A/N: Written for a prompt on Norsekink LJ. The holmgang law is based on an actual old law text from Kormáks saga, thanks to good old Wikipedia.

Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.

suggested music for the fight scenes: „Mayenzeit" by Schelmish, or „Die with Honor" by Manowar

Lokas Holmgang

Eventually, the Allfather decided to send Loki to Midgard, disguised with a glamour, his mouth sewn shut for his own protection as much as the mortals'. No spellwork, no lies, and no telling anyone of his Jotun heritage.

Thor went down to the dungeons to inform his brother. When nearing that special cell, he heard rythmic thudding, and the mutterings of guards: „ … hopping mad ...", „ … bag of cats."

The thunderer quickened his steps.

Rounding the corner, he stopped, taking in the unexpected scene. Two guardsmen – still oblivious of his approach – stood watching, laughing softly, as Loki inside the whitewashed prison room wielded the bedside table in his left, jamming it into the wall over and over again.

Step back, raise table, lunge, thud. Step back, swipe left, lunge, thud. And then, with his right, he threw the water bottle. The thing, being made of unbreakable dwarven glass, of course bounced off.

The guards chuckled. „Batshit crazy." „Told you so. Bet still stands. Ragnar says he's been at it for weeks."

Thor cleared his throat. The guards turned and stood at attention. „Your highness!"

„You will not speak ill of your prince. He is my brother and a son of Odin."

„Yes, your highness."

„Leave!"

The guards shouldered their spears and scuttled off.

„You must be truly bored to come down here. Come to mock, or gloat?" The god of lies sat down heavily on the cell's single chair, a sheen of sweat on his brow and chest. He looked pale.

Thor noticed his brother's hair had grown long and wavy, much like Volstagg's. Had it really been so long since their return from Midgard? Yet, Loki had not grown a beard. He never had, the thunderer idly mused. They had teased him a lot about that, back in their days of youth. Until so many ladies of the court had fallen for the younger prince's smooth face, and he'd had set a fashion trend. Back then, even Thor had shaved for a while. Now with the knowledge that Loki was a Frost Giant by birth, the more surprising thing was he had hair at all.

„Neither, brother. Father has made up his mind about your punishment. Ready to hear it? And do not cause me any trouble!"

And Loki grinned. „When do we start?"

Only the small council sat assembled – well known courtiers like Bragi, Tyr and Freyr. There was no need to call in the Allthing when a father delivered judgement on a son still living under his roof. Not even uncles Vili and Ve had bothered to leave their mountain castles to witness their nephew's newest punishment.

The buzzing of voices ceased when the princes entered the golden hall, Thor dragging Loki by the bicep. The thunderer took his own seat at Odin's right.

Standing alone in the middle, hands in chains, long hair unkempt, and clad only in simple green shirt and trousers, his little brother looked small and vulnerable in this hall of warriors in shining armour. Yet the trickster smirked.

„Loki!" Odin intoned; then, after a pregnant pause: „My son. For your crimes against your brother, Asgard, and a realm under our protection, I declare that you will be ..."

„No." Loki interrupted.

Outraged muttering broke out and ceased only when the Allfather stood and raised his hand, but it was Loki who spoke again.

„Spare your breath." Pause. „Father." Smirk.

Standing tall and proud, shoulders back, gaze around the audience. Silvertongue had everyone's rapt attention.

„I demand trial by combat, as they did in the old days of grandfather Bor's reign. Crimes – I committed not. Everything I did was done for Asgard – as her lawful king. Noone shall slander my name by saying otherwise. Name your champion, Allfather. I will fight him to the death."

The next day, Thor sat in the library, studying out of his own free will for the first time in his life.

„Such is the holmgang law: The carpet shall be five ells long,"

On the margin, some jokester had scribbled the question whether that was in reference to the bearskin rug Bor had fought Böltun on to gain his daughter Bestla's hand in marriage, or if the size matched a skinned Jotun.

„fastened with the carved poles called tjösnur. And the man who does this shall grip his earlobe, look at the sky through his legs and say the tjösnublót spell. And this shall be surrounded by three squares marked with hazelnut rods, each one wider by one foot. Then the fighting place is proper."

Again a margin note, this time in Father's hand: „Spell works everywhere, islet or parting of ways not necessary. Prevents magic use for: Aesir" - and then in red ink: „confirmed". „Vanir – confirmed. Midgardians – confirmed. Alfar – confirmed. Dökkalfar – confirmed. Dvergar – confirmed. Draugar – confirmed. Jötnar (earth) – confirmed, frost – confirmed, fire – confirmed."

Thor felt a chill creep down his spine. Father had fought many duels in his youth, battling foes from all the realms. Had some of those fights not been for honour, but to test his spellwork? How could a Midgardian have been a worthy opponent for Odin back then? They had probably barely invented the sword, if that.

On with the law text: „Each man may have three shields. If all of them are splintered, he needs to fight on with his weapons only. The challenged man deals the first blow. If one steps outside the hazels, it shall be said that he fled. His case is lost, and he has to pay 24 Öre of silver for his life on top of all else."

So this text had been written after the introduction of the silver currency. Thor had slept through most of his history lessons, and doodled sketches of monsters to slay during the rest, but he saw the Draupnir Gold Dump with its ever-growing hills of golden rings each time when riding out to the south, and had asked about it. It was near unbelieveable that people had payed with gold in the old days.

„Thor!" Sif stormed the library like an outraged fury (sans feathers and writhing vipers). „Here you are! Where are you when I need you?"

Puzzled, the crown prince closed the tome he had been reading. „You have need of me, Sif?"

„Your father won't let me fight! Just because I'm a woman! It's unfair; you must convince him!"

„Fight?" Thor still did not get it.

„The holmgang. Loki's challenge. We can't let him get away with it! The Allfather forbade me to fight him, because women did not duel in the old times. How is that fair? He chose Hogun instead, 'cause he voiced suspicion against Loki first, but it's really just bias about men and women! I could just as well ..."

But Thor stopped listening. Hogun the Grim would never retreat when his honour was at stake.

All yelling and argueing behind the scenes had been for naught, and finally Thor relented. No, the king of Asgard could not name a lesser warrior his champion. A weak man to be slaughtered, that would be a mockery of a battle ordeal.

No volunteers had come forth anyway. Old grudges harboured for centuries after some of Loki's pranks seemed forgotten in light of his heroic defeat of Laufey the monster. Some elders sounded even outright pleased, calling Loki a man of tradition for his oh so old-fashioned way of settling legal conflict.

Even the families of the guardsmen murdered in the weapons vault by those Jötnar Loki had let in were convinced Loki Laufey's Slayer had nothing to do with the incident. One grieving widow had even voiced her bitter disappointment that the prince had not completed the task of destroying the monsters' planet. None of their kin would claim their right to replace Hogun in the holmgang.

Thor consoled himself with the knowledge that his brother could flee from the fighting place at any time, accepting defeat – and guilt – but surviving. Banishment to Midgard would be good for him for sure.

On the scheduled day, Thor went down to the dungeon again, this time to supervise the preparations. No poison, no hidden throwing knives, or whatever trick his brother might have planned that gave him the confidence he could win this duel.

Loki's footboy was already there, with the oddest assortment of armour Thor had seen in a long time. Loki's sword was not. „You forgot Lævateinn, boy." Thor said sternly. „Go and get it!"

Before the nervous youngster could dart off, Loki stepped close to the glass barrier. „No, stay, Tjalfi! It's allright, Thor. I will request something standard issue from the armoury. The law states clearly that no magic is allowed; that extends to magic weapons, I should think."

Of course, Loki's personal sword was magic. Normally a seax, it could adjust in size as needed, and even shrink to a throwing knife that never missed its mark. He had forged it himself and engraved it with runes, back then during his first long-term banishment to one of the dwarves' kingdoms, following „the hair-do prank". An unfamiliar weapon would diminish the trickster's chances further.

Under Thor's watchful eyes and with the footboy's assistence, Loki put on his armour, so unlike the modern vanishable lightweight vibranium pieces (which were, of course, magic-imbued): a thick, quilted gambeson and a long-sleeved, knee-long chainmail shirt on top of it; chainmail trousers; metal-strengthened boots and gauntlets. He left the helmet off for now; an ancient-looking thing with aventail and nose guard. Thor could see it was thickly padded as well.

Where in the nine realms had his brother gotten this kind of armour from, outdated long before the ice war? All pieces fit perfectly; they had to be custom-made. And then, the thunderer remembered: Centuries ago, in one of his more ridiculous attempts at getting father's attention, Loki had commissioned this armour and trained long and hard with the shield and spear – the same armament and weapons the Allfather was shown with on many a statue and gobelin, as such had been common in his youth.

Then, Tjalfi struggled to hand his master a round shield of oakwood, with bronze rim and buckle. Loki lifted it easily with his left and did a few test moves to get used to the weight: Swipe left, lunge forward, slam shield into wall …

Satisfied, he slung the thing over his back on a leather strap and grinned. „Splendid. I'm ready. Let's not make the mourners wait."