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The light tapping sounds once, then again, lighter, more tentative, but stubbornly insistent, letting Hela know whoever is rapping on her bedroom door is fairly insistent. The pattering is familiar, a little spark of something vaguely cinnamon-y and small. Tiny – but never to be underestimated. Hela’s seen only a shard of what that violent power can do, and anyone would do well to fear it.
Except it’s just Loki, young, innocent, and too sweet to lay a finger of real harm on a single living creature. He did turn himself into a goat to free the other animals before a banquet because the animals didn’t deserve to get murdered, so. Hela’s fully certain confident in his gentleness.
“Come in,” she calls, flicking stray strands of long, limply hanging black hair from her face. It’s easier when it’s in its crown, but Death is something Odin so proudly preaches against, renounces, as though his kingdom has stood on anything other than blood.
Blood is better than lies.
Loki lets himself into the room and shuts the door behind him. He says nothing, slumping against it motionless, shaking, entire being trembling even if he’s not crying.
That’s… not very Loki. If he shows, he shows with a giggle or some new tidbit of information Hela neither needed nor cared to know, or when he’s quiet, it’s with a blast of magic that’s guaranteed to make somebody’s day full chaos.
This isn’t the boy she knows, and Hela would be lying to say she could feel anything other than raw, sincere concern. “Brother, you look fabulous,” she says, as dry as it goes. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to sit down instead of collapsing at the door?”
Loki does nothing. He just stands there, shaking, too exhausted to stand, but too overwhelmed to move. Ah, so it’s one of those fits.
He’s an emotional child, no question, something that terrifies Hela. She cannot count how often her brother will come crying to her, for one thing or another, and it’s never easier to handle. But she would take tears over nothing any day.
Hela pushes the sculpting away and stands, turning away to lift Loki into her arms and settle him onto the spare chair she’s dragged up just for him, when he inevitably slinks into her chambers for one of the million reasons the kid might.
He slumps in her grip, still shuddering, terrifyingly cold in a way that catches her wondering if his Jotun form is coming to light again. She hopes not – it would be uncomfortable for the All-Father, and amusing for her, but it would hurt her little brother just as much, and she doesn’t want that.
His parentage is a family secret for now.
“Loki?”
His eyes glisten with unshed tears, and he finally makes a sound, something quiet, something sort of strangled and whimper like that Hela hates hurts her heart. “I don’t want to be a warrior,” he says, finally, and Hela gawks at him until she laughs.
“Darling, you are four hundred and seventy-nine. Wait until you’ve hit a thousand, and then we can have this conversation.”
“I’m serious.” He wraps his tiny arms around himself.
It truly is not amusing, but Loki is effortlessly humorous even while trying his hardest to be serious. Hela swallows down her incredulity, in best effort to be polite, and tilts her head to look at him. Loki is hard to read, to understand – but this is something other entirely. He’s never been so different from Hela herself.
“Did you fight with Thor’s imprudent friends?”
He gives the tiniest shake of his head, and Hela vaguely remembers the rest of the royal family was off on a trip to Alfheim. Odin left her behind, because for all he claims to love Hela, she’ still an echo of an age he shuns. She’s fortunate he’s kept her around.
She is the heir to Asgard’s throne, but everyone knows the right will go to Thor.
Thor’s friends shouldn’t have been there. “Thor?”
“No.” He pauses. “Sort of.”
“Is Father being insensitive again?”
“No. Hela, I – I killed someone.”
The words are out now, leaving her stunned speechless. This kid, the tiny, scrawny, can-barely-hold a weapon kid in front of her, also the most powerful sorcerer known to Asgard, but mostly, Loki? Loki… killed? “Oh, this is a tale I must here.”
His emerald eyes sharpen. He scoots back on his chair, pulls his knees to his chest, and for a painfully long moment, says nothing. Then – “everyone tells me it wasn’t bad. But it was.”
It was? Hela knows nothing other than death. She’s been training with swords form before she could walk. Odin tried to stamp her bloodlust out, but how could he, when he forged her as his favorite weapon? He made her, left her unsheathed and jagged, a weapon for war – and expected no bloodshed?
As if.
But Loki was born different. Maybe it’s that he’s Jotun, maybe it’s that he’s Loki. He’s not like the other Asgardians. Pain is something he cannot inflict. Or will not.
“Oh,” Hela says, because oh is all that makes a shard of sense in her head.
His first kill. Before Thor’s? He’s still about half her size. What happened? Her first thought is prank that went wrong, but how could gifting bread ability to speak or sneaking frogs into unworn shoes lead to somebody’s death? Oh, or the spelling flowers into places flowers should never be.
Last week, he made flower vines grow from the ceiling of the All-Father’s bath house, though Hela has no idea if it was Loki’s fault or Frigga’s. Hela just knew it was truly delightful to watch the chaos unfold. Odin had been so irritated. (She thinks he found it mildly amusing after the fact, though he would never tell Loki so.)
“I hope it was no one of importance,” Hela supplies.
“Not really.” Loki’s arms wrap tighter around himself. He has that face on, like he’s about to cry but fighting his hardest to withhold. “It was, uh, an Elf.”
Her brows slowly climb into her hair. “You killed someone you were sent to meet? Why?”
“It was an accident. It was. I think – I panicked. But I still killed him.” Oh, he is crying now, shivering and shaking with quiet, muffled sobs. Hela doesn’t get it. When she was little, Asgard was being overrun by enemies. She was used to blood. She never cried from seeing a body, except when she saw her mother’s, cold and still and soaked in blood.
Not that Hela thinks her brother should have had to see something like that – it’s just a hazard of occupation of being an Asgardian. They are warriors. Dead people happens.
Chances are, any of the snarky comments she would say to any-non-Loki would be counterproductive right now. Instead, she pats his shoulder and really hopes she seems at least mildly sympathetic. It’s not that she doesn’t feel sympathy, she just…
Does not get it.
He killed someone. And? Hela used to be Odin’s executioner. Does he have any idea how much blood is on her hands? He’s not that little.
She has way too many questions. “Can you return to the beginning? I rather believe I am missing half the story.”
It’s going to be at least a few minutes before her little brother gets his head on enough to carry on an actual conversation.
And what does she say to that in all honesty? Hela cannot imagine a life without war, without killing, and for all that she’s come to hate this path, she’s also come to realize that she is nothing without it, that there is no other life which she might lead.
She may hate it, but it’s impossible.
What does she say to one too soft, too kind to raise a blade on anyone, even in his own life’s defense? Hela can never be free of this violence. Not for as long as Odin lives. Not for as long as she cannot choose her own destiny. Her own path.
Loki should still get that choice. If he doesn’t want to kill, he shouldn’t have to. But what does Hela know of such things?
Hela sits at his side, something she knows she, herself, never had as a child. It means something that she can offer it to another. A small something, but something, nevertheless. But, she waits. Waits, until Loki is ready.
She scoots herself closer to him, keeps a hand on his shoulder and finally remembers that, actually, yeah, hugs are fully an option, and outright offers a hug instead. Her little brother sinks into it, clings to her, and they sit there for a definitely uncomfortably long time before he finally starts talking.
“There was a dispute on Alfheim,” Loki says, sniffing and wiping his nose on his arm. Hela’s instincts say to tell him to stop, because that’s sorely un-prince-ly, but she’s guessing that’s just Frigga’s voice in the back of her head, because Hela has been covered in soot and blood and even worse things. “I wasn’t really keeping track of the details. But there’s some group of, uh… resistance who want the throne gone, or to break away from Asgard, or maybe both.”
Alfheim. No surprise there. Odin had Hela conquer every single Realm through blood and tears. Of course, some want to take advantage of Asgard’s sudden peacefulness and avenge the pain they endured, or, if they are wiser, break away entirely. Hela knows she would, if she had the choice. Odin has that effect on everyone in his life.
“Ah,” she murmurs, “I take it Father didn’t let them.”
“No.” Loki shakes his head. “I don’t think so, anyway. They didn’t have the numbers for an attack, so they were trying to… get leverage against Asgard. They went after me.”
Hela’s starting to get a growing suspicion. “I see,” she murmurs, protective anger bubbling up again. Of course, that is what happened – Loki’s actions would never have been short of reaction.
“One of them came after me. I just reacted. He was there, and I panicked, and I used that… spell you and Mother were teaching me. The knife one? And I just…” Loki trails off, fumbling, the words probably dying, as if his actions weren’t entirely justified for anyone. But not for him.
It’s not to him, which is almost insane, but also, very much what she can expect from Loki. Loki, the kindest, sweetest creature on Asgard, too soft to ever reach his role as a warrior. Hela really wishes she could tell him he’ll never have to, but she is no comforter.
She is a weapon, and nothing more.
She almost regrets teaching Loki that spell. But she wishes she could have killed the man herself.
“You reacted instinctively. To save yourself.”
His arms tighten around himself. “I killed him.”
I wish you did worse, she wants to say, viciously, and then realizes abruptly it’s no doubt what Thor told him, and why he slunk into her quarters like a kicked wolf. Like Fenris on his bad days. “Let me imagine, Thor told you you did perfectly.”
“Everyone says that. Odin demanded retaliation and pulled out. But what if they didn’t mean to hurt me?”
“They were trying to kidnap you, Loki, I find it… highly unlikely they meant anything other than harm.” How does she tell this to him? He’s still a child. He won’t understand.
“I know that,” Loki mutters, “I do, but what if needed help and were going for desperate measures?”
This kid’s self-sacrifice is giving her an honest migraine. But it’s Loki asking. Anyone else, Hela would tell them it were anyone’s problem except her own, but Loki isn’t just somewhat.
If it were Thor, Odin would have gone in and demanded blood. Hela doesn’t know what he’d do for Loki. That’s the simple, honest truth, but a challenge against the throne is something that could, easily lead to… a lot of bloodshed. Which leaves one, albeit very, very boring and unfortunate solution. “Very well. I will go to Alfheim myself, out of Odin’s view, and resolve this.”
“Don’t kill anyone –” Which is so Loki, and also Odin’s most recent motto in her direction as of late. Odin drives her up the wall, but somehow Loki seems so sincere and outright adorable.
“Very well,” Hela caves with an eyeroll with her head safely out of her brother’s sight. “I shall endeavor not to kill anyone.” But how can a sword not kill? She doesn’t have her brother’s tongue, nor his ability to listen, or his heart.
“Thank you,” Loki says, quiet, his head dropping limply against her chest.
Hela freezes. What does she do? She wracks her brain for memories of her mother, all wispy and nearly faded from mind over years and years of war and chaos. “You’re welcome,” she settles on, awkward, but had Frigga not said the same… in some sort of public event? That’s considered socially acceptable.
She can’t wait until Loki’s a little older and she won’t have to treat him as breakable anymore.
Instincts say to tell him she’s proud of him, and she truly is, but Loki feels none of that for himself, and Hela will do her best to respect that, even if it confuses her.
“I still don’t want to fight,” Loki repeats again, the first thing he’d said when he’d braved to enter her quarters.
“Then you should not,” Hela answers simply.
Her brother’s head snaps up to look at her, brows pinched in confusion, lips parted slightly, probably about to argue. Or perhaps just entirely confused. Norns, has no one ever told him logic so simple? “But everyone tells me I have to fight.”
Naturally, Odin would complain when Hela was too sharpened a sword, yet would try his hardest to turn his only non-volatile child into one as well. “That would naturally be what Odin would tell you,” she replies dryly, “But you choose your destiny, Loki, not your family. Not even Odin. And if he wants you to be a warrior, well…” Hela trails off, smirking, “He should have left me his executioner and maintained Asgard’s role over the Nien Realms. After all, what am I, if not his sword?”
“But, if I don’t fight, then… I don’t know how to keep up with Thor.”
Thor, who was born every bit the fighter as Hela herself once was. Thor, the golden child, who Odin dotes on in a way he never would the other two. It’s obvious who she wants. Hela tries to swallow that bitter fury, every time she sees her brother’s face – it is not Thor’s fault. He did not ask for it, and quite simply, is too young and naïve to realize it.
Perhaps he will someday.
But, regardless of what Thor may think, and Loki may want, they are not the same.
“You aren’t Thor,” she spells out shortly, “Or you wouldn’t have come to me. And he isn’t you, or he would be in here with us. Thor was born a fighter. You weren’t.”
“The only thing that makes me different is… where I’m from,” Loki says quietly, looking at his hands, always expecting to see the unreal blue creeping on his skin – for as many times as he’s been reassured otherwise. “But I’m not as strong as him. I can’t fight like he can. If I don’t even try… won’t that make me weak?”
“To tell the truth, Loki, you’re the brains, and you always have been.” This conversation is getting way to emotional. And exhausting. She would like a nap. “Let him punch stuff until we pull him out of trouble. He’ll learn to be grateful.”
Loki laughs. It’s brief, but the brightest smile she’s seen in a while, definitely since he came back from Alfheim, and Hela wonders why, somehow, she’s the only one who has a way with this child, why they see each other when no one else can.
But then the smile is gone. “Okay. I mean… I’ll try.”
“You will.” He’ll be stronger than her someday, most likely. Hela can see that even while no one else does.
“Mother says I can do anything, but after I stabbed him, I couldn’t bring him back.”
The idiot actually tried healing the guy? Oh, naturally. This is Loki. Hela’s migraine intensifies. “No one cheats death. Not even me. And I am the goddess of death.”
Loki’s rubbing at his hand again. The tension doesn’t really lift after that, until Hela breaks it herself, completely emotionally spent and ready to sleep for a week.
“Did you sneak out of your quarters?” she guesses, “Away from your mother?”
“Uh.” That’s a yes, but he can never lie to her fast enough. “I couldn’t sleep. Mother just wanted to tell me everything was fine. And I feel safe here. I do. That’s not what upsets me.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Hela tells him.
“What do you do with regret?”
She eats regret for breakfast. What does she say to that? That’s a Frigga-question, but Loki apparently isn’t satisfied there. “I wouldn’t suggest you following my choices, brother. They’re far too questionable for you. But for you, you do what you can not to feel it again. And this is bedtime to you.”
Loki has his best sulky face on.
Okay, fine.
Hela scoops him up and dumps him onto the edge of her over-sized bed, kicking her boots off and sprawling next to him.
Both her brothers have snuck into her room enough times over the years for Hela to know the drill by now, carefully lying close enough to the bed’s edge so she won’t accidently squash him, and tucking them in. Idly, she realizes it’s been a long time since Thor came in here. At least Loki still does.
“Oh, and Hela?” Loki asks, opening an eye to look at her, almost shy. “There is… something. You aren’t just a sword. You’re my sister.”
Kids. Why are they so confusing?
***
Hela wakes, mostly, to realize that she’s the one being squashed, and the Frigga edged her bedroom door open. “Don’t ask,” she grumbles firmly, wheezing at her little brother curled on her chest like a massively overgrown cat. “And don’t dare wake him.”