“And the Dwarf bound his lips, promising the gods he wouldn’t be able to waggle that silver tongue for a very long while.”
—Asgard Historical Record, Volume 14
Loki stared into the hearth fire, the light casting dancing shadows on his face. A blood-soaked wraith in leather-bound lips, strands of his flaming hair stuck in the blood crusting along his neck.
Without a word, I took his chin in my fingers and turned his face to mine. His eyes caught mine for just a moment, then fell away to stare at the furs beneath our legs. The ends of the leather hung loosely on either side of his mouth, trailing over his bottom lip like a broken seam. I reached out to touch it. He recoiled.
“Oh, Loki…” I hushed him, blinking my tears away. I cupped the curve of his jaw, wishing I knew how else to comfort him. He was cool and sticky to the touch.
I concentrated on the skin under my fingers, speaking in whispers. After a moment, the creases in his face softened, the pain fading under the effect of the runes.
“It won’t last. I can’t concentrate on the runes and take out these stitches at the same time. I’m sorry.”
He nodded.
As carefully as I was able, I severed each of the seams, one by one. It was simple enough to cut the outside with a pair of sewing shears. Working on the inside would stretch the leather and rip at his skin, though. Pulling out the stitches would be agony. Snip after tiny snip released the front of his lips. I wiped my hands on my lap, smearing red across my dress. Deliberately, gently, precisely, I opened his mouth to sneak the shears inside. He flinched. Without maintaining the spell, the runes were already fading.
Each piece of leather inside his mouth soaked the blade in blood. His teeth and lips were stained with it. I drew closer to his face, trying to keep my aim steady. His breath was rancid, metallic. Loki wanted to fight me off, push me away; I saw it in the tightness of his closed fist, in the furrow of his eyebrows. He wanted to stop the pain. And then at long last, the final piece was cut, and his lips were free. He stretched his jaw, wincing with each movement. Then he started sinking down, too tired to keep going.
I urged him back up. “It’s not done. Not remotely.” He said nothing, just braced himself against the floor. I held his chin steady and pulled the first piece of leather through. Even having cut the strap short, it was slow work to bring it through the skin. Loki fought against a scream, his teeth ground together in agony. When it came clear of the wound, the strap left a vicious hole. It oozed blood, dripping over the curve of his lip and onto the furs below.
I fished around for the supplies beside me—clean water and cloth to wash the wound, poultice to sterilize it. All the while, he cried. Just waited and cried.
I worked slowly, and as I worked, I sang to him. I sang the melodies the wet nurses used to sing to me when I was a child about treetops and mountain ranges, open seas and creeping forest. When those ran out, I sang any silly tavern song I could think of. In the end, I made up songs of my own. And one by one, the leather straps came out.
Each one seemed more painful than the last. He dug his fingers into the rugs, holding onto them as if they were the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge of the world. Halfway through, he retched into the bowl of water. I cleaned him up, his eyes full of shame and regret. I began again. When the pain was more than he could bear, he put his hands on mine and squeezed, and I simply held him, singing to him until he was ready to go on.
“Last one.” I held his face in my palm for a moment, then pried the stitch from his lip. Loki fell forward onto his hands, chest heaving, blood and spittle dripping to the ground. He collapsed under his own weight, his head in my lap. I washed and treated the last wound while he lay there. His eyes were closed, his face twisted with pain.
I whispered the runes for sleep. The ones he had used in the garden, the ones that had gotten us here in the first place. As I whispered, I ran my fingers delicately over his scalp. Gradually, his body relaxed, his breathing weighted and steady. I stayed with him at the fireside, not daring to wake him. I washed the blood from his hair and wound it into thin braids, and all the while, his blood and tears seeped through the folds of my dress, onto my skin.