Chapter Text
In Asgard, everything is the same. Unchanging. Time moves on, but yet it does not. Old things are forgotten, but nothing is new.
The rhythms of endless existence must be marked somehow; that is why the rites and rituals are so important, why the calendar must be kept.
The details do not matter; only the repetition of the pattern.
The centuries roll on.
***
The Day of the Aldingarðr was not a particularly important festival, merely another in the endless parade of Asgardian Feast Days. It did not even involve an orchard, despite the name. Perhaps it had once, in some long-forgotten before-time.
What it chiefly involved now was apples.
Or rather, the only thing which distinguished it from the myriad of other festivals was apples. Ostensibly it celebrated growth and harvest, maturity and regeneration, reaping and rebirth. Without such trivial little annual ceremonies, it would be impossible to keep track of the Asgardian seasons as they whirled by, one to the next and back around to begin again. But in itself it was not much; the Orchard Wassail was only yet another ritual, such as was often performed, not much marked out from the many others throughout the year.
In the home, it was considered a small feast. The domestic celebrations were minimal; the young were expected to give gifts to their elders, an offering of youth to age. In families, this generally meant that each child gifted each of their parents the symbol of the season: an apple. Children competed to make their own contribution the most beautiful and delicious, with nuts and currants, comfits and spices decorating the surface of each fruit.
For the Royal Family, a formal presentation occurred before their subjects. Loki, who was and always had been the youngest royal, was tasked with making a presentation to his family which they accepted before the observing masses whilst wearing rather silly robes decorated with autumn leaves and other such seasonal ephemera.
Doubtless when Loki had been a child this little performance had been most pleasing to watch. Not that any of the present crowd could remember such a time. But the spectacle of a fresh-faced boy kneeling before his benefactors the King and Queen and presenting them with sacred items, the whole event the template from which their own minor rituals at home were traced, must have been very affecting.
But Loki was no longer a child. He was long since grown.
And more than that, he was a troublemaker.
It had been a long time since he had performed the ceremony without some little sign of his disrespect, some way of undercutting the dignity of the moment. If, indeed, he had ever done so at all. If he had, it was not within the memory of Thor’s friends.
Some years there was not much to speak of in his irreverence, as it came to little more than a scornful expression or mockingly exaggerated movements as he walked to the dais on which the Royal Family sat. But other years he would make a great performance of his impertinence. Once, for example, he appeared as a personification of Autumn changing to Winter and thence to Spring; a withered old woman in dusty reds and browns as he walked the aisle, changing finally to a fair young maiden wreathed in flowers as he presented the fruits. This was presumptuous in its stealing of the day’s attentions, but the real wickedness was in the central figure representing Winter; certainly, there was no other context in which the AllFather would have allowed the sight of a Frost Giant walking proudly through the Great Hall and approaching his throne. Granted it was a rather puny and delicate Frost Giant, but the offence was still grave, and who knew how it was punished in private?
The year of the Frost Giant was much spoken of; it had certainly been one of the most flamboyantly demonstrative of Loki’s attempts to sabotage the event, the most blatant play for attention. It raised hopes for the sort of show which Loki might put on in future ceremonies. But things could be quite the opposite; on another year he might stride up the aisle at speed, ignoring the pace set by the accompanying music, and perform his required movements so swiftly that he had already left the room with a yawn of disdain before the score had even reached the crescendo supposed to herald the central presentation.
The ostensible purpose of the ritual was the conferral upon the Royal Trinity of the symbol of the day: three golden apples, glowing and radiant and clearly far above the everyday fruits exchanged by their subjects. There was an order and a hierarchy to this, as to all things: Loki was supposed to present to the AllFather the largest apple, of bright yellow gold. Then, to Thor, a red-golden fruit. And then, to Frigga, the smallest fruit of silvery gold. Each was to be accompanied by a simple bow, the Royal Family were each to take a bite of their assigned gift, and then Loki was to depart bearing the ornate casket in which he had carried the treasures, as the audience cheered.
It was simple enough. And yet Loki found ways to do things incorrectly.
Sometimes he would appear to muddle the order of presentation, generally in Thor’s favour. The son would find himself with the golden apple of the Father, generally unsure whether to presume to bite it or to disrupt the ceremony and the King’s solemn composure by attempting to make an exchange. This sort of move never failed to discomfit him.
Loki played other tricks on his brother too, the nature of which could only be conjectured based on observation of Thor’s expression as he bit into his apple. Tasting sourness for example was easy to read, whereas if Thor merely stared into the centre of the fruit with disgust, the specifics of the trick could only be speculated upon. Whatever the case, the key element of these tricks was that Thor was obliged to swallow his first bite, however unpalatable; anything else would be to tempt bad luck for the coming year. And somehow Thor never learnt to take a smaller bite. He was not made for caution.
Sometimes it was the apples themselves which appeared to play tricks. Perhaps they erupted into bright but harmless fireworks when bitten. Or perhaps they each made a musical sound when their flesh was pierced: a dainty, sparkling piccolo for Frigga; a jaunty trumpet for Thor; the rasping, resonating pomposity of the bassoon for Odin.
There was even a tale that once Loki had surprised the congregation by entering the hall in the form of a falcon, swooping through the window with the casket containing the apples clutched in his talons. But that seemed a bit far-fetched. Loki’s little tricks could be clever in their own cunning way, but his abilities did not lend themselves to that level of magic. Deceptive illusions were one thing, but nobody believed him capable of such profound transfiguration.
Still, while nobody expected such wonders, they all assumed that there would be some diverting piece of mischief at the ceremony. It was Loki, after all. The only strange thing was that Odin seemed to tolerate such foolishness. Perhaps it was because the ceremony was such a minor one; it did not matter, and it was probably beneath him to be concerned. Besides which, the jest was very rarely at his expense. Thor, after all, was right there to take the brunt of the joke, generally in good spirit.
Really, the whole matter was of little consequence. Loki’s little mischief had almost become a feature of the day; some small piece of fun to entertain a bored crowd before they all trooped off to another grand dinner.
But that was not how it happened this time. This time, things were different.
***
“It was disgusting.” Sif’s face was tight with judgement. “A scandalous performance. He showed complete disrespect for Asgard.”
“Every time Loki draws breath, he shows complete disrespect for Asgard.” Fandral said as he raised his cup. “It is the material from which his pert self is formed.”
They frowned at each other’s words, their mutual dislike of the creature clear.
“This time he will surely not escape punishment.” Hogun speculated. “The offence being so very public.”
The others considered this; it did seem that perhaps in this instance Loki had overstepped his bounds in a way that might lead to censure.
“For all we know he is chastised every year.” Volstagg pointed out, as he waved for his cup to be refilled. “Any scolding would come in private. That is family business.”
“But this is not a private matter. We all saw the disgrace.”
“True, Sif. But they don’t spank a prince in front of the court.” Volstagg nodded his thanks to a serving maid and returned to his mug. “The AllFather will be handling it, as he handles everything. Don’t trouble your head on the matter.”
He was the least concerned by the evening’s proceedings. As a man with a healthy appetite, many children and a wife who was not fond of apples, he had done very well out of the day on the whole and was in a light mood.
For the other three, all childless soldiers, the day was almost indistinguishable from any other festival, and from any other day besides, with the exception of the improved victuals. Apart, of course, from the public observances at court which were now the subject of their conversation.
“I suppose he plays these tricks for attention.”
“This was not a trick, Fandral.” Sif objected.
“Everything with Loki is a trick.”
Fandral spoke with displeasure. He had no wish to be reminded of Loki, who had been mercifully quiet in recent years as far as he was concerned. This interval of relative peace had been a great relief to him, as for some while previously it had seemed barely a sennight could pass without Loki discovering another of Fandral’s secrets and gleefully parading it before all and sundry. None of these matters were important, but all were private proclivities which when revealed brough much embarrassment. Further frustration was caused by Fandral’s inability to detect how Loki could know so much of his intimate affairs. Still more infuriating, he received little sympathy from his friends, who instead found much amusement in each new divulgence. For these reasons he would have been glad to hear less of Loki, and happiest of all should he disappear altogether.
“This was not a trick.” Sif repeated. “This was something else. There is ... something wrong with him.”
“Your concern is unexpected.”
“Concern for Asgard, not concern for him.” Sif insisted.
She was always severe when it came to Loki, though she could not say exactly why. Even his name filled her with rage and resentment and unplaceable guilt, for reasons which she could never quite bring to mind. And the sight of him awoke a deep feeling of betrayal in her, though she could not think why it should be so; there must have once been loyalty, for there to be betrayal, and there was no loyalty in Loki. All knew it to be true.
Perhaps it was merely that she found his tricks distasteful? She was forever being told that she had no sense of humour.
“We are speaking of Loki; it cannot but be a trick.” Volstagg said. “The fact that you do not think it so makes it even more likely. He is sly that way.”
He nodded sagely.
“Precisely.” Fandral clapped his friend on the back. “This is Loki. He was ever thus: parading his misdeeds before us, causing trouble for its own sake. I can only suppose he is proud of himself, like a naughty child.”
“He did not seem proud.” Sif said.
“I do not know as I would say that naughty children are proud either.” said Volstagg, speaking from experience. “Not exactly. They may be brazen in their wilfulness, but it is not pride so much as a wanting to be seen. Often, they would rather be looked at in a bad light than in no light at all.”
He nodded to himself at this, thinking of some member of his own brood with visible fondness.
“Loki is not a child.” Sif said severely.
“Perhaps we should speak to Thor about this business?” Fandral suggested. “It most concerns him.”
“Thor is aware. He was present at the scene.”
“That I know, Lady Sif.” Fandral said, annoyed. “The disrespect involved his own person; of course, it is known to him. I meant only that perhaps he would wish to speak of it with his friends?”
But even as he pronounced the words he knew, as the others knew, that they were not true. Thor did not wish to speak of it. Thor never wanted to speak of it.
***
The offence had taken place before all three members of the Royal Family, as well as the entire court. That was what made it such an unacceptable trespass.
All had been watching, to see what trick Loki would play. All had seen him make his way along the aisle between the two rows of guards in their burnished armour, slowly approaching the platform on which the Royal Triad sat. All had seen his slow tread, his faltering gait, the way he stumbled as he mounted the steps.
A few had laughed. But in truth, it had not been funny.
At the top step, he lurched clumsily forward.
The crowd was still, breath drawn in every throat. Queen Frigga’s marble brow was seen to pucker faintly with concern. The AllFather remained staring imperially into the distance, but around him the air was heavy with displeasure.
Of the three, Thor had most clearly broken with convention; shifting forwards on his throne as though he intended to rise from the seat and bend down to help his fallen brother. But a glance from his Mother stilled him, and he fell back.
In the centre of the dais on his grand throne, the AllFather remained impassive as one of the great royal statues which towered over Asgard.
And it seemed that Loki had not fallen so far as he might have. He had caught himself on one knee; the precious casket was safe.
The crowd exhaled as the youngest son carefully rose again, lifted the carved lid, and handed his Mother an apple of silvery gold. His hand trembled a little to be sure, but the Queen took the fruit from him gently.
He passed then before the thrones and knelt at his brother’s feet. Their hands seemed to meet for a moment longer than necessary before they parted and the exchange was complete. Some said it seemed as though Loki was perhaps steadying himself.
And then to the King.
Loki knelt, and he held up the golden apple.
But his Father did not meet his outstretched hand. He made Loki wait.
For a long time there was no movement, save for the unsteady wavering of Loki’s lowered form, his arm trembling as he held aloft the shining fruit.
But finally, Loki did as he was silently bidden and raised his eyes to meet the baleful eye of the AllFather.
He flinched clearly enough that the whole room saw it. Then he floundered; lurching back, slipping down the golden staircase to the flagstones below.
Another gasp. But then the crowd saw that all was well. The precious apple was safe in the AllFather’s hands.
The Royal Triad rose to take their ceremonial first bite. Thor’s eyes were on his brother, but another gesture from Frigga told him be still.
But even as he raised the apple to his mouth, Thor was watching Loki pulling himself up clumsily from the floor, his face taut with humiliation.
And then Loki, festive costume crumpled and disarranged, had turned and walked from the room, his dark head lowered, as the crowd cheered for his family in their glory.
Nobody present could truthfully say that it had seemed like a joke.
***
“If you ask me, it looked like the lad was drunk.” Volstagg offered now, stretching his legs before the fire.
“So speaks the expert.”
He and Fandral clattered their cups together in a toast.
“I do not think so.” Sif shook her head. “It seemed to me that he was sick.”
“Drink can make you ill.”
“Not like that. At least, I have never seen him like that.”
“And you have seen plenty of him, I do believe. Enough to entitle you to speak with such confidence.” Fandral chimed in.
Sif’s expression grew tighter.
“We have all seen plenty of him. And we have never seen him like that.”
“Still, I do not think it was a sickness. You are too soft-hearted, Lady Sif.”
The displeasure was clear in Sif’s face.
“That I am not. I have a heart of flint.”
“True, I have heard many a disappointed swain lament as much.” Fandral agreed.
Sif exhaled in exasperation.
“Indeed, you have not. I do not waste my time dallying with presumptuous young men.”
“No. That is precisely their complaint: not enough dallying.”
Fandral smirked, and Volstagg chuckled at the jest.
“You think the same as Volstagg then?” Sif ploughed on with the conversation, pointedly ignoring the men’s laughter. “I suppose the two of you are well versed enough in the perils of sottishness to know of what you speak.”
“I do not fear for Loki’s delicate health, but nor do I think that his behaviour can be explained by over-imbibing.”
“What then?”
Fandral shrugged. His interest had already waned.
“As I say, I suppose it to have been a joke.”
“It was not very amusing.”
“None of Loki’s jokes are very amusing.”
Fandral was chiefly thinking of those at his own expense; each of which he had taken much amiss and continued to brood upon in private.
“Well, I think it was more than ... ”
Fandral waved away Sif’s concerns with a cry of dismissal.
“Pshaw, Lady Sif! It is not for the likes of us to think. Leave the matter to our betters.”
“You cannot abdicate all responsibility to the AllFather.”
“Indeed, I can. He is master of all. That is why the rest of us are carefree.”
“You do not think that some matters are a little beneath him?”
“That is why delegation exists.” Volstagg swigged his ale. “It is a perfect system. Though I do not envy Thor.”
“Thor? The man blessèd above all in Asgard?” Fandral said loyally.
“Aye, blessèd.” Volstagg agreed. “Except that the way things have fallen, the responsibility for Loki lies at his door. A heavy burden indeed. But at least the rest of us can cease fretting. If there is some trouble with Loki, then it is in Thor’s hands to claim or disown, as he will.”