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bookishwenchLoki detested being summoned. He wasn’t compelled to come when called, whatever the Midgardian spell books said, but it created an uncomfortable itchy sensation around his wrists and ankles, as though fetters were trying to form there but couldn’t. A less powerful being would probably have been jerked into another world without their permission, but for Loki the minor nuisance usually went away in a few moments. This time, though, there was an insistent quality to it, suggesting repeated attempts. Someone must want to speak with him very badly. His curiosity was piqued, so after the eighth attempt, he sighed and followed the pull, ending up in a dark, damp stone room that felt and smelled more like a cave.
“Well, I’m here,” he said, looking disdainfully at the pair of humans, their eyes bulging with shock in the candlelight. “I do hope you have something interesting to say. Wasting my time is unwise.”
The woman, who never seemed to blink, edged the younger male forward. He was little more than a boy, dark haired and with a twisted hand. Something about him sent a chill up Loki’s spine. It wasn’t attraction. He could feel that this one was intent on starting his own version of Ragnarok, and the Norns seemed to whisper he would succeed in creating an ending of legendary proportions.
“Trickster, you are welcome here,” he said. “We crave guidance.”
“Do what you want and don’t get caught,” Loki said flippantly. “There. How’s that?”
The woman stifled a chuckle, and he regarded her more carefully as his eyes adjusted to the light.
“There is something familiar about you,” he said, but he couldn’t put a name to it.
He was fairly certain he hadn’t seen her before. There was some sort of resemblance to another, but he couldn’t place it. She wasn’t quite beautiful, a few mortal years beyond her peak, but the eyes were striking. They were an unusual shade of blue, and her face was heart-shaped. His brain clicked the image into place.
“I recall a boy who resembled you,” Loki said slowly. “Are you kin to anyone named Arthur?”
“My half-brother. You have met him?”
Loki sniffed dismissively.
“Yes. I was invited here before by Merlin to teach the boy a bit about shape-shifting,” he said, looking about the room to hide his interest. “Tell me. What happened to him?”
“He is king of Britain,” she said.
“Well, I suppose that’s something,” he said, shrugging. “He never had any gift for magic, though. Couldn’t turn a pin into a needle. I wasted a good amount of time on him.”
“Why would you bother?” the young man asked.
“Paternal kindness,” he said with a shrug.
“But I thought the king was Pendragon’s son!” the woman said.
“No, not Arthur,” Loki said. “Merlin. His mother was a mediocre witch but really surprisingly beautiful for a mortal.”
“She… she always said Merlin was a devil child,” the woman stammered, looking terrified.
“I would guess that’s not precisely what she said,” Loki countered. “Perhaps closer to say he was born of the one with horns?”
The woman blinked.
“That is indeed what she said, word for word, or so my mother told me. I thought she was avoiding saying the other directly out of fear.”
“Yes, bothering powerful beings by drawing their attention rarely ends well for mortals,” Loki said significantly and gave her a withering look.
“Where is your son now?” the young man asked, eyes narrowed.
“I’ve no idea,” Loki lied.
He knew perfectly well Merlin was slumbering inside an oak tree not three miles from here and probably would be for several centuries. He had even deigned to put a few protective charms on it. While no one could accuse Loki of sentimentality, family was family, after all, and Merlin was at the very least interesting, if a bit of a stick in the mud.
“Who am I even speaking with?” Loki asked, his impatience coloring his voice with a tinge of danger.
The woman swallowed, but he could tell she did not lie when she said, “I am Morgan, called le Fay. This is my son, Mordred.”
It was an intriguing choice to answer truthfully. She had just given him a bit more power over both her and her son, and she undoubtedly knew that. Even the basest amateur learned quickly never to bandy their true name about. Still, one part of it was less than perfectly honest.
“But you are not one of the Fae,” he said. “I know them. Rather intimately, in fact.”
“No, but I have a small skill with charms and spells, so fools misname me in their ignorance,” she said.
“A common outcome,” he said.
“We would crave your opinion on what to do about the king,” Mordred said abruptly, seemingly trying to bring the conversation back to his own interests.
“Why does anything need to be done about him?” Loki asked. “Is he a fool or a wastrel, bankrupting the country, picking impossible fights resulting in endlessly bloody wars?”
“No,” he said.
“He sounds boring,” Loki said, sitting down and poking at a stone pestle sitting on the table. “Powdered nightshade? How droll. Whom are you planning to kill?”
“You see,” the woman said, pretending not to hear, “Arthur has no heir.”
That caught Loki’s attention. He turned his head swiftly and gave the woman a piercing look.
“A kingdom without an heir is like a fine farm with no crop,” Loki said. “There is no future in it.”
“Just so,” Morgan said, beaming with excitement at his agreement. “But, you see, there is an heir, or rather there should be, though he is unacknowledged.”
“What? A fine boy got upon a peasant woman? Or perhaps the supposed child of a duke whose duchess caught the king’s eye?”
“No,” she said. “Mordred is his son.”
Loki paused for a moment.
“You are his mother?” he said pointing to both of them in turn.
“Yes.”
“And Arthur is your brother.”
“Half-brother.”
“And this one is that one’s son?” he said, grimacing in disgust.
“I didn’t know he was my half-brother at the time!” Morgan said.
“I figured out you were related in literally less than five minutes when I hadn’t seen him in over a decade,” Loki said, still looking repulsed.
“It’s not my son’s fault,” she said defensively.
“No, it is not,” he admitted, “but I would hardly publicize it. You’d both stand a good chance of being burned at the stake. Granted, Arthur might be burned as well into the bargain, but I doubt you hate him quite so much as to throw yourselves on the flames to see his demise.”
“I want the throne!” Mordred said, slamming his fist down on the table. “I am the son of Arthur Pendragon, and whatever the circumstances of my birth, I lay claim to the throne of Britain!”
“Wanting the throne is not the same as having it,” Loki said, making each word distinct, as though he were speaking to a child for whom he held no fondness. “You have no chance at inheriting the throne.”
“What about stealing it?” he asked, smiling, his teeth glinting like daggers.
Loki sighed.
“That sort of thing is nearly always possible,” Loki said, “but it usually involves murder, coercion, blackmail, torture, and the ability to accept that history books will paint you as the villain you are. Do you possess that great a dearth of morality, Mordred?”
“Definitely,” he said.
Loki regarded him thoughtfully, nodding a little.
“Yes, you do give that impression,” he said, but his expression still suggested he was smelling something foul. “Regicide is common enough, even if it rarely ends well. I warn you, though, patricide never goes unpunished.”
“You would dissuade me from my course?” Mordred asked, his face falling.
“I doubt my opinion would do much to quench your desire to rule,” Loki said, “but yes. He’s a good king, from all you have told me. The overthrow of a bad one might be forgiven, but if everyone is happy and you spoil it, well, I assure you, you won’t become king by popular accord.”
“So I should spoil their happiness first?” Mordred said.
“It’s a thought,” Loki admitted, wondering if there was a way he might use that idea himself someday.
“Then Camelot shall fall from within,” he said, grinning maniacally.
Really, he was like a walking advertisement against inbreeding.
“If you like,” Loki said, getting up and stretching. “Personally, I find your lives so short that I don’t know why you bother with ambition. And this plan will shorten it further, I assure you.”
“Can’t you fix that?” Morgan said.
“I could,” Loki said. “The problem is I have absolutely no desire to. I find you both repugnant. Do not summon me again unless you desire an angry, fifty-foot long, poisonous viper to pay you a visit. And even then, only if you dust first. This place is filthy.”
Loki disappeared in the requisite blinding flash of light, but he didn’t return to Asgard. Instead, he stopped by the oak tree where Merlin slumbered. He shook his head slightly.
“You will awake again someday,” he said quietly, patting the trunk, “but I think perhaps it is best if you remain unaware for now of whatever is about to happen. It promises to be unpleasant. Until then, dream of roast boar and fresh venison and books by the thousand, and sleep well, my boy.”
Loki stepped back and looked in the direction of Morgan le Fay’s castle. He considered flattening it. She and her son were destined to be trouble, but destiny was just the problem. He could feel the hands of the Norns in this, and their current mood was far from kind. His skin prickled with it. With a shudder, he stepped back between worlds, preferring his own brand of chaos to that which ended kingdoms, even one so small.
“Well, I’m here,” he said, looking disdainfully at the pair of humans, their eyes bulging with shock in the candlelight. “I do hope you have something interesting to say. Wasting my time is unwise.”
The woman, who never seemed to blink, edged the younger male forward. He was little more than a boy, dark haired and with a twisted hand. Something about him sent a chill up Loki’s spine. It wasn’t attraction. He could feel that this one was intent on starting his own version of Ragnarok, and the Norns seemed to whisper he would succeed in creating an ending of legendary proportions.
“Trickster, you are welcome here,” he said. “We crave guidance.”
“Do what you want and don’t get caught,” Loki said flippantly. “There. How’s that?”
The woman stifled a chuckle, and he regarded her more carefully as his eyes adjusted to the light.
“There is something familiar about you,” he said, but he couldn’t put a name to it.
He was fairly certain he hadn’t seen her before. There was some sort of resemblance to another, but he couldn’t place it. She wasn’t quite beautiful, a few mortal years beyond her peak, but the eyes were striking. They were an unusual shade of blue, and her face was heart-shaped. His brain clicked the image into place.
“I recall a boy who resembled you,” Loki said slowly. “Are you kin to anyone named Arthur?”
“My half-brother. You have met him?”
Loki sniffed dismissively.
“Yes. I was invited here before by Merlin to teach the boy a bit about shape-shifting,” he said, looking about the room to hide his interest. “Tell me. What happened to him?”
“He is king of Britain,” she said.
“Well, I suppose that’s something,” he said, shrugging. “He never had any gift for magic, though. Couldn’t turn a pin into a needle. I wasted a good amount of time on him.”
“Why would you bother?” the young man asked.
“Paternal kindness,” he said with a shrug.
“But I thought the king was Pendragon’s son!” the woman said.
“No, not Arthur,” Loki said. “Merlin. His mother was a mediocre witch but really surprisingly beautiful for a mortal.”
“She… she always said Merlin was a devil child,” the woman stammered, looking terrified.
“I would guess that’s not precisely what she said,” Loki countered. “Perhaps closer to say he was born of the one with horns?”
The woman blinked.
“That is indeed what she said, word for word, or so my mother told me. I thought she was avoiding saying the other directly out of fear.”
“Yes, bothering powerful beings by drawing their attention rarely ends well for mortals,” Loki said significantly and gave her a withering look.
“Where is your son now?” the young man asked, eyes narrowed.
“I’ve no idea,” Loki lied.
He knew perfectly well Merlin was slumbering inside an oak tree not three miles from here and probably would be for several centuries. He had even deigned to put a few protective charms on it. While no one could accuse Loki of sentimentality, family was family, after all, and Merlin was at the very least interesting, if a bit of a stick in the mud.
“Who am I even speaking with?” Loki asked, his impatience coloring his voice with a tinge of danger.
The woman swallowed, but he could tell she did not lie when she said, “I am Morgan, called le Fay. This is my son, Mordred.”
It was an intriguing choice to answer truthfully. She had just given him a bit more power over both her and her son, and she undoubtedly knew that. Even the basest amateur learned quickly never to bandy their true name about. Still, one part of it was less than perfectly honest.
“But you are not one of the Fae,” he said. “I know them. Rather intimately, in fact.”
“No, but I have a small skill with charms and spells, so fools misname me in their ignorance,” she said.
“A common outcome,” he said.
“We would crave your opinion on what to do about the king,” Mordred said abruptly, seemingly trying to bring the conversation back to his own interests.
“Why does anything need to be done about him?” Loki asked. “Is he a fool or a wastrel, bankrupting the country, picking impossible fights resulting in endlessly bloody wars?”
“No,” he said.
“He sounds boring,” Loki said, sitting down and poking at a stone pestle sitting on the table. “Powdered nightshade? How droll. Whom are you planning to kill?”
“You see,” the woman said, pretending not to hear, “Arthur has no heir.”
That caught Loki’s attention. He turned his head swiftly and gave the woman a piercing look.
“A kingdom without an heir is like a fine farm with no crop,” Loki said. “There is no future in it.”
“Just so,” Morgan said, beaming with excitement at his agreement. “But, you see, there is an heir, or rather there should be, though he is unacknowledged.”
“What? A fine boy got upon a peasant woman? Or perhaps the supposed child of a duke whose duchess caught the king’s eye?”
“No,” she said. “Mordred is his son.”
Loki paused for a moment.
“You are his mother?” he said pointing to both of them in turn.
“Yes.”
“And Arthur is your brother.”
“Half-brother.”
“And this one is that one’s son?” he said, grimacing in disgust.
“I didn’t know he was my half-brother at the time!” Morgan said.
“I figured out you were related in literally less than five minutes when I hadn’t seen him in over a decade,” Loki said, still looking repulsed.
“It’s not my son’s fault,” she said defensively.
“No, it is not,” he admitted, “but I would hardly publicize it. You’d both stand a good chance of being burned at the stake. Granted, Arthur might be burned as well into the bargain, but I doubt you hate him quite so much as to throw yourselves on the flames to see his demise.”
“I want the throne!” Mordred said, slamming his fist down on the table. “I am the son of Arthur Pendragon, and whatever the circumstances of my birth, I lay claim to the throne of Britain!”
“Wanting the throne is not the same as having it,” Loki said, making each word distinct, as though he were speaking to a child for whom he held no fondness. “You have no chance at inheriting the throne.”
“What about stealing it?” he asked, smiling, his teeth glinting like daggers.
Loki sighed.
“That sort of thing is nearly always possible,” Loki said, “but it usually involves murder, coercion, blackmail, torture, and the ability to accept that history books will paint you as the villain you are. Do you possess that great a dearth of morality, Mordred?”
“Definitely,” he said.
Loki regarded him thoughtfully, nodding a little.
“Yes, you do give that impression,” he said, but his expression still suggested he was smelling something foul. “Regicide is common enough, even if it rarely ends well. I warn you, though, patricide never goes unpunished.”
“You would dissuade me from my course?” Mordred asked, his face falling.
“I doubt my opinion would do much to quench your desire to rule,” Loki said, “but yes. He’s a good king, from all you have told me. The overthrow of a bad one might be forgiven, but if everyone is happy and you spoil it, well, I assure you, you won’t become king by popular accord.”
“So I should spoil their happiness first?” Mordred said.
“It’s a thought,” Loki admitted, wondering if there was a way he might use that idea himself someday.
“Then Camelot shall fall from within,” he said, grinning maniacally.
Really, he was like a walking advertisement against inbreeding.
“If you like,” Loki said, getting up and stretching. “Personally, I find your lives so short that I don’t know why you bother with ambition. And this plan will shorten it further, I assure you.”
“Can’t you fix that?” Morgan said.
“I could,” Loki said. “The problem is I have absolutely no desire to. I find you both repugnant. Do not summon me again unless you desire an angry, fifty-foot long, poisonous viper to pay you a visit. And even then, only if you dust first. This place is filthy.”
Loki disappeared in the requisite blinding flash of light, but he didn’t return to Asgard. Instead, he stopped by the oak tree where Merlin slumbered. He shook his head slightly.
“You will awake again someday,” he said quietly, patting the trunk, “but I think perhaps it is best if you remain unaware for now of whatever is about to happen. It promises to be unpleasant. Until then, dream of roast boar and fresh venison and books by the thousand, and sleep well, my boy.”
Loki stepped back and looked in the direction of Morgan le Fay’s castle. He considered flattening it. She and her son were destined to be trouble, but destiny was just the problem. He could feel the hands of the Norns in this, and their current mood was far from kind. His skin prickled with it. With a shudder, he stepped back between worlds, preferring his own brand of chaos to that which ended kingdoms, even one so small.
