That day again. Somehow he'd come back here. Back to that place that would haunt his memories as a much younger man. He didn't have it often anymore. The passage of time and his ability to quash unpleasant thoughts helped him forget. But now, it's as if he were standing right there. Watching the moment unfold without any breath in his lungs.
It'd been a normal day. He'd been alone, reading the latest spellbook he'd found hidden within the depths of the library. It wasn't like he was hiding. Loki didn't hide. He just liked his peace and quiet, even at that age. And because he liked it so much, he was protective over it—especially when it came to improving his magic. After all, he didn't have Thor's brute strength. But he had wit, and he had cunning. Those were traits he knew would carry him through life.
Thor on the other hand had often been blindly unaware of Loki's achievements. Choosing instead to torment his brother on the obvious differences between them. And his friends...Odin, his friends drove Loki mad. It was no wonder he'd sit up here reading, practising, learning. Loki would likely never admit it to their faces, but avoiding Thor's friends became a skill in itself—a skill that often lead to him having a much better day.
When the book could no longer keep him entertained, he had left the palace, weaving through the crowded Asgardian streets and following cobbled roads into a greener horizon. It wasn't long before he was away—away from the hustle and bustle, down into fields of swaying reeds and tumbling waterfalls. His mother had shown him this place. A place full of untapped magic and unreserved potential. It had been an escape.
And that's how Loki had felt, leaning back in the grasses, closing his eyes and marvelling at the warmth on his face. He'd loved this place. His sanctuary. He didn't have to pretend out here. He didn't have to be strong. He was just him. Loki. The child born with a silver tongue...the shimmer of magic at his fingertips.
As usual, Thor had spoiled it all.
Thor and his friends.
When his brother had trampled through the grasses, raucous laughter on his lips, goaded by his group of idiot lackeys, Loki had never known fury like it. It was all-encompassing. Mind-numbing. Their complete disregard for his space, the natural beauty around them. How they whipped at the tall flowers with their overly large swords. Their taunts at him being a loner, a loser. How he would never see the glory that was soon to be bestowed on Thor.
The words had left his lips before he'd known he'd uttered them. Words of destruction and cruelty that had been weaved into his brain only hours before. For the books, he now was beginning to read were much different from the books his mother would lend him. His thirst for knowledge of the magical arts had grown beyond that now.
And out here, those words took a much stronger form than he could have anticipated.
The spell Loki quickly weaved had sucked the breath from their lungs. Clamped them as tight as squashed bellows. And in the depths of Loki's mind, as he'd watched them all clutch pointlessly at their throats, something inside him had smiled.
It was only when Thor fell to his knees that he realised the gravity of the situation. The hopelessness on his brother's face. Why weren't they fighting back? They always fought back. It'd be a question that would haunt his mind every time he'd think back to this moment.
Loki had tried to pull the power back. He'd never used a spell like this. It was certainly not something Mother would have agreed to him learning. And part of him was shocked that he'd even remembered it, as if the words on the page had taken their own form inside his mind. A living script that used his lips for their own purpose.
"Stop!" he'd screamed. "Stop!" But the spell had continued to squeeze. And the more it squeezed, the more Loki felt their lives start to slip away.
Thor's face had been red, his eyes bulging, his body giving out and laying him prone on the grass. The sword at his side seemed childlike now. Powerless without the weald of a hand. It was a distinct part of this memory that Loki could recall. His brother, weak.
And Loki had never felt sicker.
Again, he attempted to pull the power back. Again, it resisted. And he'd panicked, stumbling forwards not knowing what to do, how to fix it, how to stop it.
"Loki!"
The screams of his mother, the whirls of white light. They pierced the space between them...cut through the darkness and clawing shadows. The same shadows that were claiming the lives of Thor and his friends.
The horror on his mother's face had been reflected on his own. The realisation of him. The blame she laid on him as she worked to free her other son from certain death. It'd been all Loki could do to just sit there, staring ahead, desperate for her to take back what he'd done.
But the sight of Thor's almost lifeless body, lying there in the reeds beside his friends...it came with a thousand repercussions...a thousand threads of guilt...a thousand nightmares. And an eternity of disdain from his father.
And this feeling. This same feeling he'd feel every time he'd wake from a nightmare, remembering the look on Thor's face as he'd dropped to the ground. It'd been exactly how he feels now. Staring at you, his heart thundering, his feet tripping, dragging him forwards into the cave. The same, yes...but also a thousand times worse. Because this time, there's no one else here to help.
"Y/N..." he croaks.
The sound doesn't even sound like his voice. Blood pounds in his ears as he strains them, his eyes narrowing on your chest, begging it to rise and fall.
"Y/N!"
The huskies growl, their hackles raised as they jump to their feet in defence of you. And he doesn't blame them. This is his fault.
Please be alive! Please be alive!
The words play over and over inside his head until they bleed into one clanging noise. A noise that sounds remarkably like Asgardian bells, calling for the souls of more fallen warriors.
With a sharp look and magic zinging in his palms, the dogs growl but back off, letting Loki stagger down to the cold ground beside you. You look peaceful almost, as if he could blink and you'd both be back in the igloo. You fast asleep beside him, seconds away from opening your eyes.
But the blood on your lip tells a different story.
"Y/N..." he whispers, pressing a hand to your cheek. It's icy cold, your hair splayed out from inside your furry hood. You'd clearly crawled here by the evidence of snow and dirt on your hands and knees—your nails cracked, palms covered in mud and blood. What must you have thought? How must you have felt when the snow fell, blocking you in? Were you already unconscious by then?
Loki bites the inside of his cheek, unable to stop the guilt welling up as he tries to find a pulse in your neck. After a couple of seconds which seem to last an eternity, he finds one there, spluttering under the surface.
"She's so cold," he says to no one, his teeth now chattering as he slips his arms beneath your back and legs. Despite the layers, you're light—lighter than he remembered. But it could be his mind playing tricks on him. "Hold on, Y/N..." he whispers into your hair, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
Then with an intake of breath and a burst of power, he whisks away, back to the camp.
***
For five days, Loki watches over you, at your bedside.
Back at the main cabin, he has time to contemplate the relatively short amount of time he's spent with you. A blip of time in both his life and yours. And despite that, he can't deny the pure unadulterated fact that he can't imagine being with anyone else. It's not a world that exists in his mind—can barely comprehend what life was like before he came here and began to know you.
Stefan comes in to bring food and drink from time to time. Mostly out of guilt, but also because Loki probably would end up starving himself in fear of looking away from you once and missing a flicker—a sign of life telling him you were coming back to this world. Coming back to him.
Stefan can't work it out. The strange man that he found that night in the forest. His daughter's saviour and guardian angel? What had happened between you both those nights of the storm? Did he even want to know? And more importantly, why had his daughter ended up in this state? Almost crushed to death by an avalanche. You knew these treacherous hills. You knew the dangers they posed in the storms. What did Loki do to make you forget?
Loki doesn't even look up when Stefan places the tray onto the bedside cabinet. His eyes are on you, on your pale face and upturned lips. His hair is messy, clawed back away from his forehead after the hundredth time of shoving his fingers through it.
"You should eat, boy," Stefan says softly, glancing at you.
"I'm fine." Loki sits forward, resting his elbows on his jogging knees. The days have bled into one long nightmare. A nightmare where you never wake up. But it's impossible. How could all of this result in that? How could he have all this power and you be taken from him?
The doctors that came had said it was a bad concussion and a broken ankle. That you just needed time to wake up. Loki had wanted to kill them for their inability to tell him anything useful—like the exact time you would. Even them touching you to put a drip in your arm had been trying enough.
What if I took her back to Asgard? The question had plagued him. It would be against her will. The exact reason she ran from him in the first place. At first, he'd ignored the idea, adamant that this time he would do what you wanted. He would trust in these so-called doctors and let you heal on your own. But as the minutes had trickled by, the hours becoming days, the voice in his head had grown that much louder. Deafening, in fact.
"You don't know me," Loki says stiffly, aware of Stefan's sudden intake of breath. "You probably don't trust me."
Stefan stares at the back of Loki's head, contemplating what to say...whether he's even meant to. "You saved my daughter when I didn't," Stefan says quietly. "I owe you more than my trust."
"But that doesn't mean you freely give it yet."
Stefan frowns, unsure where Loki's going.
"You should know..." Loki starts, turning suddenly to face the old man. The look in his eye is the most intense he'd ever seen. "I would do anything...and I mean anything...to keep her safe. To heal her."
Despite the fear Stefan immediately feels, he can't help believing Loki's words. The gruffness in his voice. The desperation. He believes him completely. "I know that, son. But the doctors—"
"If you believe me, then you must trust I have to try to do what's best for her."
Stefan frowns again. "Of course..."
Loki takes a shuddering breath before stepping towards Stefan. The words he must pick must be silver indeed, he realises. "And so if I tell you I must take her to someone who can help...you must believe that too."
"Someone...who...?"
"Yes. A healer. The most brilliant healer I know."
Stefan takes a step backwards, the intensity of Loki's eyes now boring holes through his own. He can see the sincerity there. The sheer belief in his own words. Words that were now curling like sweet-smelling smoke through his mind.
"And where is this healer?" Stefan croaks, suddenly dazed.
Loki takes a deep breath and drops his hands to sides. "My home," he says, turning back to gaze at your unconscious form. "My home on Asgard."