A Very Unlikely Tale // Loki

Chapter 21

"Shut up, Onions. We're almost done." I snap at the ill-behaved man-child whose raven hair is draped over my legs.

We're in Frigga's garden sitting on the ground. Well, I'm sitting. Loki is lying on his back.

You have to understand. He was just lying there, eyes closed, not a care in the world. His hair was all sprawled out over the grass looking plain and boring. I saw an opportunity. I took it.

"Flora, for the love of all that is decent, please stop calling me Onions, and please stop- OW!" He ceases grumbling as I yank his hair.

That's right.

I am braiding the God of Mischief's hair.

With flowers.

"I'll stop with the name calling in a few hours. I'm sure I'll get tired of it. As for the hair, it's gonna look great."  I mumble, distracted by my task.

I absentmindedly whip up another patch of wild flowers.  Pink ones this time.

"I will look like a woman." He complains.

I smirk and arch an eyebrow, "Something wrong with that?"

He rolls his eyes, "There is nothing wrong with being a woman.  However, I would rather not look like one."

"It's your own fault your hair is so long." I say pointedly.

He says nothing after that and I continue, finally placing the last flower in its designated spot.

"Awwww, Loki!" I exclaim.

He glares at me, embarrassed.

"You look so pretty!" I fuss over him, fixing the strands that attempt to slip from the braid as he sits up.

"I am not pretty." He retorts.

I begin to laugh at the god, who continues to glare at me as if trying to burn a hole through my skull. 

Fully satisfied with my work, I traipse over to the tree growing in the center of the garden, smiling at the setting sun. I laugh and lean my head against the trunk as Loki attempts to detangle his hair. As I do so I see myself and Loki lying on the grass, having the conversation we had held only a few minutes prior. It was as though I was remembering it, only the memory was so vivid, so real, that it clouded my vision.

With a gasp, I stand up straight and take a step forward, spinning around to study the tree.

Yep, still a tree.

I squint at it and tilt my head.

"Are you alright?" Loki asks from behind me.

He rests a hand on my arm and I jump, "Loki, you said this garden was kind of magical."

He scoffs, "It isn't kind of magical. Magic runs through its very core."

"The tree?" I breathe.

He hums to confirm my guess, "Why do you ask?"

I glance at him for a second before studying the tree again, "Something just happened."

"Would you care to elaborate?" He asks after a moment.

I say nothing. Instead I step timidly up to the tree, prepared now. I brush my fingers against its bark.

Immediately, images of the past few minutes begin to flood my mind. I inhale sharply as the vivid pictures completely block out the world around me. I laugh breathlessly, adjusting to the experience.

Growing surer, I attempt to dig deeper, to see more of the memories made in the garden. Images of myself appear, they are dim, but grow more vivid as they progress. I remember healing this place almost as clearly as the garden itself does.

Going even further back, I am suddenly filled with sadness and grief. A woman in a golden dress stands in a similar position as me, her hands brushing the bark.

"Oh, my son." She breathes, "My poor Loki."

I know who she is. Frigga. Loki's mother. I sense that she is using the tree as well, and push further back one last time.

Images of the woman sitting in the grass, smiling at a raven haired little boy invade my vision. "Yes, Loki. Just like that, but you must be gentle or it will disappear." She instructs the child, who is concentrating on a little glowing green butterfly in the palm of his hand.

"Yes, Mother." He says smiling.

The two continue their lesson until little Loki becomes bored, and begins to chase the queen around the still-growing tree. Their laughter full of joy, the sound like tinkling bells.

Frigga suddenly spins around, catching the small boy up in her arms and holding him close, "I love you, my son." She whispers tenderly.

He smiles up at her, eyes sparkling with innocence, "I love you too, Mother."

I will myself to bring my hand away from the bark of the now-grown tree. I know my eyes are bloodshot and watery from crying and Loki is looking at me worriedly.

"Flora?" He grabs me by the shoulders and stoops to look me in the eye, "What happened?"

I sniffle a little, "I saw-"

I cut off, feeling a lump rising in my throat.

"What, Flora?" He asks.

"I saw your mother." I whisper.

He stiffens, dropping his arms. His eyes widen and his lips seem to be forming the word, 'What.'

I point at the tree wordlessly, still shaken up by the experience.

He steps around me and places his hands on the bark. He gasps but calms as he adjusts to the magic.

I wait silently for him, calming myself down. I don't know how much he will choose to see, or how he will react to seeing it. He shudders and inhales deeply. After a few more moments his hands drift away from the bark and he turns slowly to reveal his tear stained face.

He stares at the ground and says nothing, does nothing. He stands stock-still and silent.

"Loki?" I ask gently.

He reluctantly lifts his head, eyes still downcast. I'm not entirely sure what to do, so I reach out and brush his hand with my fingers. His brow furrows slightly and he brings his eyes up to meet mine. They are shining with tears and after a few seconds he begins to sob, horrible, anguished choking sounds catching in his throat. I pull him close, wrapping my arms around him and hugging him tightly. He clings to me, his face buried in my shoulder.

"She's dead because of me." He sobs, "I told him where to go."

I don't know what happened before I met him, so I say nothing and neither does he. I only squeeze him tighter, trying to help.

Eventually, he calms enough to make it to his room, and I run a bath for him. I wait on a little chair in the corner of his room and when he is finished and changed into his nightclothes I push him gently towards his bed, telling him to try and sleep.

He asks me to stay, which I do, only leaving to change into my own p.j.'s. I stroke his hair until he falls asleep, and I study his face, cherishing how peaceful he looks. I know his tranquility won't last.

There will be nightmares tonight.