Log in

Previous Entry | Next Entry

The Queen's Heir: goblin-slayer [now]

Title: The Queen's Heir
Rating: M/R
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe/Norse Mythology/Tolkien's Hobbit
Pairings: Fárbauti/Laufey
Genre: Adventure/Mythology/Family
Summary: then: Something more than just our ability to travel between the Realms was stolen from us this fateful day. This day, when we lost the war, I lost also my son. And I mean to have him back. No matter what it takes.
I am looking.
now: Thrown into a world not my own, I can no longer tell wrong from right, night from day. Two months I spent in the care of the goblins under the mountain. Two months I cultivated my hatred of Odin and spurned all that I had once loved.
I am lost.
WARNINGS: Medieval-typical violence, blood 'n' guts, obscure cultural practices that might squick you out a bit, disturbing imagery, references to violence, abuse, torture, starvation

Thorin never tracked well in battle, fighting was a thing of instinct, not conducive to vivid memory. One thing stood out to him in the haze of running-battle, though. The elf-boy was rather strangely proficient at fighting with an axe, and was sticking to Thorin’s side, covering any and all weak points (unfortunately several, he was used to fighting with two weapons).

They reached a rickety bridge (much like the rest of the construction of the goblins’ city, how they didn’t just lose entire squadrons of goblins just from bridge collapse and falling Thorin did not know), and suddenly the Great Goblin was before them. Falls from great heights apparently didn’t kill goblins. Damned resilient beasts.

“You thought you could escape me?” The Great Goblin cried, and the foul creature’s skull-topped sceptre impacted the bridge enough that Gandalf skipped backwards, before throwing himself back to avoid the subsequent swipe. The dwarfs behind him threw him back to his feet. “What are you going to do now, wizard,” it asked, pinning the old man with a beady eye. Gandalf promptly poked it in the eye and slashed at its belly. It fell to its knees, and something whistled past Thorin’s head. With a sharp thk, Thorin’s axe had embedded itself in the goblin’s skull, and it slowly toppled.

Thorin whirled around, and saw the elf-boy’s throwing arm lowering, emerald-colored eyes burning with a vindictive satisfaction that Thorin had thought elves incapable of. What manner of elf was this boy?

The crack of splintering wood rent the air and suddenly there was no more time to think. They were falling. Thorin threw his arms out, bringing the two nearest him, Kíli and the elfling, flat to the wooden structure.

Gandalf had to be working frantic magic, the way that his eyes gleamed blue-gray through terror and the fast descent. Their bridge-working hadn’t toppled, wasn’t breaking apart entirely. He glanced at the elf. His bright green eyes were gleaming too, a much weaker light. He vaguely wondered if he’d heard anyone ever saying that elves could work magic, and found he couldn’t recall.

The impact jarred all thought from his body.

The second impact, of the Great Goblin’s corpse hitting them nearly crushed several of them. Thorin swore under his breath in Khuzdul.


He was scared. Scared in a way that was starting to make his blood boil to fury. He hated being scared, being out of control, and when he hated something he generally got angry. Usually his rage was a cold, calculating thing, but months of captivity had waned him to instinct and base reaction.

His magic was all but gone. The Void had sucked him dry, the greedy magiclessness of it sucking every drop into its hungry emptiness. This void was not the mythical Ginnungagap from which had been created all things, no, that had always been spun as full of magic and potential. This Void was what had been left, used up of magic and craving to own it once more. The Void had dropped him through a sickening shift, and then out onto a mountaintop, prime fodder for the twisted, malevolent beings that had found him. Two months through their tender mercies, and all he could feel was fear, feeding itself into rage and hatred.

Rage that all the magic he managed to regenerate fed itself back into keeping him alive, rendering him powerless still, though there was plenty of ambient magic to replenish his resources.

Hatred of that which he had loved that had betrayed him. Grief, as well. Questions, that had never been answered, a wound, raw and open and festering.

...no more than another stolen relic?

...locked up, here, until you might have use of me?

...you could have told me what I was, from the beginning!

...why didn't you?

...because i'm the monster that parents tell their children about at night?

The dvergar (for they had to be dvergar of Niðavellir, with the height and breadth of them, and part of him recoiled, remembering the pain of an awl followed by rough, heavy leather cord - never wager with a dvergr, bad for the health, physical and mental) were the first beings other than the twisted, little troll-creatures that he’d even seen since he’d landed on the world. It was a salve to his soul.

The dark-haired dvergr’s eyes were like bright blue brands, burning into the very depths of his soul. So much like -

He cut off his own thoughts, grief and anger and madness looming.

Magic. Shaped to a purpose, it washed over them as they were about to be mauled (again) by the troll-beings, and someone was urging them to fight.

The blue-eyed dvergr paused. Turned. Cut his bonds and pressed the haft of an axe (beautifully crafted, he wondered if it was the dvergr’s own work) into his hands. Commanded him to fight (commanded him to live).

Fight he did, picking up the slack caused by the blue-eyed one’s lack of double weapons, which was clearly his favored style. They fought and ran, led by an old man. Bile rose in the back of his throat, but he refused to draw comparisons between someone who was trying to save his life, and someone who had torn his life to pieces. Instead, he kept his attention to fighting, and the blue-eyed dvergr.

All too suddenly they were cornered, hemmed in on all sides. He’d thought the troll-king had gone over the edge of a platform, but here the hideous creature was. He almost saw white, his rage burned so strongly - the old man was thrown back, but he poked it in the eye and slashed across its belly.

He saw his chance, and the axe left his hand before he really had time to think - live around hotheaded warriors too much and, well...

His aim was true. He killed his tormentor. A heady wash of bloodlust satisfied thrummed through his veins.

Wood cracked. They fell. He was brought flat to the platform by the blue-eyed dvergr, along with a youngling that favored the blue-eyed one’s features. The child was terrified, clinging to the elder. He focused on rerouting what magic he had at his disposal to slowing and stabilising their descent, as he could feel the old man was also doing.

The impact (both of them, really) was unpleasant for everyone. Everyone was sorting themselves out, counting limbs and weapons, aches and bruises. He scrambled upward and wrenched axe from skull win an interesting schlpp and a spray of dark, hot blood. It felt almost scalding where it landed on his face.

Even as he yanked the weapon free, the youngling cried out. He glanced upwards and nearly swore.

The troll-creatures were like a swarm of ants.

Daylight? The creatures were weak to daylight? Of all the absurd things. (Oh, he longs to feel sunshine on his face once more, fresh air in his lungs, grass beneath his feet.) He helps a few dvergar up, and they run.

The sun was almost burning in his eyes, the air scouring in his lungs.

Loki was free, and it felt like the best thing in the world.

Latest Month

April 2013


Powered by LiveJournal.com
Designed by Tiffany Chow