"This is all your fault, Loki."
Loki rolls his eyes at Thor, who bristles further in his fury. "You always say that," Loki remarks.
"That's because it's always your fault!"
Loki sneers, but says nothing. He's used to arguing with Thor; Thor's opinion of him hardly matters. Thor is a brute and a bully, one whose solution for everything tends towards the 'kill it and worry about the consequences later' variety. Loki seldom has the patience for him. No, the one who matters is Odin, who has been steadfastly silent through the whole conversation, standing at the balcony and staring out at the workman who even now nears completion of Asgard's new wall.
"It's not my fault that he works faster than we thought," mutters Loki, aware that something resembling petulance is creeping into his voice.
"Of course he does! Why else would he have taken the bet?" Thor growls at him.
"Oh, of course, you're so wise, Thor. I can't imagine why you didn't bring this up then."
"Enough."
A single word from the Allfather silences the argument, and both Thor and Loki look up at Odin, whose gaze remains fixed on the distant wall.
"We cannot allow the builder to take Freya," says Odin calmly.
"We should just kill him!" Thor's voice is gruff with frustration. Loki shakes his head in disgust. As he would expect of Thor.
"No." Odin's voice is deep like the history of the world, every word and sound carefully measured before it leaves his lips. "The agreement with the builder was Loki's idea. It is therefore Loki's responsibility to deal with it as he sees fit."
As with many of Odin's decisions, Loki is not certain how to feel. On the one hand, Odin has indeed blamed him for the whole affair, which he does not feel is entirely just. On the other hand, Odin seems to value Loki's judgment enough to rely on him to come up with a solution, which implies a great deal of trust. At once Loki feels both shame for his actions and a desire to live up to Odin's pride in him. This sort of complexity is very much in the nature of conversations with Odin.
"As you wish, Allfather," says Loki, bowing. Thor grumbles, but bows as well. Loki spares not even a glance for the thunder god as he sweeps out of the room.
Loki returns to his own chambers and stares out at the builder, brooding. There must be something he can do, some way to sabotage the project. Odin trusts him to come up with a solution, and so he must.
The agreement had been Loki's idea, as Odin said, and it had seemed foolproof enough at the time. The walls of Asgard lay in ruins from the war, and the Aesir were vulnerable; they needed the heavy stone barricade repaired as soon as possible. Along had come a builder, offering to repair their walls in exchange for the sun and the moon and the hand of Freya. A preposterous price, and none of the Aesir had been willing to pay it.
But the walls needed to be built, and so Loki had concocted the bet. Instead of six seasons, the builder would be given one. If he could complete the task in that time (which was clearly ridiculous), he would be given his price. Otherwise, he would finish the wall and walk away empty-handed. The builder had agreed to this on the condition that he be allowed to use his horse Svadilfari to haul stones in for the construction. And thus a bargain had been struck.
It became quickly clear that they had miscalculated. The Aesir had not counted on the sheer power of the horse, nor the speed of the builder. Svadilfari was a stallion like none had seen, massive and powerful, and the stones he brought his master were immense. The builder has worked quickly—far more quickly than anyone had expected—and at this rate the wall will be finished the following day, the final day allowed by the contract. The gods will lose.
Loki watches them work until sundown, turning the problem over again and again in his mind. The builder seems tireless—unfazeable. He works with lust in his heart for Freya, and it makes him single-minded in his pursuit of his goal. He seems barely to need food or water, and sleeps only a few hours in the evening. Loki knows that whatever it is he plans to do, he should do it then—it may be the only chance he will get to catch the builder unawares.
But how? He knows what Thor would do; Thor would murder the man in his sleep. Perhaps not even wait for his sleep. But Loki is more subtle than that. Loki's pride has been wounded by this turn of events, by the failure of his plan. He wants to prove that he was not mistaken, that the builder should not have come so far so quickly.
It's the horse, Loki decides. Were it not for Svadilfari, the builder would have to haul in the stones himself, or haul smaller stones, and he would never be able to keep up the pace he's been making. They should never have agreed to allow the builder his horse.
It is these thoughts that finally cause a plan to coalesce in Loki's mind. He understands what he can do now, and the simplicity of it makes him smile. The brutality of Thor is nothing to the finesse of his own wiles, and tonight he will prove it.
The night is hollow and windswept when Loki ventures out into it. The wind rattles the trees and groans angrily, leaving the whole world around it restless and rustling. Loki pads quietly out into the darkness, seeking the resting place of the builder and his horse.
He finds them shortly, the builder laid out on a pallet on the ground, the horse standing dozing beside him. They do not yet sense Loki, hiding in a copse of birches nearby. Loki stares at the stallion. As his master is driven by his lust for Freya, so shall the beast be driven by his lust and thus undone. Loki centers the point of his focus inside himself, and begins to change.
The Aesir do not understand the power of transformation, but to Loki nothing could be simpler. It is because they are like rock, straightforward and unyielding, uncomplicated. But Loki is like water, moving and adapting; he understands that the nature of the world is twisting and uncertain, that there are many paths to a single goal, and that any situation can be seen from as many angles as there are eyes watching it. Loki understand the malleability of the world, and thus understands the malleability of himself.
Loki tries to envision a mare beautiful enough to tempt the great Svadilfari. The stallion no doubt has his pick of mates, and will not easily be distracted. Loki pictures firm muscles and strong legs, grace and beauty and power to equal Svadilfari's own.
The familiar feeling of change stretches and shifts Loki's body like a caress. Transformation is always easiest under the light of the fickle moon, rather than harsh and uncompromising sunlight. Loki's form blackens and glossy hair spreads like liquid fire across his skin. He grows—Svadilfari is large, with long and powerful legs, and Loki wants to be certain he can outrun the stallion. Loki's legs lengthen to match, he shifts and twists until he stands as a jet-black mare with stark, bone-white mane and tail, beautiful and strange. Exotic enough, he hopes, to tempt the great Svadilfari.
Loki is nothing if not a master of the dramatic entrance. He circles the builder's encampment an approaches from a rise behind them. He steps up onto the top of the hill just as the temperamental moon breaks from behind a cloud and casts a shaft of silver light to illuminate him.
Loki nickers softly and tosses his tail. In the dim light of the moon, he sees the dark, glittering pools of Svadilfari's eyes upon him. The stallion's attention is riveted to him, nostril's flaring. Loki has ensured that this body he has adopted is in heat, to better tempt the beast.
Svadilfari takes a step towards him, challenging. Loki stands firm. Svadilfari takes another step. Loki fights the urge to back up. For the first time that evening he feels a sliver of doubt push its way into his bloodstream, like a shard of ice. With Svadilfari's full attention on him, he realizes that the horse is more powerful even than he had imagined. The strength and poise in him is obvious in a way it hadn't been before.
Like lightning, Svadilfari is off, racing towards him. Loki turns and flees, pushing his borrowed form for all the strength it can give him.
All through the night they run. The howling wind in the trees is nothing to the way it screams in their ears, breaking against their faces and flowing angrily around them as it attempts to keep up. Chased, hunted like this, Loki feels a freedom he has never before experienced, an exhilarating pleasure in a world narrowed down into nothing but the ground and the wind and the chase. The world is simple for him in away it has never been before.
On and on they fly, acre upon acre of terrain falling away beneath their hooves. Loki is fast, but Svadilfari matches him easily, and the distance between them never changes. As the sun begins to dawn over Asgard, Loki realizes his first mistake.
Svadilfari is larger than he, and has built up his strength hauling enormous stones over great distances. Though Loki may be as fast as Svadilfari, he does not have the stallion's endurance. Loki feels himself tiring, but senses no such weakness in his pursuer.
But Loki is never without tricks. For the past several miles they have been running along the edge of a forest. Thinking quickly, Loki ducks amidst the tall trunks, thinking to lose Svadilfari in the trees. His own form is slightly smaller—he will be more nimble amongst such obstacles than the larger stallion. When he has a moment to hide, Loki can transform back into himself, use his cunning and illusions to trick the stallion into following him deep into the woods. Svadilfari will be lost and unable to find his way back to his master in time.
But once again, Loki underestimates Svadilfari. The stallion slows not a bit upon dashing into the forest. He darts between the larger trees and plows his way through the smaller saplings as though they were not there at all. Loki is startled, feels the beginnings of fear encroach upon him, and spends a moment too long looking over his shoulder.
He trips—his hoof catches on the edge of a root and he stumbles, one front leg dropping out from under him, down to a knee. Mere breaths later Svadilfari is on top of him, then inside him, hot and thick and sudden as a spear through the heart. Loki lets out a frightened, screaming whinny. He tries to fight, but he is large and unwieldy in this form, and Svadilfari has him pinned.
Thinking to become small enough to squirm his way out from beneath the stallion, Loki begins to transform back. The transformation is wild with his panic, uncontrolled, and he is mostly through it when his body seizes up, refusing to complete the change. The intrusive bulk of Svadilfari's member thrust up inside him keeps that part of Loki pinned in the mare's form, his femaleness the only remaining part of him that refuses to change.
Loki feels the hot bloom of the stallion's seed flood his mare's womb, and screams—a horse's scream, but in his own voice. Svadilfari grunts and presses him down a bit harder, showing his dominance.
A few moments later Svadilfari pulls away from him, withdrawing from Loki's abused and strangely twisted body. Loki stays curled where he is on the forest floor, feeling the horse's seed begin to leak from his body. He feels weak, used, shamed. He cannot bring himself to move, until he feels the soft skin of Svadilfari's nose nudge at his entrance imploringly.
Startled, Loki turns and finds himself face to face with the large, intelligent eyes of the stallion. All at once Loki understands that this is no mere beast—Svadilfari has a mind to rival his own, and knows what Loki has done. Staring into that knowing gaze, Loki comes to realize that Svadilfari is aware; he understands what Loki is trying to do and is willing to betray his master—for a price. The nature of that price too is clear.
Loki knows that if he allows Svadilfari to leave now, the horse will speed as the wind back to his master, and Loki's plan will have been in vain.
Again Svadilfari nudges at the remaining female element of Loki's form, insistent. Loki struggles to his feet. Thinking to at least make the process easier on himself, Loki again turns inward on himself and attempts to resume the full form of the mare.
His body twinges painfully in protest. Shaking from nerves and exhaustion, Loki cannot find the focus to overcome the strange unwillingness in his usually fluid form. Svadilfari is watching him, and when he sees he has Loki's attention he rears up, planting one forehoof on the trunk of a tree behind them to keep himself upright.
Standing, this puts Loki roughly at eye level with the horse's enormous manhood. Hesitantly, Loki places a hand on it. Svadilfari whinnies encouragingly.
With a strange, almost mindless resignation, Loki caresses the horse's member. He presses himself up against it, hands roaming the broad surface, and lays his face close to kiss the soft skin. He feels the shudder of the horse's flesh above him, and it seems dangerous, the coiled power laying dormant under the taut skin and glossy, chestnut hair.
With some effort, Loki manages to get his arms around Svadilfari's sides and pull himself up, clinging to the horse's belly like a child to its mother. He slides himself down the animal's large girth until its still-erect cock presses up against his femaleness and he lowers himself, groaning in pain, onto the monstrous phallus.
Svadilfari does not thrust but merely holds himself inside Loki in the manner of horses, stretching and abusing the strange, foreign organs in Loki's body, until he comes in a flood of seed, emptying himself in a long, drawn-out shudder into the welcoming flesh that surrounds him.
Again Loki allows himself to slip off of Svadilfari's member, but again the horse is not content to let him leave. Loki is forced to his knees by the horse's insistent prodding, mouthing at the stallion's enormous length until it stirs to life once again—he cannot fit his mouth around the girth of it, but he does the best he can with his hands and tongue, licking and caressing the horse's member for as long as he can to stave off another penetration.
Svadilfari seems indulgent this time, and Loki receives no warning before the thick, hot liquid begins to gush from Svadilfari's member, seemingly inexhaustible in its supply, covering Loki's face and torso. Loki coughs as some of it spurts across his still-lapping tongue, the bitter taste blooming like shame in his mouth.
Svadilfari steps back until Loki is in front of him once more, and again reaches his head down to nudge at Loki's genitals. Loki's knees are weak from exhaustion, and he's not certain he has the strength to support himself and cling to Svadilfari as he did before. Instead he leads Svadilfari forward into the forest. He feels the skepticism from the horse as though Svadilfari had spoken, but the stallion follows him nevertheless. Loki and Svadilfari both know that there is no way for Loki to escape this fate.
Eventually Loki comes across something like what he was looking for: a large stone nestled against the roots of a tree. The stone is several feet high, the top blanketed in soft moss.
Resigned, Loki hauls himself up onto the rock and lays down on his stomach as close to the edge of the rock as he can get while still maintaining his balance. He spreads his legs open and lies splayed on the rock, waiting.
Svadilfari needs no more encouragement. Within moments he has speared Loki once more, and mere minutes later is flooding him once again with seed.
For the rest of the day they continue like this; Loki lies waiting and Svadilfari takes him at intervals, claiming his body again and again until his seed fairly gushes from Loki's womb, dripping down the face of the rock and staining the floor of the forest.
Again and again Loki feels the weight of the stallion press him down, the sharp, powerful hooves resting on the stone dangerously close to his head, but never actually injuring him. The repeated presence and absence of the horse's phallus in his body begins to feel almost like thrusts, a painfully slow but complete rhythm of penetration that rides his body over and over. Loki's fingers rake grooves into the moss as he clenches and unclenches them.
The sun drifts slowly overhead as Svadilfari continues his claiming of Loki. Loki loses all sense of time, all sense of reality, all sense of his purpose. All he knows is the dominating presence of the stallion and the repeated thrusting intrusion of his phallus into Loki's body.
Finally, as the sun begins to set and the builder's contract expires—undoubtedly in failure, with the power of Svadilfari taken from him—the stallion ceases his ministrations. With a final powerful eruption he empties the last of his seed into Loki's sore and exhausted body.
Svadilfari nickers. His nose nudges Loki's ear with something like affection, warm breath blowing back the sweat-drenched strands of Loki's hair.
Pulling on the last dregs of his energy, Loki turns his face to meet Svadilfari's gaze. The horse's eyes hold no coldness, no infliction of shame or guilt upon Loki. Svadilfari has dominated Loki, fully and completely, and they both know it. Svadilfari feels no need to be smug or hateful about it as a man would. It is simply a thing that has occurred.
Loki reaches up and strokes a hand down the length of Svadilfari's face. The horse nudges affectionately into the touch, and then is gone.
As night begins to pool around him once more, Loki's body finally relaxes from the strain of its abuse. Loki takes several deep breaths and turns his attention inward. The moonlight floods him with the ease of fluidity, and he feels his body start to shift.
But again a warning twinge of pain stops him. Loki feels instinctively that he could push past it if he tried, but he wants to know what causes it first, in case some permanent harm may somehow have been done to him. Perhaps the wrenching incompleteness of his earlier transformation has wounded his very nature.
Loki stretches out the fluid nature of his mind into his limbs, understanding himself and his body, viewing it as though from the outside. And with a gasp, he sees what has happened.
The horse's seed has taken. Even now a spark of life kindles, small but bright, in the horse's womb that yet remains inside him. Loki raises a trembling hand to his mouth. Svadilfari has left a child in him—but what sort of child? A foal? But this is no child of two horses—it is the child of twisted transformation, of the fluidity and change inherent in the universe. It is a child of strangeness, of an incomplete more-than-self. What sort of child will that be?
Loki thinks perhaps he could still transform if he wanted to. If he forced himself to endure the pain, perhaps he could forge past it and force the change to come. But he can do so only if he does it now; once the child begins to grow he may no longer have such a choice. But he also knows beyond a doubt that if chooses to transform now, he will lose the child. The small, fragile flame of life will be snuffed out as though it had never existed.
And somehow, Loki cannot bring himself to do this. He thinks of the power, the nobility of Svadilfari, lord of horses. He thinks of his own mind and cunning, and what future that might breed. And he thinks of death. Even if no one ever knows, ever understands what he has sacrificed today, if he takes the easy, unsubtle, brute way out of this he will never forgive himself.
Loki turns onto his back and stares up at the stars through the boughs of the trees. He still feels the wetness of Svadilfari's seed as the excess drips from his body. It makes no difference now—the seed has done its work.
Loki cannot allow himself to be seen like this. He cannot go back to the Allfather in this state, cannot bear to see the contempt upon Thor's face that he did not see in Svadilfari's. But likewise he cannot give up this child. He will not.
Loki sleeps where he lies that night, on the mossy rock on which he was claimed, while dreams of the future unfold like wisps of colored smoke in his mind.