#finnesang: deleted scenes

[otterskin8]

Stable

It had started as a punishment.

Loki no longer remembered just what it was he had done to earn it. It had been many millennia since, of course, but in truth, it was likely the sheer scope of his little mischiefs that made identifying a specific bit of discipline for a specific bit of fun near impossible.

Perhaps it had been for turning Thor into a frog. He recalled Odin saying something along the lines of ‘If you have such an interest in animals, you can study them closer up.”

That was how he came to be ankle-deep in horse manure.

It was dirty work - a lot of mucking out stables, treating infected hooves, plucking off ticks and scrubbing and oiling the tack. Yet Loki could not wholly resent the tasks, as it did allow him time closer up with the animals. He’d always liked beasts - often preferred their company to that of the court. They did not expect much of you, and there was no sense in putting on airs. You could be honest with a horse in ways you could not be honest with yourself.

His favourite part was grooming. Sleipnir would press his nose against his chest and snort, and Loki would stroke his cheek with one hand while the other, clad in the brush, he’d pull down the horse’s neck. It brought him a great deal of peace to do this.

Which is why he didn’t at all appreciate it when he was interrupted by a boy his own age telling him “You’re doing that wrong."

“This is how Sleipnir likes it,” Loki had said, stubbornly. “I think I know my father’s horse better than some random stablehand.”

The boy had sidled in to stand beside Loki, and to the young prince’s irritation Sleipnir didn’t at all seem to mind.

Looking sideways at him, the youth said with a smirk “What nobles know to do on horses is the same thing they know about everything else, because it's all they ever do.”

“And what might that be?” Loki played along.

“Sitting.”

That had actually made him laugh. “Did you work that one out a while ago and were just waiting for the right opportunity?”

“Well, to be honest, I’ve used it before; never had the chance to tell a nob themselves, though.”

He’d frowned, it suddenly occurred to him that there had to be a reason this servant thought he could get away speaking thus to the son of a king. “And you figured I was in such a powerless position that you could risk it?”

“Yes. Any complaint you could make about a rude stableboy at this point would likely be seen as you trying to get out of your punishment, or cause further trouble. And it is hardly an offence worth hanging me for; I am the best stableboy you’ve got, and that’s not nothing.”

He reached out a dusky hand and took Sleipnir’s nose from Loki, blowing into it gently. Sleipnir puffed his own breath back in his face with a friendly snort. “I am one of the only people around here the king’s horse likes. And the king probably has a better opinion of his horse’s opinion right now than yours.”

“For a moment, I almost liked you there. Thank you for curing that in such short order,” The prince sniffed.

The stableboy brushed that aside. “It’s impressive how much this horse likes you, despite how badly you brush him.”

“I am not doing it wrong -“

But the youth then materialized a series of different brushes from his belt and spent the next hour lecturing Loki on the use of each one, the order he was meant to go with, and how to untangle the mane and safely comb the tail.

Loki hated being told what to do, but he hated not knowing how to do something even more. So he had listened. At one point, the boy had slipped his hand on top of Loki’s inside the brush to show him the correct amount of force to apply to the brushing. It wasn’t as simple as following the hair. It was about flicking the dust loose, sweeping and much as stroking.

That had been the first time he’d felt it. The smallest flutter, in some gangly, unformed part of himself. A spark that would soon light a shameful flame in the lowest parts of his guts.

But, at the start, there had been no shame.

“My name is Sialfi,” the boy had said.

Loki met him two weeks into a three-month punishment. Oftentimes he wished they’d met sooner, that they’d had that time as well.

But at least they’d had time at all. So much wasted on his part - halting, nervous. Unsure of himself or his feelings. It was near the end that he had at last kissed Sialfi.

Allowed to go riding after a day of hard labour, they’d taken a lonely path long past the boundaries they were meant to stay within. When they’d finally reached a vantage point where they could see the edge of the very planet, they were gasping and sweaty, as were their horses. Manure was still stuck to their boots, a few stray pieces of hay in their hair, and a particularly dogged fly ignored their every attempt to shoo it off.

It only made the kiss all the sweeter.

Sialfi. He could remember the name; he could remember his deadpan sense of humour, often mocking and aloof. He could remember the way the sun used to hit his hair, absorbed by the center but always diffused around the edges, creating a halo about his head.

But he could no longer truly remember his face, or what he had tasted like.

After his discipline was over, Loki found every excuse he could to go to the stables. He went riding often, or would claim to be going elsewhere and slip away. Like this, he managed to have a few more weeks with Sialfi. A few more clandestine kisses. A few more moments where they pressed against each other as they groomed their horses together, hands joined in the brush.

Then had come the day he came to the stable and found Sialfi missing. Sleipnir had been agitated; no-one was soothing him. There was no point in searching the place - Sialfi would never have allowed Sleipnir to be in distress. He’d spoken immediately to the stablemaster. All he would say was that Sialfi was a lucky boy, so very lucky, to have been promoted like that. How unexpected. He was lucky to have met you, the King’s son, and gotten a chance to so impress. Odin himself had asked after him, and next thing you know, along came a chance to squire for the Lord Dagur himself. Of course, Lord Dagur was such an itinerant - never in one place for long, always travelling the Nine and beyond, never in one place for long. Off to Vanaheim already, and likely not to stay there for more than a day after that. He never rested, that Dagur.

But how had Sialfi, a boy from such a low family, managed to catch the eye of Dagur?

He wanted to run to his father’s study right then and there, bang on the door, accuse him - accuse him of what? What could he have said that wouldn’t have admitted…did that mean he knew? Or merely suspected?

What if it were purely chance? Dagur had one of the most magnificent mares in all of creation. Skinfaxi, with her mane of light, twice as many hands as the tallest horse - that would surely have caught Sialfi’s attention. Perhaps he’d taken good care of the beast, as he always did, his affection and talent plain for Dagur to see. And on a whim, the Lord had requested him, and who would Sialfi be to refuse such an honour?

After all, it wasn’t like he and Loki would ever be able to continue as they were. Why would he sacrifice his future for a few more moments with the stringy second prince, risking his life for the simple pleasure of besmirching royalty? Why even risk telling Loki, who might be expected to sabotage everything out of spite?

Perhaps it was as simple as that.

So he had waited. In a few more months, he had brought it up at the end of a family meal when it happened to be just him and father left at the table. Asked casually after that stable boy he’d gone riding with a few times. What had ever happened to him?

“Ah,” Odin had said. “I heard that you were close with that boy. I should have said something sooner. Lord Dagur dropped by quite unexpectedly one day, you know how he is. He needed someone to help with his horse; his last squire got himself kicked in the head, and then fell in love with his nurse. No-one quite wants to volunteer their highborn children to a traveller like Dagur, and few of those are any good with horses. But I recalled you once mentioned your friend and spoke highly of his compassion for Sleipnir, which the stablemaster confirmed. I knew that if he were a friend of yours, Loki, he would be of good temperament and sound mind, nevermind his low birth. Such individuals deserve the chance to rise above their station. When Dagur asked for such a companion during that brief stay of his here - I wonder if you even had a chance to notice, he didn’t even stay for the evening feast - I recommended the lad, though I never did hear if he’d accepted.”

“Oh,” Loki had said.

He had lain awake that night wracking his brain for a memory of having ever mentioned Sialfi to Odin, even off-handedly. Yet he was sure he’d only ever said he wished to go riding and take a companion servant along. Sure he’d kept Sialfi’s name obfuscated.

But perhaps all Odin had to do was ask the stablemaster.

And perhaps Lord Dagur would return soon.

He did. Eventually. Many decades later, when Loki had nearly forgotten what that should mean.

He’d stayed for the feast that time, and when he saw Loki he’d clapped his back and told him what had become of his old friend. “Natural with horses, you’d think he had a centaur for a grandfather! I’ve never had a better squire. That is, until he and my sister’s squire ran off with Skinfaxi and Hrimfaxi's foal. But knowing your growing reputation, my boy, I should’ve assumed any friend of yours would be a wily one! I almost admire his gumption. I’m glad Odin asked me to take him on, in the end; a foal is a small price to pay after his years of excellent service. Though he’ll truly need her if he ever shows his face around here. Can’t be letting the small folk get away with such behaviour, or we’ll hardly have a single horseshoe between all of us in a century.”

Dagur had wandered off after that, leaving Loki to wonder about what he meant by ‘glad Odin asked me to take him on’.

He never confronted his father about it. Perhaps Dagur had simply meant to imply that Odin had mentioned Sialfi, perhaps asked Dagur to give a lowborn boy a chance he would not otherwise have. Perhaps that was all it meant.

Or perhaps…perhaps his father had known. And sought to protect Loki from himself.

Loki was old enough to hear how people talked of such things now. Old enough to know to bank that hideous flame and quell half his desires. It wasn’t like all of him was bent like this; there were avenues yet that were perfectly acceptable.

Really, he should thank his father.

He should be grateful.

He should.