hard travelling, since they left the caverns of the Dark Elves behind, and at long last they’ve found the mountain crag--dormant volcano, rather, as Loki points out--where Andvari has made his lair. Their remaining provisions are scant indeed, and the possible threat of recapture by the Dark Elves should they happen to change their minds has them all a little on edge…save Loki, who only seems to have become more grim and determined as the days pass. Where often he might sigh and submit when faced with Thor’s obstinacy, now he’s squared his shoulders and dug his heels in every bit as resolutely as his older brother.

“Madness, you say? Well, I guess you must be right. After all, your last plan did work out ever so well, didn’t it.” The muscles in Thor’s jaws clench visibly at that, but he can’t dispute Loki on that particular point, especially since it was Loki’s silver tongue--and cunning, and magic, though Thor is unaware of those parts--that got them out of (and into) that last bit of trouble. The two brothers stare each other down for a long moment, neither flinching or blinking, until Loki adds with a dangerously intense sort of softness, “Why don’t we try mine this time.”

Thor’s ‘plan’ for dealing with the dragon hadn’t really been a plan so much as a death wish. He’d wanted to face the wyrm head on, simply calling it out of its cavern to do ‘glorious battle’ on the suns-cracked red clay. Loki had found it necessary to explain that dragons didn’t play fair, ever, at least not if they could help it, and generally they could; Andvari would stay in the air, out of reach, and spew fire at them from above. The wealth of scorch marks covering the surrounding area bears testament to that.

Volstagg’s plan of ‘sneaking up on it’ was rejected with equal disdain. It was nearly impossible to catch a dragon sleeping, even for someone as quiet and light on his feet as Loki, and even with magic; if all six of them were to tramp down the tunnel into its lair, the dragon would hear them coming, or at least sense all that magic at work, and would be wide awake and waiting.

The Warriors, Sif, and Thor spend a moment exchanging glances, then they all look at Loki. Thor gives a still-grudging nod, and Loki half-mockingly inclines his head in return before outlining his plan in full.

“As I said, I’ll go in and awaken it slowly, then lead it out of the vault below and into the tunnel. You’ll wait there and attack it from the sides when it comes to the spot wherever we find the tunnel most narrows. I’ll spread a net there beforehand, one woven of magic that will entangle it and hold it there. Its size will work against it in the tunnel, and so long as you’re alongside or behind it, its gaze and its flames won’t be able to reach you.”

“I like not this plan,” Thor rumbles, scowling. “ ‘Tis cowardly, and not a fair fight at all.”

“No, Brother, it’s clever, which dragons are always said to be–damnedly so. There is nothing cowardly about evening the odds or using a decent battle strategy. Even constricted by the tunnel and bound by the net, it will still be a dangerous and difficult being to kill, and in truth, I know not how long that net will hold; Andvari himself must possess considerable skill with magic to turn himself into a dragon.”

“But not enough to turn himself back,” Fandral quips, “so he can’t be that good.”

“Or,” Hogun says dourly, “maybe the transformation spell he cast is unbreakable because his magic is that powerful.”

Silence falls as they all think about that for a moment; then Loki steps forward, his tone calm and business-as-usual. “I would assume you all expected this to be difficult from the start. There’s no sense in running away now…unless you value your lives more than your warrior’s honour?” Offhanded as he sounds, it’s actually a carefully-chosen barb, a taunt meant to irritate them and sting them into action…and he isn’t disappointed. He’s answered with narrowed eyes and haughtily-raised chins and bared teeth, which he acknowledges with a semi-satisfied nod before continuing. “I’ll cover our advance with magic so the dragon won’t sense we’re coming, and you’ll wait in the cave near the net as planned. If you’ve anything to say, say it now, because once you set foot on this mountain, you are to be completely silent. This magic can only go so far, and if you so much as sigh, you’ll break the spell, and I shall leave you for the dragon. And don’t forget,” he says, one final admonishing reminder, “Destroy its wings first and foremost. Then even if it manages to free itself from my net, it won’t be able to fly. So long as it’s forced to stay on the ground, you may actually have something of a chance.”

“We, Brother,” Thor corrects him with a broad grin as the younger prince turns to take the first step onto the mountain slope. “We.”

“Yes, of course,” Loki murmurs as they fall into a single-file line behind him. He keeps walking, and doesn’t look back, all his attention focused on erasing every evidence of their approach. “ ‘We.’ ”

- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

Astonishingly enough (to Loki, anyway), they all make it up the mountain and into the cave without blowing their magical cover, and since he’s been working on it whenever it’s his turn to keep watch these past few nights, it doesn’t take Loki long at all to get the spell-woven net into place. After making certain the others are well-concealed, and that they all understand how imperative it is that they remain silent and hidden, Loki continues on down the tunnel alone. He’d worked some minor magic to maintain his companions’ cover, but for the most part, he trusts that his presence will be distraction enough to prevent Andvari from looking for any others.

…Because once again, he hasn’t been entirely honest with Thor and the rest, and neither has he outlined his plan in full.

This isn’t his first encounter with Andvari and his magic ring at all. He’d encountered the crafty dwarf once before many years ago, when the young prince had been little more than a child…and when Loki had stolen his treasure for the first time. It was a ransom for Odin and Honir, the All-father’s brother; Thor had been off on his first adventure fighting trolls, and Loki had still been considered a bit too young to go along on so lengthy and violent a campaign, so the King of Asgard had taken him on a visit to Midgard instead. As they had walked, Loki had killed an otter to show off his hunter’s skills to his father…and they had all paid for it, almost quite dearly. Andvari had merely been a victim of circumstance, but that didn’t make him any less of a victim, though even at that young age Loki could find little enough pity in his heart for a creature that cared only for gold and was content with the dull tedium of sitting alone and guarding it hour after hour, day after day, year after year. In a way, he’d freed Andvari from his treasure…though not from his greed, or his anger, as the younger prince learns on reaching the end of the tunnel and staring into the arching vault full of gleaming treasures beyond.

For this hoard makes the one Loki had robbed him of years before look like so much pocket-change.

It’s as if the entire cave has been flooded with gold, coins of all sorts piled high like grain during a rich harvest, and speckled with gems and jewels, rings, bracelets, crowns, necklaces, armbands and armour, silver-runed shields and gemstone-encrusted swords. Ornate breastplates and gilded helms and intricately-wrought coats of mail line the walls along with great gold-filigreed axes and spears that are more works of art than actual weapons. Rich robes of gold and silver lamé, woven with pearls and precious as well as semiprecious stones, are cast about carelessly, spread over heaps of unwrought gold or half-buried under drifts of rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds. It defies quantification, really, and as a prince of Asgard, Loki is no stranger to wealth and vast riches, but this is still enough to make his breath catch, his eyes fly wide, and his jaw go slack with breathless wonder.

But awestruck as he is by this vast ocean of treasure, it’s still not enough to cause Loki to miss the fact that the dragon…is awake.

Andvari’s dragon-form is black, black as tar and oil though not near so glossy, with a wickedly serpentine head and a tail like a coiled whip. His wings are folded in tight against his leanly lizard-like body, and all told, at that moment he seems enormous, massive enough to have trouble turning about in Asgard’s grand audience chamber. Smoke rises in wisps from his nostrils and mighty jaws, filling a section of the cavern—the vault, morelike—with a red-tinted mist. And his eyes, evilly narrowed and slitted like a cat’s, burn a fiercely bright copper-tinted amber, nearly the same shade as the surrounding riches...and they are both open, and fixated on the cave’s mouth at first, though after a time they begin to slide sideways as the great fire-drake gives an ominous rumble, opens his jaws, and speaks:

“Well, thief! I smell thee, I hear thy breath, and I doth find that I know both and likest neither. Thou art hidden from mine eye, but e’en so thou shalt not rob me a second time. I know who thou art: Otter-Killer, Fish-Catcher, Gold-Stealer, Ring-Taker, Curse-Shifter!”

The tongue of dragons is a rumbling, hissing language, all blazing embers and grinding stones and wind whistling over rough, leathery wings; yet it is a speech steeped in magic, a dialect lisped by every fluttering candle, sputtered by every flickering torch, and roared by every hearth-fire. An ancient tongue that Loki knows without learning, just as he’s never been taught how to breathe or blink or make his heart beat. The fire in him flares in response, he Understands, and he makes his reply in the same language, speaking from unfathomable depths inside of himself.

“Verily, Lord Andvari, thou dost flatter me, to keep me so fresh in thy memories. But I came neither for thy ring nor thy treasure-trove this time, but instead to warn thee.”

As Loki speaks, Andvari’s great red-gold eyes move slowly around the cavern, casting an eerie sort of illumination vaguely reminiscent of firelight about the cave as they move, searching for his unwelcome visitor. But Loki had expected as much; he remains invisible, using magic to throw his voice, cloak his scent, and silence his breathing and heartbeat. And he is careful, extremely and exceedingly careful, to never look at the dragon head-on; it was said that locking eyes with a wyrm let it see into your very soul, or else gave its persuasive powers of speech a firmer foothold in your mind, and Loki doesn’t care to experience either.

“Warning?” That elicits a fiery snort that is three parts anger and one part amusement. “What warning, trickster? Why wouldst thou seek to warn me?”

“Mayhap to repay thee some of what I owest thee for what passed ‘twixt us when last we met…and mayhap to save mine own life once again. For my brother doth seek to slay thee, Andvari the Black and Magnificent, and to take thy gold for himself.”

The words are a disguise, really, a distraction from Loki’s actual intent; for as he speaks, he reaches out, grasping at the braided mesh of magic he can feel coiling and covering the monstrous form in front of him, seeking to unravel the whole thing. For, skilled sorcerer or not, a dwarf would be far easier to deal with, wouldn’t he? Loki had managed it as little more than a child, so for the six of them now it would be effortless. It would wreck Thor’s Grand Adventure, but that is not something Loki is entirely averse to. He’d been all but dragged along on this quest anyway, and there would be a certain satisfaction if it could end with so simple and anticlimactic a resolution.

…And in addition, Loki is dissatisfied and even discomfited at the thought of something—someone--trapped in the form of a monster being slain outright, and for no other reason than fear and hatred of the shape they currently held. So he tugs at the entanglement of enchantments enfolding Andvari, and keeps talking for as long as is practically and politely possible; princely pride or not, Loki is never above bowing and scraping a bit in the presence of an admittedly daunting foe, and one is not outright rude to dragons if one wishes to live beyond the space of the next few seconds.

“I, thy humble servant, gave counsel that thou art a strong and mighty foe, and that thou wouldst not be so easily cheated of thy wealth. But for such fair counsel, my only reward was to be brought hither and forced to face thee once more.”

“I fear not thy brother, and needest not thy warning,” the dragon growls, slitted eyes still roving restlessly. “Let him come anon! Thou shalt witness his end, as I hath ended all other comers. But why, why turnest thou upon thine own brother so, thou Blood-Betrayer?”

Touching even a single coin of the treasure is too risky, though Loki finds it increasingly difficult to resist that impulse; the heart’s desire of dwarves, the lust for gold and treasure, is a gradual, creeping illness, but powerful just the same. Only by focusing on the conversation and the magic he’s working does he resist it.

“Fie! Blood!” Loki spits, “What matter, blood, when he hath shown how little he doth care for mine own life and well-being? Didst he not prove how small a sum, that, in bringing me here to face one so vastly powerful as thyself, O Andvari, thou Chiefest and Greatest of Catastrophes?”

It isn’t working, untangling the magic surrounding the dwarf-turned-dragon. The strands of the enchantment are woven so tightly that when one is loosened, ten others are snarled hopelessly, and anything he’s managed to tug free reforms and grows taut again within the space of half a dozen heartbeats. Which doesn’t make any sense really--this should work, and yet it will hardly budge. He’s gotten absolutely nowhere, and although Loki can be extremely patient when need be, with Thor as his brother he’s learned by now how to pick his battles; he knows a lost cause when he sees it.

Which means it’s back to the original battle plan.

“It cometh as no great revelation that thy brother be every inch the vile serpent that thou thyself art,” Andvari hisses, “But be that as it may, thou shalt not walk out from here with the whole of mine treasured possessions again, nor even so much as a single red coin for thy supposed troubles.”

Folly though it may be to laugh at a dragon, Loki finds he can’t quite swallow the slightest of chuckles at that. “Marry, milord, I would not dream of walking out—” It’s daring, but he allows himself the thrill, reaching out to snatch up a gracefully-wrought arm-band from the pile nearest his feet and flickering into visibility just long enough to toss it into the air and catch it with a smirk. “—I shall run, of course.”

Andvari lets loose with a heart-stoppingly loud roar as Loki dives behind that nearest pile of treasure, then darts for the tunnel entrance, golden arm-band still in hand.

At least, that’s what Andvari sees, and accordingly surges forward after the thief, jaws snapping—while the real Loki, invisible once more, quickly sidles away in the opposite direction to give the dragon room enough to chase the illusion of himself up the tunnel. Had they no history, Loki knows his plan would have a serious flaw: the dragon would simply breathe out a great column of fire that would fill the entire tunnel, killing the hidden Asgardians and likely trapping Loki inside the treasure-vault. But after what had transpired between them before, the younger prince hadn’t the slightest doubt that Andvari would want to capture him alive, to torture and kill slowly, tearing him apart and eating him limb by limb. And that desire for revenge is what causes the dragon to run headlong into Loki’s magic net, which twists and tangles about it, jerking it to a forceful and unwilling halt.

The fire-drake does spew forth flame at that, but the net has fully entangled it, and the tunnel is too narrow and its body too massive for Andvari to turn his head around enough to apply either flames or fangs to those mystic strands. That doesn’t stop him from thrashing about like a netted fish, however, or tearing at the restraints with his claws. But even so, the dragon is pinned in place enough that it makes a decently easy target for Thor and his companions.

The Warriors focus their attention on one side, Sif on the other, and though they find their blades turned aside by the dragon’s all-over thick scales, there are slightly softer patches behind its legs and at the base of its wings that are exceedingly vulnerable in a situation like this.

Thor himself goes for the wyrm’s head, of course, landing consecutive blows that by all rights should have broken its jaw and smashed its skull; but dragon-armour is not to be underestimated, for Andvari’s only reaction is a shake of his head and a vicious growl before snatching at the prince in a gnashing of razor-sharp teeth. Thor’s next blow sends its head slamming into the wall…at which point Andvari apparently decides he’s had enough. With an echoing roar, he rears his head back, and Loki blanches at the incredible force of the magic being accessed, for it feels as if Andvari is reaching down and tapping into the very roots of the volcano itself—

—And it’s proven well beyond any reasonable or unreasonable doubt that this is exactly what he was doing when half a moment later the mountain shudders and shakes beneath their feet like an ancient beast grudgingly coming awake after countless long centuries of undisturbed sleep; then with an explosion louder than a hundred rockslides, Andvari blows the whole top of the mountain off, laying it open to the light of the stars and the ghostly faces of Svartalfheim’s three moons.

All six of the adventurers from Asgard are thrown to the ground or else hurled into the nearest wall, temporarily blinded by the light from the explosion, ears ringing and in a few cases even bleeding. Regardless, the instant the ground stops trying to wrench itself out from under them and shattered rock stops raining down around them, they’re all on their feet, covered in dust and bruises and bloodied just a bit, but still largely hale, fully alert and taking stock of the situation and the change in their surroundings.

What had once been a tunnel is now more like a canyon, with a jagged rift twenty fathoms deep running down one side, a tracery of magma seeping up from underground at its distant bottom. The partly-visible cavern at the far end has had a good three-fourths of its roof torn away, and a sizeable portion of the floor is gone as well, leaving the piles of priceless treasure surrounded by precipitous drop into the wide-spreading lake of fire below.

Even with the whole upper portion of the mountain gone, Andvari is still held in place by the net, though as he twists and flails in its hold, he is also unraveling the complex spell-weaving, and with surprisingly speed and effectiveness.

Loki, who had followed the dragon up the tunnel (at a conservative distance, of course), had been planning on joining in the assault if things were going well, perhaps stabbing the beast from behind or hurling some sort of magic at it; but after picking himself up and seeing what it’s doing to his net, he has no choice but to focus on that instead. For a short time, Loki even manages to re-weave the net faster than Andvari can undo it, and he nearly has it back to the way it’d been at the start when inexplicably his magic falters and slips away, not unlike a bar of soap slithering out of both hand and sight in a large, bubble-filled tub.

The young prince scrambles to find it again, though his efforts prove to be in vain; within moments, the net is in shambles, and the dragon is free.

But neither the net itself nor his efforts in keeping it intact were entirely unproductive: for when the dragon goes to spread its wings and take to the sky, only one will open even part-way, and even so the leathery flesh is torn and riddled with gaping holes. A smile of grim satisfaction settles into place on Loki’s face as he notes that Thor and the others had made good use of that hard-won time, and they’d proved that sometimes they did listen to him after all. They’ve also proved their warrior’s mettle (not that Loki needed to be reminded of their penchant for using brute strength as a solution to every little problem, or their proclivity for destroying delicate things), since within a mere handful of minutes they’ve managed to so ruin the fire-drake’s wings that it can’t possibly fly.

Still, grounded or not, up-close a dragon is indisputably an extremely formidable creature, even to the bravest warrior. And when this one turns about and charges, spitting fire and driving them back down the tunnel, they have no choice but to give way and fall back. As they do, Loki catches sight of a hauntingly familiar glimmer of gold encircling one of Andvari’s mighty claws…and a chill settles deep in his gut as it dawns on him what’s actually happened here. The curse Andvari had placed on Andvaranaut hadn’t worn off as was widely thought, for the curse had fallen even on Andvari himself, trapping him in that dragon’s form. So potent was the curse that even he was not immune, the very one who first wrought that ring and weaved its curse: to destroy whoever owned it. If anything, the curse has only grown in power, glutting itself on the life-blood of those who possessed it. And now that it had returned to the very hand that had created it, every scrap of evilly-won strength that had been torn from its many owners was added to the already-considerable strength of its creator.

Too late, Loki realises all this. They’re trapped now, a precipice with bubbling, glowing-hot lava below on one side and behind them, a sheer rock wall on the other, and an angry, vengeful dragon to the front. Loki himself doesn’t even have the protection of the rest of the group—he’s easily the swiftest member of the party, and he hadn’t gone all that far from the cave-vault in the first place, so he’d been the first out of the ruined tunnel when Andvari had forced their flurried retreat. On reaching the cave, Loki had darted one way while his brother had gone the other, and, as per usual, their companions had unhesitantly followed Thor, despite the fact that it placed them with a dizzying drop into the sweltering embrace of liquid rock at their backs rather than the unscalable but nonetheless relatively reassuring wall of stone.

Weapons at the ready, the five turn to fight, fanning out in a well-practised attack formation. But Andvari is a dragon, and of course, whenever possible, dragons do not fight fairly.

“Impudent fools!” he roars, though none save Loki can hear the words in that terrifying sound. “Ye shall know this well before thy pitiable souls art sent screaming unto the very gates of Niflheim: Andvari the Great and Gold-Encrusted dealeth in revenge above all things! Ye hath sought to restrain me; therefore ye shall taste of the bitter venom of restraint thyselves!”

From out of nowhere great thorny vines suddenly spring up out of the ground, though not a crack shows in the stone beneath them; like Loki’s spiders, they are formed entirely of magic.

A short distance off and all but concealed behind a jagged protrusion of stone that is doubtless a portion of the fallen cave-ceiling, Loki continues his unsuccessful struggle with his own magic. The pressure he’s under isn’t helping either, knowing that he could counter a fair amount of Andvari’s mystical attack with a few of his own, if only he’d been more in-control of his power. If only he’d had more time to prepare, to learn, to absorb the necessary knowledge and work out the numerous kinks in his abilities. Instead, he’s forced to watch helplessly as his companions struggle against those spectral vines. At first Thor crushes everything that comes within range, calling down lightning to burn it away every so often, and Sif’s quick blade clears away whatever he misses; but things start to fall apart as Thor is forced to shift his attention to Andvari himself, deflecting sharp teeth, questing claws, and bursts of flame with the whirling of his hammer.

And once the prince’s back is turned, there’s an arcing whip-crack of motion from the thorny vines, and for all his weight Volstagg is sent skidding across the floor to crash into the far wall, his axe falling to the floor with a ringing clatter not too far from Loki’s hiding spot. Another half-dozen tendrils surge through that sudden gap in their defences to entangle themselves around the entirety of Hogun’s lower half; judging by the droplets of blood soon dotting the grey stone surrounding the still-struggling grim-faced warrior, those thorns aren’t just for show. Fandral turns his attention to hacking at the vines, trying to loosen them enough for Hogun to get free, while Sif is forced to divide her attention between defending them and watching Thor’s back. Skilled as she is, there are simply too many for her to turn them all away without some sort of cost, and soon her forearms are slick with blood from dozens of minor cuts, all of which burn with a throbbing, mind-numbing intensity that can only mean one thing: poison.

Even the mighty Thor doesn’t seem immune to the paralysing effects of that insidious magical venom: blood beads on his cheek from a pair of scratches, his face being the only exposed, unmailed portion of his body aside from his hands, which sport a hatchwork mess of cuts across their backs already. And the impossible is happening: his blows are coming slower, as if his strength is flagging.

And from where he’s crouched, Loki finds himself considering his chances of sneaking away unnoticed and simply leaving the others to their fates. They had all of them chosen this willingly, even eagerly, and though he had warned them of the various dangers of such a quest they had disregarded his counsel, pressing on recklessly regardless of the possible consequences. He, on the other hand, had simply been dragged along in their wake, giving his consent only after being heavily badgered.

It was a hard but undeniable truth that without his magic, there was little he could do. He wasn’t strong like the rest of them. He could fight when it really came to it, but he was a sorcerer, a magician, a wordsmith, not a warrior. Not deep down where it really counted.

And yet he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Thor, a grand and majestic figure fighting to free himself from Andvari’s magic--fighting, struggling, and for once, failing. And yet Loki finds no joy in the sight, only a hollow sort of dread and disappointment. His eyes flick the opposite way, gliding over the others as well, and with a cool sense detachment, he finds that he can only think about how really, they aren’t anything to him. They aren’t his friends. And Thor isn’t his brother.

…Except.

Except.

Except he is. And obstinate, boorish, overconfident, attention-stealing idiot that Thor is, Loki still loves him more than anyone. Even if they share no blood, even if they have nothing in common, Thor is his brother, his dearest friend, and undeniably the person who cares about him the most. Over the years Thor has taunted and teased and tortured him in all sorts of little (and not-so-little) elder-brother-ly ways; but when it had really come down to it, every time it had really counted, he had helped Loki, protected him, and always, always stood by him regardless of the consequences.

Now it’s Loki’s turn to do the same. To prove to Thor, to Odin, to himself most of all, that whoever and whatever he was once born as and to, he truly is Loki Odinson, and he is entirely worthy of that name.

So he steps out from behind that sheltering rock and stands firm, squaring his shoulders and digging deep, taking firm hold of the magic inside of him with both hands and refusing to let go regardless of how it burns and tries to twist out of his grasp. He just clamps down on it harder, clinging with every muscle in his body, until his arms ache and his palms blister and his fingernails begin to bleed and tear from the heat and strain of it.

Inwardly, anyway. Outwardly, the only change is how ivy-green eyes flicker to bloody crimson just briefly, and the faintly bluish cast his always-pale skin takes on for the space of three heartbeats.

And calmly, without a word, he raises his hands and freezes the dragon in place…but not with any Frost Giant Ice Magic. Instead, he slowly pulls his outstretched hands back in a clutching, twisting motion, using Fire Magic to draw all the heat around the dragon away in a fraction of an instant--no small feat in the cradling cone of a no-longer-dormant volcano--and the change in temperature is so abrupt that a thick layer of frost crackles into existence around the great wyrm. And fire-drake or no, it’s still a reptile, still cold-blooded, and the sudden lack of outside warmth is enough to make its whole body go sluggish, keeping it trapped in that ice for considerably longer than would otherwise be the case.

But now Loki is done playing, and he doesn’t give Andvari the chance to recover. With a flick of his wrists, he thrusts his hands forward again and sends all that gathered heat howling right back at the floundering dragon, a roiling fireball with more than a touch of his own Fire Magic added to it. It strikes the wyrm in the chest, dead-center, smashing it backwards off the ledge and into the lake of bubbling magma below—or nearly so. Its wings are ruined, unable to support the fire-drake’s weight and take it aloft, but through desperate flailing, they do manage to give it enough forward momentum that it reaches the opposite wall of the volcano, where it clings to the crumbling rock like a hideous, warped spider, snapping and snarling its outrage.

Loki watches, still utterly cool and collected, as it begins to scrabble sideways along the wall, working its way to a point close enough to leap back and begin its attack anew. In the meantime, he uses the minor lull in combat to almost casually extricate his companions from the subtle and sinister twists of Andvari’s various enchantments—his brother first and foremost, of course.

Volstagg has recovered at least enough to rejoin the group, and Hogun has been freed, though his steps still come a bit gingerly. The thorns are gone, but the wounds they left remain. But there are a few hanging threads of magic clinging to both Sif and Thor, since that poison enchantment is quite a bit nastier than the more simplistic ones used against the others, and Loki allows his focus to linger on removing every trace of it for just half a second too long. When he returns his attention to the dragon, Andvari is waiting for him, and finally manages to catch him in a straight-on stare. And it’s not mind-control or soul-bearing: it’s a mutual exchange, a flashing glance of their deepest personal secrets and the make-up of their very beings.

Loki’s eyes fly wide, and though it’s only for a second, the pulse of concentrated knowledge that pounds through him in that instant staggers him, the mental repercussions so forceful that he stumbles back a step, his psychological death-grip on his magic lost in that flare of seething-white information. Andvari seems to have taken it better, or perhaps it wasn’t mutual at all, perhaps it was more of a telepathic attack; but either way, it doesn’t stop the dragon from leaping across the gaping chasm, twisting in the air like a cat to land on its feet and surge forward all in one serpentine-smooth motion. Andvari reaches Loki before the young prince has a chance to even attempt any sort of defense or evasion, slashing at him with wickedly sharp talons, swatting him away like an insect. Loki goes flying backward to smash into a portion of the remaining rock wall, not far from where Volstagg had been thrown; he hits hard, sees spots, then drops a good ten feet back to the ground, where he lies in a crumpled heap at the base of the wall, bleeding freely from where those claws had raked across his midriff, one arm bent at a painful, awkward-looking angle.

At that Thor charges forward with a roar of outrage, the others following his lead, as always, though Andvari wastes no time in throwing more magic at them, this time twisted into the form of more of those lizard-boar beasts they’d encountered nearly a week ago now.

Sif fights most of these, the movement of her sword so swift it appears to melt into a deadly flicker of quicksilver, reducing creature after creature to spinning puffs of shimmering dust and reddish smoke.

The Warriors fight the few beasts that get past the shield-maiden, and they also fight to keep from being entangled by those magical thorns again, bashing and slicing and hacking away at those questing tendrils, working together to beat back the mystical plants. And this time, whether it’s due to some lingering effect of Loki’s attacks or the attention required to confront the ferocity of Thor’s relentless assault, they find the thorns quite manageable; Fandral even has the breath to quip about not realising that they’d changed professions and wondering if there was an opening in Asgard for three more royal gardeners. Hogun growls that they’ll certainly have the necessary experience, if they make it out alive, and Volstagg makes a comment about preferring to join the kitchen staff if they’re to be servants. Fandral’s reply about no food ever making it out of the kitchens again is cut short by a new wave of lizard-boar creatures, and (mercifully, Loki would have thought) their focus returns to actions rather than words.

Again Thor fights the dragon itself, spinning his hammer into a whirling shield to deflect yet another blast of fire before flinging both himself and Mjölnir at the wyrm, striking its head, its neck, its chest, all with surprisingly little effect.

Loki fights for breath, and to stay conscious, and finally manages a shaky victory on both fronts. But those are merely battles, not the war, and the latter will likely be lost unless he can get Thor’s attention, which means sitting up and getting to his feet. Because lying there, he’d had another realisation, this one vastly more helpful than the last, and hopefully timelier as well.

“The ring,” he wheezes, unheard over the sounds of combat until he forces in another painful breath and then forces out a strained shout, repeating what he’d said much louder. “THE RING! Thor, smash it, it’s the nexus of his power! Smash it!”

Feeble as that shout comes out, somehow Thor manages to hear it, or perhaps he simply gets terrifically lucky with his next hammer-strike, for it falls squarely on one of Andvari’s great claws, shattering the entire thing, both foot and ring, with a sickeningly wet-sounding CRUNCH. The result is immediate and effective: an awful shudder works its way through the great wyrm, then its serpentine body seems to fold inwards like a collapsing tent, albeit one with some particularly rowdy occupants still inside. It goes into a series of spasms, its limbs, head, and tail all lashing about wildly—and it loses focus on the magical attacks. Thorns and twisted creatures all slough away into ruddy-coloured ash, and now freed of those distractions, the others move to help Thor, all five closing in on the convulsing dragon, looking to end things for certain.

And all of a sudden, the dragon isn’t the only thing rippling and shaking. Loki can feel the power building, can taste it sizzling through the air and see it skipping and skittering over the stone floor, and he knows all too well what it means: Andvari won’t go down so easily, and would sooner destroy them all, himself included, with every bit of magic he can muster before he’d allow them to slay him like a beast. And that much, Loki can understand all too well. But he still can’t allow it to happen.

It hurts to move and his vision wants to blur, but though he can feel blood running down his side and making the inside of his leathers damp and sticky, he pushes himself up, away from the wall, and into a headlong dash towards his friends, who are still looking for openings to move in and put Andvari down for good.

“No! Get away from him!” Loki shouts as he runs, stumbling only once he reaches them. Thor catches him before he can fall, and moves as if to pick him up and race towards the cave mouth to get him out of the fighting, but Loki pushes his hands away.

“Loki—Brother, what—”

“Never mind, there’s no time. Get behind me!” The younger prince steps around Thor, planting himself between the dragon and the others, feet spread, lean body tense and braced—and unexpectedly, a large, warm hand falls on his shoulder. He blinks in surprise, hesitantly glancing down at it before looking up and over his shoulder into Thor’s steadfast, trusting blue eyes.

And suddenly Loki is hit with an overwhelming desire to tell his brother The Truth, because he knows he might very well die here, acting as a magical shield of sorts. He’s certain that he’ll last long enough at least to take the brunt of this final attack, absorbing or deflecting as much of that magical energy as he can--he’s simply too stubborn not to; the others will live, supposing the Dark Elves don’t go back on their part of the deal. He’s not so certain that he himself will live—Andvari’s magic is extremely powerful, and should Loki’s magic twist out of control again or falter, it could burn him up or tear him to pieces. Which means that this could be Loki’s last chance to ever really be entirely honest with Thor.

…And yet, despite the force and fervour of that impulsive urge, somehow Loki knows that this isn’t the time. Instead, he manages a thin smile before shrugging Thor’s hand off his shoulder.

“Get behind me,” he repeats a little more quietly, turning his face towards the still-rising tidal wave of swirling magic, hoping with everything in him that Thor didn’t notice the gathering moisture in his eyes.

This was a happenstance unpredicted and utterly unplanned-for. He hadn’t expected that Thor and the others would have so much trouble fighting the dragon; of course, he hadn’t expected Andvari to be quite as skilled a sorcerer as he was either, or that he’d be able to make the most of his abilities even stuck in dragon-form. But though it sends a thrill of terror through him, knowing that this might be the end, Loki’s (still not-quite-dry) eyes glow a little brighter at the excitement that something like this, something startling and unanticipated, always provides.

The mounting tension of magical energy hasn’t stopped increasing, but those increases come erratically enough that Loki feels confident about what he’s going to attempt next. He’s too cynical and realistically-minded to think it’ll actually work or make the sort of difference he’d wanted it to before, but there’s no reason not to try. Reaching out, he gives a tug here and a twist there, and for a moment, Andvari is himself again: a dwarf, not a dragon.

You can start again now, Loki whispers into the dwarf’s mind. Andvaranaut is gone, shattered beyond repair. You aren’t forced to be a monster any more. You are free.

But the look Andvari turns on him is full of scorn and hatred, and not a little contempt as well. “Nay,” he says aloud, “Never free--and never so wretched as to require the assistance of a liar and a thief.” His body twists and warps sickeningly, and half a minute later he’s a dragon once more. “And this time, thou shalt not escape my curse.” With a last shrieking scream and rush of fire, the dragon rears up on its hind legs, then hurls itself backward over the edge, into the bubbling magma below; and the instant he hits, the second his life ends, everything holding back all that accumulated magical energy disappears, unleashing it with an earsplitting howl and a deafening ripping sound, as if the very fabric of reality were being torn to pieces by the intensity of the forces at hand.

Andvari has had centuries to accumulate this sort of power, to learn to control and manipulate it. In contrast, Loki is still young and generally not fully in control of his own abilities…but that only makes this more exciting, and more of a challenge, getting to match and measure himself against a fully-developed sorcerer’s capabilities.

The magic hits him like a tsunami, slashing and wrenching at his defences with hurricane-level force. The initial impact is staggering, almost enough to knock Loki backwards, but he stands his ground, keeps his good arm up and his hand outstretched, and the sphere of magic he’s surrounded them with holds, though it ripples and thrums at every lashing torrent of sorcerous power. It’s like being trapped at the heart of a star when it goes supernova, concentrated light and extreme quantities of power and force howling all around them; and yet despite the markedly increasing abundance of blood dripping from the gashes in his midriff to speckle the stone around him, and the teeth-grittingly sharp pain the constant jarring of the floor is sending up his broken arm, and the ringing that hasn’t left his head since he was slammed into the wall, and the blurring vision which refuses to clear, Loki holds fast, his concentration unwavering.

Andvari has had centuries to accumulate this sort of power, but though Loki may be shamefully lacking in experience by comparison, he more than makes up for it with sheer raw talent and inborn ability. Magic, he can understand, and learning new spells and tricks has always come to him as naturally as drawing breath. It’s the one and only thing aside from lying that he’s ever been good at.

To either side of them the stone floor crumbles, following Andvari’s mad leap and crashing into the molten rock below; only the area within and behind Loki’s protective barrier remains intact, though the tremours running through it are still more than a little disquieting. The Warriors Three and even Sif huddle in the middle of the magical dome, clinging to each other to maintain their balance. Thor hasn’t moved more than a step or two from where he stood before: right behind Loki. He’s backed away only to give his brother room enough to work, and he hardly flinches as the cavern floor heaves and shudders beneath his boots. Instead, he stares in wide-eyed wonder at the mystical energies exploding all around them, a riotous outburst of colour that makes the Bifrost look dully black-and-white by comparison.

They’d started out with more than thirty feet of solid rock between them and the same sort of fall Andvari had taken; by the time that ferocious onslaught begins to die away, the ledge is perhaps an inch from the toe of Loki’s boot, the glow from the magma below outlining him with an intensely aureate light.

And as the last humming crackles of magic hiss and arch and dart away into the surrounding gloom, the barrier that had shielded them flickers and sputters out of existence. Loki sways dangerously, his good arm falling limply to his side as his eyes roll back into his head, then pitches forward over the edge, unconscious and entirely insensate.

In a blur of motion, Thor lunges forward, one hand snapping out, closing on his brother’s cape and collar and jerking him back away from the brink to hold him close in a tightly protective embrace; and weary as he is from the battle and the lingering effects of that poison, for once the older prince is grateful that Loki is so slim.

He eases back on that embrace after a moment, once it’s gotten through his head that Loki is safe, the dragon is gone, and they’re all alive to tell the tale, and looks down at his brother. Soot and bruises and cuts mar both their features, but those injures are far eclipsed by the undisguised pride with which Thor beams down at Loki’s pale and slack but for once relaxed and unguarded face. In that instant, somehow they both look every inch the godly royalty they are.

“Thank you, Brother,” Thor says, even though he knows Loki can’t hear him, and for once he does indeed sound sincerely grateful. Then he hefts him, carrying his brother in his arms like a child rather than over his shoulder like he usually would, because he hasn’t missed those worrisome-looking slashes and he can see that some care should be taken here. Sif has her shoulder under Hogun’s, her arm around his ribs as she helps him along--his lower back, the backs of his thighs, as well as his backside had taken quite a lashing from those thorns, so he’s having a hard time of walking. (It would be funny if they weren’t all so tired and perhaps a bit shaken at Loki’s display of power, but Hogun’s expression, though strained with pain, dares any of them to make any sort of comment about quests to Svartalfheim and their apparent inclination towards ending with injuries to his end.) Fandral supports Volstagg as best he can, though he himself sports some nasty-looking cuts on his forearms and the big man’s reeling steps are difficult to guide.

But they’ve survived, and Thor’s smile only grows wider as he leads them out of the destroyed tunnels and down the side of the ruined mountain.


- ♦ ♈ ♦ -

{Chapter VIII}