THORKI Fan Fictions

Title: Royal Shackles

Most of the horses don't bother lifting their heads as Loki walks down the aisle, either resting or feeding as the sun starts to peek over the horizon. Loki's black mare rests in an adjacent stall to Thor's chestnut stallion, and Loki doesn't want to bother either of them.

There's a loud, impatient snort from the end of the aisle, and Loki looks up to find Sleipnir staring at him from his stall.

Loki smiles and steps up to the stallion, placing a hand on his head and reaching out to pat his neck. Sleipnir snorts again and lifts his head against Loki's hand, and then noses at his shoulder as he steps closer. One of eight hooves scrapes at the ground.

"I'm fine," Loki says quietly, continuing to rub Sleipnir's neck. "You were quite admirable on the Bifröst, not unseating Father." It's a genuine compliment: Sleipnir doesn't need his exalted position compromised, either. Loki wants the best for him and always has.

Sleipnir noses closer to Loki's neck, and he laughs before pushing that large head back down. "This? There's no need to worry—it's only an ornament, like the breast plate Father makes you wear." Sleipnir snorts. "Yes, it's not as heavy, but it is still uncomfortable."

Through the large open doorways, Loki hears the morning birds start to chirp. Soon the stable hands will wake and attend to their duties and likely shoo him away from the All-father's prized steed, regardless of Loki's special privileges with Sleipnir. Maybe those privileges have been snatched away, too, like everything else of his?

"Child," he whispers, reaching back to thread his fingers through Sleipnir's mane, "would you like to go for a morning ride before all of Asgard wakes up?" Another hoof scrapes at the ground, and Sleipnir noses his shoulder again. "Good."

Loki opens the low door to the stall and Sleipnir steps out, all eight hoofs clicking against the ground. To be honest, Loki's forgotten how large Sleipnir is, how his little colt is now all muscle and strength, and it's any wonder he still respects Loki after many years in Odin's service.

A hand on Sleipnir's neck, Loki leads him outside, where the morning sun now glints off the surrounding buildings and the palace behind them. Then he wonders how he'll get onto Sleipnir's back, whether he should really test his arm strength or find a bench, when the stallion lowers its forelegs. "Oh, you are the nicest beast in Asgard, aren't you?" he laughs as he climbs on, and grips at the base of Sleipnir's mane as he rises. "Let's pay Heimdall a visit. He will be overjoyed to see us, no doubt."

They take the less traveled roads between the palace and the Bifrost, yet the sound of Sleipnir's trot still lures some onlookers from their bed and breakfasts. They stare at the horse; they stare at Loki; they whisper in equal parts excitement and derision. Yes, he rides the most royal steed like he is still a prince of Asgard—how else would he ride? Did they expect he would be sequestered to the palace just because of his new, low rank?

Perhaps. The press of the collar to his neck, constant and unyielding, nudges at those very thoughts, but he continues to ride Sleipnir towards the gates, thighs pressing to urge him faster. Loki has never been one to favor the attention of all eyes in Asgard.

The gates that lead out to the Bifröst part as they approach, but the astral horizon is bare and empty now that Heimdall's observatory has fallen. However, Loki can see Heimdall standing at the very edge of the shattered bridge, his sword and eyes focused towards the endless abyss, and he doesn't turn as they approach. Sleipnir slows several paces back—he has always been wary of the gatekeeper—and then lowers his forelegs again, letting Loki dismount.

"Good Heimdall," he says, casually strolling up to Heimdall's side, "You seem to have healed from when we last met."

Loki sees a flash of white steel before he's knocked onto his back, breathless and chest sore. Sleipnir neighs loudly, rearing up, but then only comes so close as to help Loki up, nudging at his shoulder and back as he sits up. Peering down at his chest, touching it tentatively with one shaking hand, Loki realizes that the skin isn't broken. Not even the shirt has ripped.