reindeer_games

Seiðr

Loki has had some time to calm down. Being in his own space, away from the comings and goings of everyone else (and far away from the annoying drunk who seems to think he lives in one the cells downstairs) has helped matters. And there are still the usual parade of guards coming to deliver meals, but for the most part, they let him keep to himself.

The room he's in now is small, but it's private and comfortable at least. There's a desk along one wall, which is where he's at now, quietly writing out a very long list in a language that has been long-forgotten on Midgard; his fingers stained with ink and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There was paper and a pen within the desk, but Loki doesn't trust it. The paper is fragile and the pen makes no sense to him, so he's saved the headache and conjured his own in forms that are familiar to him: heavy parchment and a deep inkwell. For as old and advanced as Asgard is, there are still some aspects that remain hideously outdated by the standards of men. But Asgard is a society of warriors. Those few scholars within the realm are outcast, ergi, and almost universally distrusted. And Loki has been no exception.

The only difference with Loki is that many fear him too much to ever dare insult him. But he sort of likes it that way.

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There is a knock on the door.

Loki doesn't say anything either way. Telling them to go away never works, and whoever it is will almost certainly let themself in regardless of what Loki wants.

The first thing that anyone who knows Sherlock would notice about him, when he (as predicted) steps through the door into Loki's room, is that he is not wearing his omnipresent gargantuan coat.

The first thing that anyone who can perceive magic would notice—although Asgardian sorcery and the sorts of things Sherlock gets up to are quite different on a number of levels—is that he is... wrong, somehow. As though something tore out a piece of him and then glued it back on. Twice. Not a physical piece, but some part of his essential magical nature.

Apart from those, he doesn't look outwardly strange. A little tired, maybe, but nothing worse than that.

"Keeping busy?" he inquires.

Loki does notice. He'd have to be blind not to.

"What have you done to yourself?"

Because this is far more important than his lists.

"Oh, that." He quirks a wry smile. "Did you know it's possible to run out of magic?"

It usually isn't, in a place with as much ambient magic as Sherlock's home universe. The limit is almost always what the caster can handle. People who can handle a hell of a lot of magic (which Sherlock certainly can) might find themselves reaching for sources they didn't mean to use and probably shouldn't, but most of them are not also magical beings themselves, and even if they are the residual ambient magic might be enough to mask the availability of that particular source. On top of which, most people's first reaction to discovering that they can't reach enough magic to cast a spell is not to cast the spell.

Sherlock might very well be the first person ever to discover this method. Hopefully he will also be the last.

"Yes." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"What were you doing? Battling hippogryphs? It is generally advised to take with you those trained with a blade when you do something foolish."

With anyone else, this might sound like gross hyperbole. But considering the shape of the horns on Loki's helmet, it's probably safe to assume that battling hippogryphs is something he's done himself.

"A friend of mine needed a favour," he says, shrugging. "There was a warehouse about to explode. Her world doesn't have any magic of its own. I ran out of what I brought with me, and improvised. Does it really look that bad?"

Yeah, OK. Loki can't actually fault that. There is honour in Sherlock's explanation, even if he did go about it a bit stupidly.

"Learning your limits should have been the first thing you mastered," he says. "If you must experiment, you would be wise to do so away from the battlefield."

"I don't actually see a lot of battlefields," he says, grinning. "But rest assured I am going to experiment. For one thing, a spell that freezes fire is awfully convenient."

Especially for Sherlock.

And for another, he needs to know how permanent the effects are if he's going to be overdrawing himself like this again.

"Oh, by the norns' teeth," Loki mutters. Which part of Sherlock's statement warranted that is anyone's guess. A good guess would be the first part, though.

Face it, Sherlock. Your dad's one of the guys the Vikings... well, not exactly worshipped, because no-one worshipped Loki, but at least held in high regard. Battle's sort of in his blood.

"The humans may think us immortal, but do not make that same mistake. We have ice in our veins, and from that, Mother Yggdrasil has blessed us with a gift. It is a gift to be respected and nurtured. To do any differently is surely asking for trouble."

"I have never thought of myself as immortal," he says. "And I am not about to start."

"Then you are already a step ahead of your uncle."

Either way, it's painfully clear that Sherlock only knows what he does from a liberal application of trial and error. Considering how dangerous this can be, Loki figures he might as well do something to correct the boy's ignorance in this area.

He grabs his ink well from the desk and sits down on the floor.

"Sit," he commands, pointing to the space in front of him.

Sherlock eyes Loki, eyes the indicated spot of floor, shrugs, and sits down.

"You are going to kill yourself if you are not careful," Loki explains. "The seiðr is a very powerful force and should not be misused. Trying to use what you do not have is no better than trying to breathe air that is not there."

He dips his finger into the ink well.

"Midgard still has much ambient magick for those who still know how to wield it. But there are many Midgards, some outside Yggdrasil's boughs, so do not take this for granted should you travel outside of the Realms."

He reaches forward and draws a

on Sherlock's forehead. To keep it from dripping, he blows an icy puff of air onto the ink. If there is anything awkward or unusual about this behaviour, Loki doesn't seem to notice it.

He looks down at Loki thoughtfully.

Unusual, yes. Awkward, no. Useful, in fact, to suddenly have an actual teacher.

The rune Loki drew on Sherlock's forehead is a healing spell, though with the amount of damage he's done to himself, it may be slow to work. Unfortunately, it's all Loki knows, having never got the chance to travel to Alfheim to learn from the Light Elves on the ways of healing magicks.

Next to it, Loki then draws a

for good health, in hopes of boosting the first spell.

"Those born of fire can wield the seiðr, but they can never master it," he explains. "When Mother Yggdrasil created the Realms, she drew from two sources: Niflheim and Muspelheim, one world made entirely of ice, and the other entirely of fire. From Niflheim, she created Jötunheim; from Muspelheim came Svartalfheim and Vanaheim. Asgard was created from a fallen star and placed in her top boughs so that she may see her creation. She drew from both Muspelheim and Niflheim to create Midgard, which she made into her heart, and in the depths of Niflheim, she created Hel, over which reigns a woman no man should ever want to cross. I do believe I've told you about her before."

Yeah, Sherlock's big sister is the Norse devil. So what? At least Loki seems to find it amusing.

"We are from Jötunheim, and the seiðr is our gift. All Jötnar are born knowing how to wield the seiðr, but there is so much more we can do than to manipulate the living ice."

Sherlock knows for a fact that Loki's kind of magic is: not the only kind; not the only kind that works; not the only kind that comes with an origin story.

Nevertheless.

"Go on," he murmurs.

Loki has studied many forms of magic and he's smart enough to know a metaphor when he hears one, but he has never been able to find a better explanation for where the seiðr comes from, so he just sticks to this one.

"You've already discovered that you need Mother Yggdrasil and the seiðr if you wish to cast spells. You can take with you your own internal magick, but it's like any muscle; any strength. You must exercise it and know the limits if you are to use what you create instead of what Yggdrasil gives you.

"You can draw power from any magical source, but you must be wary of where the source gets its power. Even an enchanted item can grant power, but if that item holds a curse, you will draw that negative energy into you. You are a conduit to that which is around you and when that which is natural to you has been used, you can no longer protect yourself from the negative energy.

"There is a story of the Alfar. Originally, there were only the Light Elves, upon whom Mother Yggdrasil bestowed the gift of healing. But there was one called Viðarr who became greedy and tried to use more than what he had been given. He was fighting an Æsir warrior called Yngvi who had cursed his sword to make any blow landed a fatal one. Viðarr drew his power from this, and he himself became cursed. From Viðarr it is said that the Dark Elves of Midgard descended."

"Well, that's exciting," Sherlock says dryly. "Are there no legends about anyone stupid enough to overdraw themselves like I did?"

If there aren't, that is evidence in support of his theory that the only reason he thought of it in the first place was the absolute lack of alternate sources.

"No," Loki says equally dryly. "Because it is the first thing anyone is taught against doing. Even the Æsir, who are fire-born and not known to be wielders of the seiðr are taught to know their limits."

There's a reprimand in there somewhere, if Sherlock can bother looking for it.

It is not exactly well-hidden.

"I wonder why," he says. "It's not exactly pleasant, but it's obviously not fatal, either."

Loki levels a serious gaze at him.

"Only because you stopped when you did.

"Exhaustion in any form can fell even the mightiest warrior."

"I'll try not to make a habit of it, then."

"Very wise," Loki says.

He puts the ink well aside, wiping the remaining ink from his fingers onto his tunic. It was provided along with the room, but even if it was his own, he'd probably treat it with the same lack of care.

"Tell me. What can you feel around us?"

"Milliways," he says. "The absurd quantity of magic and/or divine intervention active on this room. Your presence. Ambient pressure and temperature. What am I meant to be feeling?"

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