Loki's not feeling himself. Perhaps that's why he makes a deal with a witch of the swamp, disguised as Julia, in exchange for
power.
⚠ None.
There were deals to be made at the Goblin Market, but not the kind Loki was interested in. He had no interest in pittance or scraps. His desires were too grand. Too great. Too big to be bartered with the same kind of people who traded love potions for a forgotten memory or good looks for a smile. No, to fulfill his desires, Loki would need a more formidable power. And a more vulnerable trade.
Thankfully, however, information at the Goblin Market was easier to acquire. Particularly if one knew where to look and how to listen. And, being well-versed in villainy and unscrupulous arrangements, Loki knew exactly where to look and what to listen for.
The rumor was of a witch who lived in the swamps a day’s walk from the market. Well, at least, from wherever the market had been when Loki found it. He was under no assumption that the merchants of this realm hocked their wares and crafted their bribes in the same locale day in and day out. In fact, he was under the impression that they moved around. Magical tricksters that they were. Loki would have done the same if he were one of them.
Was it a risk venturing out into this unknown terrain on his own? Of course. But Loki had spent his entire life on his own. And this realm was no worse than the one’s he’d visited in his Derleth. If anything, this was a vacation. There were no horrors here. And the threats were minimal. In fact, he found this place quite malleable. It would be a nice world to settle on. And therein was Loki’s prime directive. To ensure that this overgrown Green became Derleth’s final pit stop. Why? Because this was a world he felt he could control. And, if the rumors of this swamp witch were true, then he would be right.
All he had to do was make a worthy trade.
How hard could that be?
Time was difficult to determine in this place. The sky was a constant shade of murky green. It was neither day nor night. Occasionally he thought he caught a flicker of a familiar face in the sky, but he shook it off and continued on. He knew he’d reached the edge of the swamps when the ground began to soften and his boots sunk into the mud an inch deep. He continued further on, until he was firmly within the boggy marsh. And then he made his offering. The sacrifice rumor had it, which would awaken the witch from the depths of her damp quagmire.
He cut off a lock of his hair. Hair that technically wasn’t his, but that was philosophically debatable. Then he tied it in a knot and dropped it in the marsh, watching as it sank into the gurgling peat.
The air was heavy, sitting on skin and clothing like soup, bringing with it a fog. It grew thicker and thicker, until it might threaten to suffocate someone of a weaker constitution, before clearing, leaving the air bitterly cold in its wake.
All hail, Loki, hail to thee, prince of Asgard! All hail, Loki, thou shalt be king hereafter!
In the distance was a witch. She had not spoken and yet her words were heard clearly. Behind her, a light came on in a queer triangle shaped house that had not been there only moments before.. Her hair was ink black and straight, and her fingers were also stained the same color. Her flesh was pale and covered in tattoos of her own making, alchemical symbols which only helped focus her immense power.
The witch of the swamps motioned for him to come closer.
Her dress was very fine, made of taffeta and silks, cutting a silhouette as striking as the house behind her. With each step Loki took closer, her image began to change.
No, maybe had not seemed so tall against the house and trees as she had to start. Surely, it must have been a trick of the light. For each step, the witch seemed shorter, certainly shorter than the trickster himself.
And… perhaps her hair had not been black as pitch, or straight as flowing ink. There was curl to it, and again, it must have only been the light. For her hair was a softer brown in color. Just as long, but nothing so drastic or dramatic as her first impression.
And her flesh? Not pale, but sun kissed. Perhaps she’d merely felt ill when summoned. The witch had a healthy and radiant glow about her as Loki approached.
She looked like Julia.
She was Julia.
The witch wanted him to see Julia. To mistake her for his Julia? To make him forget she wasn’t.
Her fingers were still stained black, and her bare arms were covered with the strange tattoos and markings that did not match Julia’s tattoos. But she smiled and those differences seemed to matter less. There was warmth and gladness to see him, a light behind her eyes that somehow she knew he’d always wanted.
And now it was his.
Let me help you.
.
Her lips did not move. Was this a manipulation? Or merely how she communicated?
To the heights you so richly deserve.
Would he fight her influence or accept it?
The way you helped me.
Julia had never offered him love before, but now, it could be his. He only had to reach for it. Sweet as a house made of candy.
It was surprising how quickly his mind chose to forget the first image of the woman he saw. How desperate he was to believe that this was another Julia. Another version of the hedgewitch he’d left in the Desolation. A variant of the woman he thought he loved. Well, love. Such a funny and fickle thing. Could it really be love if it was wrapped in obsession? If it was tied up with a bow of power? Could it be anything more than infatuation if it was one sided? And it had always been one sided. Even here, in this Derleth, he suspected the same. The tension was there. The desire was present. But Julia was still a cold blank slate. In many ways, more frigid than a Frost Giant.
She beckoned him closer and he did not disobey.
He knew somewhere deep inside of him that this was not one of his witches. That she wasn’t really Julia. But Loki had a strange fascination with the Julia Wickers over the multiverse. And thus he chose to believe it was her. Not his. Not the Julia that this Loki had tried—and failed—to entice. But another. Perhaps the one he really wanted.
Or the one he needed.
But the way she looked him with those warm eyes—that felt like a dagger to the chest. Not the god-killing sword that Loki had allowed her to jab through his heart. But one of his own daggers. Sharp and thin and prickly.
“You already know what I want? You already know what I’m going to ask?”
Of course, it was probably obvious. Loki—this Loki—had never really seen the point in denying his desires. His lusts, passions, lifelong goals. He went after them. He went after them ruthlessly. His history had proven that. He didn’t let people get in his way. He’d made mistakes. All Lokis did. But he stayed the course. He didn’t stray. Power was a long game. Manipulation an even longer con. Most Lokis didn’t have the stamina for it. That’s what made him different. That’s what made him better.
She was in his mind. In his thoughts. Possibly even entwining herself around the frozen wasteland of his heart. But Loki didn’t mind. If that was the price he had to pay for his success then so be it. He’d sacrificed worse. He’d sacrificed everything when he used the stones. What was a little telepathic intrusion to him?
Loki smiled. By the time he was within reach of her, his legs were calf deep in the muddy swamp.
“I do deserve them,” he said. “I deserve everything. And I am willing to give everything in order to obtain it.”
What did he have to lose? His immortal soul? Surely he’d already lost that with the snap!
Not everything. Just one thing.
Julia frowned solemnly. Loki, sunken into the dark waters, and the witch, standing atop it, nearly made up for the differences in their height. She was just barely above his eye level, just barely casting her gaze downward to hold his.
The witch wearing Julia’s face embraced Loki, pulling him to rest his head upon her. She was boney and frail, much more than Julia’s petite appearance should have felt. The swamp witch kept herself alive by power. She knew Loki’s thirst for it, for it was her own as well, though there was little left of her besides dust, bone and magic. Her blackened fingers traced a line from Loki’s temple, down the side of his face to his chin.
Beyond the forest lives a queen, never married. Her childish understanding of a true and perfect love has driven her mad, incapable of truly loving another. Her kingdom suffers in her delusion.
I can arrange a match. She will believe any lie you tell her, as long as you keep your tongue sweet. But lies will not be enough. She will require a dowry. The cost is steep, but not unbearable. I could arrange this for you, I would give you all that you ask.
If she were being this straight forward, clearly she must of had his best interests at heart? There was an extreme lack of deception, a painful and blunt honesty. How could this not be a Julia? One that loved him in the way that he deserved, that he had always deserved. If only those other versions of her could only see it.
You need only visit me again. I will take your heart to her, which will not compel you toward her in anyway, but she would hold your life in her possession. Dangerous, but I know how clever you are.
And then she smiled, her face lit up with pride.
My King.
It seemed too good to be true. But weren’t all wishes? Granted, most people would consider the price too steep. It wasn’t exactly an easy request. Two things were being asked of him for only one in return. His hand and his heart for a kingdom. For a crown. As for the marriage, that meant nothing to Loki. That was an easy choice. His parents had always planned to wed him off for the realm anyway. It was a concept he’d grown up preparing for. And marriage didn’t require love. It didn’t require affection or sympathy or even interest. It just required his presence on occasion and a few flowery words. His heart, on the other hand, was a more difficult sell. Loki had heard of that kind of magic. The Elsa of his Derleth had spoken of its use in her realm. Hearts removed and held for ransom. Used to manipulate and deceive.
But was it enough to keep Loki from striking a deal? From making a bargain?
The Swamp Witch drew her black fingers along his face and he felt a shiver slither down his spine. Again his subconscious reminded him that this wasn’t Julia. It didn’t smell like her. Didn’t feel like her. But he wanted it to be her. And sometimes want was more powerful than the truth. Sometimes desire more impressionable than the facts.
And maybe it proved that this Loki did have the capacity for sentiment—or maybe it simply cemented the dark ego of his mind—but he didn’t mind the frail, bony touch of her shoulders as his face pressed against her. Or the musty layer of dust that fell from her skin as though she were made of ash.
Because maybe that was the Julia he deserved. And maybe he knew that.
“I will not be tricked. It has to be a real kingdom. With a castle and land and subjects. I will not reign over nothing. It must be a realm that I can transform into my own. A place I can mold into a formidable stronghold. A power in this land. A place where I can prove once and for all what I was born to be.”
A king.
But what of this queen and her command of his heart?
Loki pulled his face away from her chest in order to look her directly in the eyes. Julia’s eyes. But also not Julia’s eyes. “And what happens to my heart if this queen dies? People don’t live forever. Also, you say she’s mad. What are my reassurances that she won’t destroy my heart without reason while I sleep?”
A real kingdom. The witch nodded gravely with all of Loki’s demands. Of course it would be a real kingdom? Would she offer him any less? She stroked her fingers through his hair. Why trick him in such a manner? Not when she could give him exactly what he wanted.
What one of them wanted, anyway.
And reassurances? A very reasonable question, but the witch smiled as though he were being silly. As if he were missing the most obvious answer in the world.
Your cleverness, of course.
He was wise to question the offering, to check for the trap laid before him. And yet, he seemed happy to walk into it all the same.
It may be tiresome at times, but you are a god of mischief. This world is still small, but you will make it large. Without you, it will wither.
Was she merely playing to his ego or was it something else? Could there have really been a kernel of truth to what the witch said?
There always was.
That was what made them so dangerous.
His cleverness.
But how often had Loki been the victim of his own cleverness? That was the ultimate act of mischief for the trickster god. As smart as he was, as wry and witty as he was, he was often the casualty of his own ingenuity. He was always his own undoing. His intellect. His tricks. His illusions. Eventually they all came back to haunt him. Just as they had on Asgard. On Jotunheim. On Midgard. And on Derleth. Both his Derleth, surrounded by the harsh winds of the Desolation, and this Derleth—the one he’d failed to capture the first time around.
Loki pursed his lips as she stroked her fingers through his hair. He didn’t trust her. But he didn’t trust himself either, so that wasn’t much of a badge of honor. And she was right. He was a god. People had argued that over the ages. Even other Lokis sometimes questioned the verity of that. But not this Loki. This Loki knew it to be true.
Born a god. Meant to be a king.
Let the other tricksters have their obsession with love or family or friendship. He didn’t need any of that. He didn’t care about any of that. He just wanted to rule. He just wanted his crown. The one that would last forever.
It was her last line that convinced him. Because as smart and as sneaky as Loki was, he was always at the mercy of his own ego. And she deftly managed that.
Without you, it will wither.
Sold.
“I accept your terms, Witch.”
The witch, still wearing Julia’s face, placed the fingertips of her left hand in a circle around Loki’s heart. It didn’t hurt.
Psychic surgery was real. At least, it came from somewhere real, for the witch’s black fingers seemed to sink slowly into Loki’s flesh without pain, then her hand. It looked like a cheap magic trick, like finding a quarter behind a child’s ear. Only instead when Julia she pulled her hand out bloodlessly, the witch held Loki’s heart in it instead.
Tha-thump! Tha-thump! Tha-thump!
The witch looked pleased with her new treasure. It could not contain Loki’s love, his feelings were still his own, and yet Loki did not see how that might possibly make the situation worse.
I will make the offer. I will ensure that the queen accepts. I will tell her how beautiful you are, how mad with love you are. She will hear exactly what she wants to hear.
The swamp witch picked up a small chest made of iron, which appeared seemingly from nowhere, where she delicately inturned the living heart. The chest disappeared and with it, Loki’s pulse.
It didn’t hurt. It should have hurt, but it didn’t. If anything the witch’s fingers sinking into his chest and removing his heart felt like little more than a tickle.
But the mental panic was painful. Not the Space King’s panic. He was prepared. He didn’t care. It was a simple sacrifice. What did he need his heart for anyway except to live? And even then it was debatable if he really needed it. Technically this wasn’t even his heart to begin with and he was still alive. Living in the body of another Loki while his heart thumped comfortably in his own body, which was probably left for the buzzards on the field of the Desolation, resetting every seven days in a nightmare-fueled Sleeping Beauty rest. No, this Loki didn’t panic when the witch pulled his heart from his chest.
But the other Loki did. The one he’d managed to suppress for the week. The one who was stuck in the back of his mind, uncertain as to whether or not this was real or a dream. The Loki who didn’t know what he wanted in life.
This Loki knew what he wanted. He could decide for them both.
Seeing the heart placed in a box, however, did give Loki a moment’s pause. That little voice of rarely-listened-to reason asking him if this was really such a good idea. He knew the answer to that. But again, what did he have to lose?