Chapter Text
“Check.”
Tearing his eyes away from the mirror, Loki turns to survey the board at the other side of the tent. Sure enough, the opposing bishop has shifted across the board to attack. A desperate move as far as he can see.
His own pieces lie in position for the endgame of his victory, and, as poor a player as his brother is, Thor has likely sensed the suspense of an attack. His move must be a distraction—unless Loki has missed a something significant. Unsure, his gaze flickers to assess the strategy of Thor’s expression.
His brother smiles, full of usual confidence—but his lips stretch falsely wide and his eyes shine with uncertainty. His free hand resting between crossed legs flexes into a fist at the attention. His brother is thinking. He’s doubting.
A bluff then.
Loki returns his attention to the mirror and combs through another tangled clump of damp hair. “Knight to D-3.”
An audible click accompanies Thor moving the chess piece across the board, and once again Thor occupies himself with minutes of doubtful strategy.
Loki listens to the sound of the rain pelting against the roof of the tent. The storm that shadowed them ever since they left the palace seems to have caught them at last, barely a day out from their destination.
The strikes of thunder, the drone of rain, provide adequate background noise, but it’s not enough to quell the tension in their silence. The last time either of them spoke more than two sentences to each other hadn’t ended well—and that fight remains fresh on Loki’s mind.
He seeks comfort in the familiar sound of storm. As children, they would count at a flash in the sky, gauge the lightning’s distance, and then they would sit in thrill as it drew closer and closer, as the rain fell harder and harder. There were fights then, yes, but never more complicated than a bruised knee or a broken toy. Easily remedied.
Loki picks apart the memories for comfort. It discourages stray thoughts from lurking too close, keeps his mind from spiraling down paranoid loops of little use. He can pretend they are boys, that they have taken pause of a mere hunting trip to wait out the storm. Far from truth, but full of nostalgic distraction.
Yet even the best distraction can’t prevent his unfamiliar engagement ring from catching a knot in his hair. Loki curses. He twists to unravel the traitorous strands, seeking more to protect his hair than the ring.
“Loki?”
“It’s nothing,” he says, too quickly.
A flash of thunder follows. Likely a testament to his brother’s mood.
Loki focuses on disentangling his hand, and as soon as it’s free, he wishes only to glower at the emerald, unwelcome on his ring finger. He tries to cool his features and soothe his breathing because he knows Thor is watching and Thor will renew their argument if given the opportunity. Only when his face clears of the distress does he chance a glance towards the chess table.
Thor doesn’t look fooled. His smile has dimmed, and his normally bright eyes have narrowed. Loki sighs.
“You don’t have to do this, you know.” As Thor speaks, his tone lowers deliberately into something soft, gentle, the sound a healer would make as it approaches a wounded predator.
Loki forces a transparent smile.
They’ve already talked circles around the predicament. Every time a courier returned with a letter, every time an advancement in arranging the marriage was made, Thor would fight and plead and beg. He remembers the day the arrangement was sealed, a date set, Thor spent hours shouting, and he wouldn’t speak to Loki for days afterward.
And Loki is in no mood for such a fight. Not on what could be their last days together. “Don’t have to do what?” he asks, innocent as ever. Before Thor can speak, he pointedly scans the chess game. “Have you made your move yet? Come now, less talking, more thinking.”
Thor turns to the board and moves a stray pawn, rather than save his queen. After taking his turn, he gives Loki a hard look. “The marriage,” he says plainly. “It is not your duty, nor is it too late to change your mind.”
Loki’s eyes train on the mirror as if to assess his appearance, but it’s an act. And an unconvincing one. He clears his throat and retrieves his comb. “Rook to F-5, taking your queen,” he says simply. He doesn’t put the comb through his hair until he hears the chess pieces clinking obediently, just loud enough to exceed the sound of rain.
The answering quiet lasts a short time, and Loki prays his brother took the hint.
But Thor only moves the same pawn another step forward before watching Loki again. Were it anyone else, Loki would accuse him of spite. “Loki,” his brother says, gentle. “Father knows a war was only a matter of time. If your refusal starts that war, then so be it. We will fight.”
Loki bars his teeth in what should be a smile, but his reflection resembles more of a sneer. “When my refusal starts a war, you mean.” He takes a shaky breath. “I will not be held accountable.”
“This—” Thor’s face visibly strains as he searches for an adequate word. “This plan, or whatever you’re doing, it was your idea. Neither Father nor I expected it of you. Failing to take action—an action that jeopardizes your life, need I remind you—does not make you accountable for this. Father has—we have already prepared for a war.”
“I see,” Loki says, falsely light. “Have you also prepared to lose?”
Predictably Thor’s expression tightens. No response follows.
Loki takes the opportunity to set his comb aside and approach the chess game. He forsakes his primary plan for victory and focuses instead on how his moves can distract Thor, how they can humiliate and hurt. With a vicious smirk, he tucks his knight deep into Thor’s defenses. “Check.”
His smirk fades when he catches unmistakable concern lining Thor’s stare, rather than the familiar rage.
“We won’t lose,” Thor says, but his voice lacks confidence.
“I know hope when I see it,” Loki says. “Almost as well as I know the absence of.” Loki taps his finger against the edge of the board to call Thor’s attention. “Check.”
Thor moves his king one space to the left. “If you truly recognize the absence of hope, then you’ll know what I see when I look at your face. Forgive me for disliking the sight.” With a sigh, Thor presses hands together as if for warmth, but Loki knows it’s more likely for comfort. “Do you really think a King who would slaughter innocent children, burn through fields of—”
Loki moves his rook. “Check.”
Frustration bursts through Thor’s throat, and he unsurprisingly moves his king to the side once more. “Listen to me. You have no guarantees he will follow the terms of any treaty once it is set. Even so, the treaty doesn’t contain any terms to protect you. Are you not understanding this?”
Silent, Loki moves his rook a second time and stares solely at the board, waiting for Thor’s turn.
“He could gut you,” Thor says as if it’s not already obvious. “He could torture you. Rape you.” At a sharp glare from Loki, Thor shifts his pawn forward once again before continuing. “How can you ask me to bring you into—into that—” his voice breaks “—and leave you there?”
“Because it’s not your choice. You know that I’ll go alone if I have to, Thor. My plan, my marriage, my choice,” Loki hisses. He scans the board before thrusting his knight into the center of the attack. “Check.”
Thor shifts his king another space, and—oh, Loki wets his lips. He’ll have his brother. Next turn. He shifts his bishop to make one last adjustment to prevent any escape, and then his eyes train on Thor’s. He seethes with triumph, lured by the premature taste of victory.
“It’s your move,” he says.
Thor doesn’t spare a look to the board. Sympathy weighs heavy on the lines at the corners of his brother’s eyes, on the wrinkles creasing his forehead. He smiles, gentle and terribly sad, and Loki wants to carve the ugly display of pity out of his brother’s features for good. “Loki,” Thor says, “this isn’t about your heritage, is it?”
Loki’s heart throbs in his chest. His throat aches. “Your move,” he repeats.
“You always overestimate your ability,” Thor says. “You always neglect everything else when you set forth with a plan.” Moving his pawn one final step forward barely requires Thor a glance. His brother tips the pawn sideways in their traditional marking of a promoted queen. “Checkmate.”
Loki slams his palms into the bottom of the board.
Pawns and bishops and knights scatter every direction on the rug. The pieces that land in his lap, Loki shoves away. He stands, paces to the front flap of the tent, and sits to stare into the stormy sky, to wonder why in the world Thor questions his motives when the answer lies at his feet.
He’s flawed. Hopeless. Broken. Stuck with a family—no, a kingdom—of prodigies, of warriors, of champions.
It’s simple logic to consider needs of many over needs of few, and if one Asgardian must be married (sacrificed, he thinks) to save the kingdom, then why shouldn’t it be him? He, who was never one of them in the first place.
Thor’s arm curls around Loki’s waist as he joins him, and Loki forces himself not to lash out. His brother only means well. And it’s a far cry from the persistence silence Thor used on him the last time.
They sit quiet for a time. Wind hurls the raindrops into Loki’s face, and the chill in the air bites at his fingers, his toes. Beside him, Thor succumbs first to shivering.
Not for the first time, Loki wonders if he inherited a certain steeliness against the cold from his mother race, the ones who thrived in ice and snow, the ones whose skin evolved permanently into a different hue. The thought swells in his throat.
“It’s not because of my heritage,” he says finally.
It’s not quite a lie, but it’s close.
Perhaps if he’d never discovered his true ancestry, perhaps if the lie still protected him—perhaps he might still believe himself to be salvageable. Perhaps he would have thought his life equal to the lives of his people. Maybe then, the idea of securing a treaty by marriage might never have crossed his mind. Maybe . . .
Thor shifts closer. “Will you look at me?”
Tears blur the edges of his vision, and Loki doesn’t dare to turn.
But Thor lifts hands to cup the set of Loki’s jaw, and Loki has no choice but to follow the lead and give Thor sight of the shine tainting his eyes. A couple tears trickle over his eyelashes and blend into the streaks of rain.
“You’re . . . important . . . to us, to all of us.” Thor pauses.
His brow wrinkles with dissatisfaction as he churns through his thoughts, and Loki relishes the closeness between them as he longs for Thor’s tempting lips, scopes the shadows embellishing his collarbone, his Adam’s apple. Endless comforts he’ll never get the chance to touch, to kiss, ever again.
A moment later, Thor’s eyes clear, and he trains his stare on Loki. “You’re irreplaceable. To me,” he says. “I love you, and I will support you, but I will not lose you for the wrong reason.”
Drawing back, Loki huffs a dying laugh. “It’s too late. We’re a day out once the rain clears. The agreements have already been made, and the treaty signed on our side. People at home, your friends even—they’re so very relieved. I can’t abandon this.”
Thor’s eyebrows draw together. “You can. It’s never too late. Not when we reach the kingdom. Not during the wedding or after, during the feast. Not even a year from now if you must. All you have to do is ask me. We can figure it out.”
Loki shakes his head. “You said it yourself, I’m not one to stray from my course.”
Thor runs his hand down from his shoulder to his waist and holds him there, tight and possessive, in a way he hasn’t since—since their last time together. “That’s what worries me.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
A flash of lightning splits the sky. Seconds pass before the thunder follows, its low rumble rolling through the air.
The downturn of the storm implies anger, but after the chess game Loki knows better than to misjudge the expression of Thor’s emotions. Raindrops that could just as well be tears mark his brother’s face, too.
Resigned, Thor releases his hold on Loki’s waist. “How will you protect yourself?”
“I’m hardly helpless.”
“Hardly.” Thor smiles wearily. “And yet I remain unassured.”
Loki hesitates.
Long ago, Loki trusted Thor with his deepest secret—his practice of sorcery. Over decades, his brother has proven his trust is unassailable, that he cherishes Loki’s confidence, that he would take the knowledge to the grave under pain of any circumstances.
This secret though—this one is different.
Loki bites his tongue, but one look at his brother’s face, tired and worried and loving, is enough to break his reluctance. He searches their surroundings, checking with all senses, including his magic, that no eyes will pry. Then he lifts his gloved hands and tears the edges of space to reveal the glow of the bluish prize in his hands.
Thor’s eyes widen. “The casket! You—you have the cask—”
“Shh.”
Just as quickly, the casket vanishes between the folds of space at a swift movement from his hands. When he finishes the spell, he checks his surroundings a second time. Only once his magic assures they are alone does he glance at Thor. His brother’s eyes brim with hope for the first time since the threat of war began.
“Asgard declared it lost,” Thor says, voice hushed. “Father and I—we looked everywhere after the war, but we couldn’t find even a trace.”
“I know,” Loki says. “I meant so.”
“The marriage is a ruse,” Thor says. It’s not a question. “You plan to fight him.”
Loki gives his brother a small, private smile. “I plan to kill him.”
Another flash, another rumble of thunder, but this one rings of thrill.
Thor tugs his brother forward into a fierce hug, and Loki buries his face in the finite supply of warmth from his brother’s shoulder. After all, he is a liar by nature. Lies of truth or lies of omission—they both serve their purpose. Thor rarely thinks ahead, and now is no exception.
Killing Thanos may end the threat to Asgard, but Thor doesn’t realize how wishful it is—to presume escaping an enemy kingdom possible after murdering their king.
The marriage will bring Loki close enough to strike.
His lie will ensure Thor is safe.
…
The city of Sanctuary looks as unimpressive as Loki predicted.
The dull light of lanterns does little to illuminate tall towers of black stone, the empty stretch of streets, the bare windows.
Even in the middle of day, rays of sun cannot penetrate the dark storm clouds hovering in the sky. Loki recognizes it as the work of magic. He idly wonders at the power it would take a sorcerer to keep the city in darkness and what purpose it could serve.
The streets lie barren of any kind of life, other than the occasional raven or rat. Sometimes the wide eyes of children peek from the windows that they pass. Older adults hush the curious questions and inevitably shoo their children out of sight. They look discontent—afraid even. Whether of the sight of Asgardians or of something else is unclear.
The guards sent to escort them seem unperturbed by the state of things, which leads Loki to believe that the lack of activity is not a novelty. Regardless of his and his brother’s presence, the city would still resemble a graveyard.
Thor keeps notably close to Loki’s side during their trek through ghostly roads and up flights of stairs, and Loki finds himself grateful for the protection. The surroundings have thinned his nerves. Every shifting shadow from an alleyway churns beneath his skin, every raven that swoops too close for comfort has him nearly stumbling backward.
When they reach the inner palace, the foreboding atmosphere doesn’t diminish in the slightest. Inside, its halls are darker, torches sparser, and the sudden lack of rodents unsettling. Locked chamber doors haunt the long, twisting hallways. Cobwebs stretch along every archway, and dust coats every empty space.
No one cares for the city. No one seems to venture beyond the safety of their homes, and the weight of that fear falls almost palpably.
Swallowing, Loki tries to imagine a time when he could call such a place his home.
If Thor sees his hands trembling a moment later, he doesn’t mention it.
The guards slow as they approach tall arching doors. Hooded figures pull the ornate handles, and the hinges creak as the doors part to allow entrance to the hall.
Reluctantly Loki leads the way into hall of the enemy king.
Inside, no torches illuminate the shadowy corners. The only source of light shines dimly through large windows, leaving silver patches on the stairs to the dais. The silhouette of a figure stands at one of the windows, to the side of his empty throne.
Loki’s nerves thrum. This is the king. This is the man he will marry.
With the king’s back turned to them, Loki can’t accurately judge his strength, other than the fact that he’s large. Larger than Loki had imagined, larger than even Thor. The mere realization sends new tremors rushing through his fingers. His heart flutters wildly.
You asked for this, he reminds himself. You knew what you were asking, and you would do it again.
Without his brother, Loki admits to himself that he might have ran—ran like the coward lurking dormant in his Jotun blood. Thor’s presence at his side is the only reason he can keep his head high and his face neutral while he walks forward.
When they reach the base of the steps, the guards call for the king’s attention, and Thanos turns.
Loki feels a shiver roll down his spine.
Scars of age and battle chisel lines into the man’s skin—bluish skin, like yours, his treacherous mind supplies. Golden plates of armor adorn much of his body, but Loki can tell the king’s skin is rough, calloused, perhaps study as a rock. He notes the breadth of his shoulders easily twice that of Thor’s and hands large enough to crush Loki’s skull in his palm.
His feet twitch once more with the urge to run, to never look back at the glowing violet eyes locked onto them. Instead, he flourishes into a respectful bow.
In his peripheral, he sees that Thor does not. His brother’s gaze remains fiercely attached to the king in a clear challenge.
“Your Majesty,” Loki says. “We have arrived as the delegation from Asgard to secure a treaty between our kingdoms.”
Thanos’ gaze shift as he scopes the both of them. “Which one?”
His voice thunders in its echoes across the great hall, and Loki catches Thor’s hand clench around the hilt of his hammer. “Beg your pardon?” Loki asks, even though a part of him knows.
“Which one of you is mine?”
Loki’s heartbeat quickens. Blessedly Thor somehow manages to hold his silence.
“After you have signed an agreeable treaty between our kingdoms,” Loki says, “it is I who will marry you.”
Thanos doesn’t seem to notice his change in wording. The king takes two giant steps down from the dais and stops to regard Loki with cool calculation. “Good,” he says, even though indifference masks his face and tone entirely. “Of the two, you seem more . . . persuadable.”
Heart failing, Loki stills under the king’s stare.
From the side, Thor releases a low growl of warning, and Loki finds himself relieved to hear his brother’s volume easily matching that of Thanos. “As princes of Asgard, we demand adequate hospitality while you review the terms of the treaty,” his brother says. “Once and only once all parties are satisfied, I will give my blessing for the wedding, but until then, I expect my brother to be treated with respect.”
An amused smile thins the lines of Thanos’ lipless mouth. “The guards will show you to adequate chambers,” he says to Thor. “As for your brother,” and he pauses on the word, his eyes glinting, “I assure you he will be well looked after.”
Thor steps forward, just far enough to stand subtly between Loki and the king. “No. No, he stays with me.”
“Until the marriage,” Thanos agrees.
Thor’s fist shifts readily over his hammer. “I have yet to find any of us satisfied with the terms.”
“Thor,” Loki warns.
His brother falls silent, but he does not drop the challenging stare.
Loki sighs as he returns his attention to Thanos. “Forgive him, but I must say he is right. You have not yet looked over the treaty to review our terms.” After unfastening it from his belt, Loki slips past Thor to offer the roll of parchment to Thanos.
Thanos makes no move to accept the offer. Instead, his eyes roam over Loki’s body ruthlessly.
Color rises high in his cheeks, and Loki’s arm twitches with impatience. “The treaty,” he says, louder. “Your signature for my hand. I imagine you will want time to read it over.”
At last Thanos takes one final step forward. As he reaches to take the scroll, his calloused hand deliberately delays to caress the length of Loki’s finger, and with their hands aligned Loki sees how small he is, how much Thanos absolutely dwarves him. The moment the treaty rests secured in Thanos’ grip, Loki draws his hand away as if burned.
He has to remind himself—physical strength means nothing. Only a couple know that Loki practices sorcery. He has the element of surprise, and Thanos will have no defense against the arts of magic.
Only somewhat assured, Loki focuses on drawing breaths to soothe his racing heart.
When he looks, he sees that Thanos’ eyes have never left his face. “Tonight,” the king says.
While a part of Loki hoped—still hopes that Thanos will want to negotiate the treaty, that the wedding will delay for another few days, precious few days he can spend with his brother—the suddenness of affairs is not altogether surprising. Loki nods, bowing his head with false respect.
“If you agree to the terms,” he says, “then yes. Tonight.”