Hours into the feast, drink was flowing freely, words were starting to slur, and tales were growing wild. Loki sat, half-listening. Beside him – Sif, the traitor, had left to partake in an arm-wrestling challenge - Thor was laughing along as Fandral floundered through a mead-addled memory. His brother himself, though, was not as drunk as was once his wont. It unsettled Loki, this stranger that was no stranger. He made up his mind to leave, but as he pushed back his chair, a messenger, with the quick stride that signaled important news, approached the high table, slapping a fist to her chest.
Both Thor and Loki tensed; news was rarely good any more. She spoke only a few words, pitched so that only the high table could hear. A moment later, she bowed and stepped aside. Tyr and Odin rose. Tyr stalked out with his rolling gait. Odin thumped Gungir on the ground and a thrum of power rolled down the aisles, clearing away the din and drunkenness.
“Honoured guests – “ Odin’s voice, when projected, was like an echo in high mountains, “The duties of Asgard call, and we must leave you. But I bid you remain and fill our absence with your revel.”
He swept out of the room. On his way, his gaze found Thor and Loki and he gave them a slight nod. Loki knew it for what it was: a summons. This much at least was familiar and unchanged. He and Thor exchanged a look and in it Loki felt the echo of memories, of a time when speech had been unnecessary between them. They took their leave with few words and less ceremony, their friends long familiar with the calls of duty, and made their way to Odin’s study.
