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Chapter Text

The book had been on the restricted shelves, and that's how Loki knew it would be interesting.

It had taken a week of planning to steal the thick volume from the lower level of the library, and even so the whole plan had nearly been ruined when a proximity spell he overlooked had summoned the head librarian. The man had been suspicious when he found nothing, but the cloak of invisibility he pulled over himself had actually held, for once, and not dropped away and left him vulnerable and visible at the worst possible moment. He added that to his list of triumphs for the evening, right under successful acquisition of the book itself.

He didn't feel guilty about the theft; after all, he would put it back when he was done. As a prince of Asgard he likely would have been allowed to read it eventually anyways, albeit in a few centuries when he was tall enough to reach it without climbing the shelves.

He studied the smallish, leather-bound volume, remarkably unimpressive for all the security he'd had to circumvent. The gilded runes etched into the surface translated to 'The Ways', and that could mean any number of things.

A big, comfortable chair sat in the corner of the room; he dragged the book up onto it, curled against the armrest, and started to read. The words were more poetry than spellwork, descriptions of the weave of reality, odes to how the curling stands knotted together around Yggdrasil's branches into the world we could see and feel and hear. Instructions, however fanciful, of how to peel those tendrils of reality back and reach into the energy and nothingness that lay beyond, how to draw from beyond the realms and then weave the fabric of reality back together in whatever way suited you.

A sharp knock at his door jolted him out of the reading, and he hastily shoved the book beneath the cushion of the seat before rising to let the impatient visitor in.

"Brother!" Thor shouted, grabbing his wrist and dragging him along a few steps before he kept pace. "There you are. I've been looking all over for you!"

Unlikely, as he'd been in his rooms, and was often in his rooms, and they were thus always the first place Thor checked when looking for him. "And I have been avoiding you," he said, with just the right amount of sarcasm to fly over his brother's head.

"You've done a poor job of it then," Thor said, and he laughed.

"True. I've been reading all morning. It can't have taken you long to find me."

Thor brightened. "What were you reading? Any exciting tales?"

Loki had to roll his eyes at that. Thor managed, somehow, to voraciously love stories and hate reading with equal intensity. Loki had pointed out to him the contradiction in these passions several times, reminding him that reading was the traditional way to get to the stories he so loved, but Thor always just managed to wheedle his little brother into doing the reading and then telling him the tales afterwards. Illustrating those stories was half the reason he was getting so good with illusions, and his illusions were probably more than half the reason Thor insisted the tales were better when Loki told them.

"Just a book on magical theory," he said, and Thor's face drained of all interest.

"Then it is good that I am here to provide a worthy distraction," Thor said, "else you should perish of boredom and I be left an only child."

He rolled his eyes. "You'd never get by without me."

"True."

"So where are we going?" he asked, looking for clues. Thor wasn't wearing his training leathers, so he probably wouldn't be dragged into the sparring ring, at least.

"To the bakery!" Thor grinned. "Surely you haven't forgotten that my name-day celebration is in barely a dozen days hence. We must pick out the cakes!"

Now that was exciting. "I don't suppose I can talk you into those tiny red cakes from Alfheim," he said, and Thor shuddered.

"You really should have warned me about those. They tasted like iced feet," he complained.

"Then I would be the only one who knew what an iced foot tasted like. Where would be the fun in that?"

They spent the day sampling the various sweets the baker had to offer, then sampling them again to be sure, then placing an order for the same honey-cakes that Thor always preferred and they both knew they were going to end up getting anyways.

By the time they wandered home they were deep in the sort of conversation children can only achieve after prodigious amounts of sugar or during sleepovers, so interspersed with giggling they could barely fit the sentences in between.

The topic of this debate was which of them would make the worse only child, an echo of the jest made earlier.

"You're already spoiled," Loki said. "If you were an only child you'd be even more spoiled, and you'd grow up downright rotten. You'd be impossible!"

"I'm spoiled?" Thor shoved his brother, but his tone was teasing. "Who talked mother into making an extra trip to Vanaheim just because he wanted a specific book from the library?"

"That was for studies! It doesn't count."

"Sure." Thor ruffled his brother's hair, and laughed when he ducked away. "You'd have no one to stick up for you, to protect you. You'd be hopeless!"

"I'd protect myself!"

Thor laughed. "Mayhap, but I do a better job of it. Monsters would sneak up on you while you read your newest book on," he circled a hand lazily in the air, "rare dwarfish pottery or something."

"Name one time that's happened and you've prevented it. You can't, because it hasn't." Loki looked smug. "And anyhow, you need someone to protect. It's in your nature. If you didn't have me, you'd probably try to protect Sif, and she'd knee you in the manhood for being condescending."

Thor winced as he laughed. "She would. Thank goodness you can be my damsel in distress without protesting so violently. Ow!" He rubbed his arm where Loki had punched him. "From now on I'll stick up for Fandral. He at least might appreciate it."

Loki stuck out his tongue. "Anyway, you wouldn't have anyone to talk you out of trouble when your adventures go awry. Father probably would have banished you five times over if not for me."

"He would never banish me." Thor grinned, "though I admit I wouldn't like to face his anger without you and your silver tongue by my side."

"Exactly."

Thor wrapped one arm around his little brother, which was easy as he had come into a major growth spurt just last spring and was still nearly a head taller. "I am just glad we are brothers," Thor said at last, squeezing just a bit tighter than he needed to.

"As am I, brother." Loki returned the half-hug. "As am I."

He'd had plenty of time to read and re-read the stolen book in the past few days. It told of hidden paths between worlds, ways to get from one place to another without crossing the space between, and he thought he was beginning to understand it.  He peeled back the tendrils of reality a tiny bit, once, as a test. The space beyond was filled with some sort of shadowed energy, cool and insubstantial.

It coated his skin when he pulled back, as though he had dipped a finger in tar. He couldn't see it, but he could feel, or rather not-feel, it with his magical senses. In the place where that energy lingered he felt nothing, a strange sort of emptiness like you might feel floating in the middle of a pond with nothing but water in any direction.

Thor frequently interrupted his practice, but at least he didn't have to hide book or magic from him. He would never recognize the magic text enough to realize it was forbidden, and even if he had his brother was unlikely to tattle on him. Most often, they were partners in crime, and it didn't do to get the other in trouble when the next rule broken would probably be broken together.

"What are you doing?" his brother asked, as always, when he barged (without knocking) into Loki's room.

He had been toying with an idea, so he said "practicing something for your name-day present."

Thor scoffed. "You already bought me something, that day at the market. It wasn't exactly subtle."

Loki hummed. It was true, and he was rather proud of the gift he had picked out. It was a thin golden bracelet, fashioned to look like two snakes twined around one another. The eyes of one snake were tiny rubies, and the other tiny emeralds, and looking at it you couldn't tell if the snakes were fond friends wrapped up together or fierce enemies wrestling for control.

Thor loved snakes. He was prone to picking them up when he saw them, without taking heed of whether or not they were venomous, and Loki would probably have to do something to break him of that habit eventually.

He would like the bracelet the moment he saw it, and realize instantly it was for him, so Loki hid it in a dimensional pocket he had carved for himself in the fabric of space. It was the first time the trick had worked, and it had taken near a half-hour of tries to get it to stay there, and part of him was a little nervous it wouldn't be there anymore when he went to call it back, but at least there was no way for Thor to ruin the surprise.

"Well, if you only want the one present, who am I to gainsay you?" He gave Thor his most earnest smile.

"I did not say that!" Thor said quickly. "What is this second present you prepare for?"

Loki grinned. "You know how you always say you want to watch the warriors in the advanced sparring bouts?"

"Yes, but Father forbids it," he said.

Loki did not point out that it was Thor's own fault, that Father forbade them from watching after the time that Loki had landed in the healing wing with a shattered collarbone and badly broken arm when Thor had tried to practice one of the moves he'd seen on his brother.

"I'm working on a way we could watch unseen," Loki said.

Thor huffed. "You have been capable of rendering us invisible for some time, brother. It is no good. Heimdall would see right through the veil, sooner or later, and we would get in trouble regardless."

"I think I may have found a way around that."

Thor's eyes went comically wide. "That is not possible, brother. The gatekeeper sees all."

"Perhaps." He smirked. "Or perhaps not. I haven't tested it yet."

Thor shook his head. "And how do you intend to do that?"

He took a deep breath and reached out with his magic, grasping one of the tendrils of reality and gently working it loose. The shadow energy flowed out like cool smoke, and he drew it to himself, allowing it to flow over his skin, into his clothes, through his hair until he was covered in it.

According to the rather unimpressed look on Thor's face, nothing looked any different to traditional senses, but he could feel the strange blankness like a wall blocking out magical detection.

"Yes, I'm sure waving your hands around will make you very inconspicuous." Thor jested, but Loki could see his curiosity. He may not always respect it, but he had seen enough of his brother's magic to know it was rarely boring.

"Let us see, then, shall we?"

They walked normally to the edge of the bridge, pretending like they had reason to venture this far. They weren't technically supposed to, but they had been allowed to come here in the past and none would think it odd if they did not make a production of it.

Loki stopped them at the edge, just out of Heimdall's normal sight. "I'm going to go try it out now. If I can make it into the observatory and back without Heimdall noticing, we'll know it works."

"Should we not go together?" Thor whispered.

Loki rolled his eyes. "You are not invisible to him, brother."

"Why not? You didn't hide us both? If this is a scheme to get me in trouble..."

The opposite," Loki assured him. "This way, if it doesn't work and I get caught, you can say you were following me to try and keep me out of trouble. Father will be pleased that you are such a vigilant and dutiful brother, and you shall be free to visit me while I am grounded. Besides," he added, "you are too loud. You'd give us both away with your clunking around."

"Okay," Thor agreed reluctantly. "I shall wait here."

Loki pulled light around himself carefully, bending and weaving it in ways that seemed to make him vanish. Thor's eyes widened as they always did, even though he knew exactly what his brother was about to do.

He had worn soft shoes for this purpose, and he crept silently down the length of the bridge. Heimdall's observatory was exactly as he remembered it, with the gleaming light of the Bifrost flickering odd highlights and shadows onto the golden walls. Heimdall himself stood, as ever, impassive and perfectly rigid.

He tiptoed in, all but holding his breath, and came to a stop two feet in front of the watchman, looking up at his expressionless face. Without the greeting he usually extended the visiting prince he seemed a terrible statue, like the Destroyer in Father's vaults.

Loki looked on him a moment longer and, when he didn't move, slowly started to creep back the way he had came. He considered reaching out and startling Heimdall, just because that would have been hilarious, but he didn't want the warrior's reaction to be accidentally beheading him, and in any case it was better that none but Thor knew for now that he could hide himself from Heimdall's sight.

When he reached the platform again he threw off the invisibility, temples throbbing with the effort needed to hold his concentration so long.

"Did it work?" Thor whispered.

He nodded. "Give me a second and we shall go talk to Heimdall, to be sure."

With a conscious effort, he shed the shadowy energy, noting as he did so how the world grew a touch brighter and more vivid. When he finished, they set off down the bridge together.

"I saw your approach," Heimdall said as he always did, as Loki had expected him to before. His deep, rumbling voice struck up a resonance with the very walls and floors of this place, causing them to tremble minutely as he spoke. "Why do you seek me out, young princes?"

"A question in need of your wisdom, Gatekeeper," Loki cut in before his brother could say anything stupid.

"Ask."

"Which is colder, Niflheim or Jotunheim?"

The gatekeeper raised one eyebrow.

"My brother and I have a wager," he admitted sheepishly. "He says that because of the ice and snow, Jotunheim must be colder, but I say that it at least has sunshine, and the darkness of Niflheim makes that the colder place."

"Why not ask one of your parents?"

Loki fidgeted uncomfortably. "Father is busy, and mother doesn't approve of these wagers of ours."

"How wise of her," Heimdall said, and commenced staring off into the distance.

Loki continued to fix him with his most hopeful look.

"Niflheim is the coldest realm," he said at last. "It is as you said, the lack of sunlight creates a chill that cannot be driven away."

"Yes!" he shouted. "You owe me your dessert, Thor."

"I don't know about—"

"Are you doubting Heimdall, my dear brother?"

"No," Thor grumbled.

"Thank you ever so much for your help," he said to the watchman. "We appreciate it."

Heimdall made a rumbling noise that could have been agreement, or amusement, or dismissal.

"I don't really have to give you my dessert," Thor said as they walked back.

"But what if Heimdall looks upon us at suppertime and notices something amiss?"

Thor punched him in the arm, and he started laughing.

Several more days passed before he felt confident enough to actually try using the spell for its intended purpose.

Supposedly, it was a dangerous thing to do. Anyone who didn't fully understand what they were doing, or know where they were going, ran the risk of ending up someplace they did not want to be, or worse, being trapped in that shadowy place between with no way back.

But he had read again and again until the theories made perfect sense, even quizzed himself and checked his understanding against the book hidden beneath the cushion of his chair. Those mistakes were for amateurs, and he rushed into nothing unprepared.

In any case, he did not intend to go far. Just a quick trip out into that space between worlds, then back to the safety of Asgard. He could always venture farther out once he'd gotten the hang of it.

Besides, everything in his studies seemed to indicate that it was easiest to travel places you had a strong personal connection to. Asgard was his home, the place of his birth and the land where he had spent most of his four-hundred odd years. If he were to end up anyplace by mistake, it would almost have to be someplace close at hand.

Once he had been put to bed and left alone for the night, he crept out from between the covers and hurriedly dressed. It was a long time until morning, so he would be back long before he was missed.

The threads of reality came apart easily when he tugged at them, perhaps made loose by his earlier experimentation. He should probably be careful of that; he certainly didn't want to create a weakness that led anything out here straight to his bedroom. In the future he should probably find a different place to practice, some sort of dedicated lab that he wouldn't have to sleep in once he was done.

Shadow energy drifted out of the hole as always, curling out and reaching towards him like an ominous greeting. He stepped through the ragged hole and shivered slightly as the tendrils knit themselves together behind him, leaving him in darkness.

Utter and complete darkness, though he could see clearly, even if he couldn't say how or what he was looking at. Paths stretched out ahead of him, going on forever and spanning no distance at all. Everything was soft and grey and indistinct, though there were differences in the quality of the softness and greyness that he suspected someone familiar with the space could use to navigate.

He turned around, ready to go back, expecting to find a wall of sorts at his back where his entry point had closed. Instead there was emptiness, and his breath caught in his throat. A few stumbled steps brought him forward, and when he turned around to look behind him nothing looked as it had mere seconds earlier.

Adrenaline, cold and useless, flooded his lungs and his limbs, turning them cold and shaky. He took deep breaths to try and slow down his heart so he could think and make his way out of this.

If he focused as he took a step, some of the directions seemed more open than others, minutely easier to traverse. Was this what the book meant when it said the paths tended to direct you to familiar spaces? It must be.

He followed the faint tuggings, relieved when they seemed to grow stronger as he moved. Soon he would be back in Asgard, and if it wasn't his room he would gladly take the scolding for sneaking out just to have his feet on solid, familiar ground.

The paths took him to a place where the threads seemed to congeal into a knot, and he worked it apart, relieved to catch a glimpse of light on the other side. Once the knot was undone he pulled it apart and stepped through—

—into the middle of a raging snowstorm.

No. This was wrong. Not his bedroom, not Asgard at all, and the cold wind tore through his thin clothes, chosen with Asgard's endless mild summer in mind. He had to try again, get back to the soft grey in-between, but he couldn't even see the threads of reality through the chips of ice stinging his eyes, and his fingers were already stiff and trembling with the cold.

At this rate, he would freeze to death in less than an hour. He'd made a mistake, he was going to die here in this cold wilderness and no one would even know where he'd gone.

He pulled his limbs in close when the wind and cold drove him to his knees, sobbing tears that burned on his cheeks and froze his eyelashes together.

Something happened then, an odd tingling sensation that washed over his entire body like a splashed bucket of cold water and left him feeling, if not comfortable, then less freezing cold.

Had he gone numb? He thought he remembered that being a bad sign, that when you stopped feeling cold it meant you truly were dying.

He didn't want to die.

He sobbed with all the strength left in his small body as the snow piled over him and his whole world faded to white.

Chapter Text

Thor knocked for a third time at his brother's door before giving up and just pushing it open. If Loki wanted him to wait, he should answer faster and not stay in bed all day like a lazy turtle.

"Loki!" he called as he stepped into the room, because deserved or not it was never a good idea to startle someone who could throw fireballs with their hands. "You missed breakfast. Mother and Father were not pleased."

Silence. He moved to the bed, ready to steal covers or tackle his little brother to the floor, but it was empty. Empty and messy.

Something uneasy stirred in his stomach. Thor had been known to leave his bed unmade, much to his mother's chagrin, but Loki was fussy about the neatness of his rooms, and normally would have fixed the covers as soon as he got up.

Nothing else in the room seemed disturbed, though, so Thor pushed that down and let it go. His brother was awake, that much was clear, but he wasn't here and hadn't gone to breakfast.

The library was but a short walk down the hall. The head librarian looked up as he walked in, then turned his attention back to some paperwork on his desk. "I have not seen your brother yet this morning, your highness, nor do I know where he may be."

Thor frowned. "Do you mind if I have a look? He missed breakfast."

The librarian waved a hand as though to say 'be my guest', though he looked a bit put out.

A quick search of the best nooks and crannies for reading didn't turn up anything. Unless he was hiding from Thor, he truly wasn't here.

The sense of wrongness from before started creeping back in. Thor couldn't think of any reason for his brother to avoid him, though to be fair he usually was oblivious to whatever slights set his brother off until dramatically made aware of them, usually through some massive revenge prank that would land the both of them in trouble.

He checked the kitchens next, because surely if he missed breakfast Loki would be hungry and stop there for some food. The staff insisted they hadn't seen him, though, and that nothing of note had gone missing that morning. No matter; Loki was a clever thief, and could easily have made off with a pillaged breakfast unseen.

He checked the stables, but they were empty of all but the horses. The expected number of horses, even, though it was disturbing that he needed to count. His brother was, after all, an accomplished shapeshifter.

He checked the gardens, and reflected that if he had slighted his brother, the revenge prank was going to be spectacular. Surely that was the reason for the icy dread creeping into his stomach.

He checked the halls, and the secret little hideaways in the palace that Loki had shown him when they were both small enough to fit.

He checked Loki's rooms again.

He checked his own rooms.

He was really starting to worry, now.

Should he ask Heimdall? A good brother wouldn't, at least not yet. Likely as not whatever his brother was doing would get him in trouble, and he would not appreciate Thor directing the watchman's gaze toward him.

But what if he was injured, or in trouble? Surely a good brother wouldn't wait if that were the case?

No. He'd give his brother a few hours more to turn up on his own.

And when he did, he had better have a good explanation of where he'd been, or Thor would have to tackle him for making him worry.

When Loki awoke, he was faintly surprised, though it took him a couple of seconds to work out why he should feel that way.

It took a few more to realize that he wasn't in his bedroom, wasn't, as the frosty air made clear, in the palace at all.

He was in a bed, though, wrapped in warm furs even if the material of the bed itself was hard and unyielding. It was an odd translucent white, and he thought it must have been made of stone until he put one finger out of his blanket cocoon to touch the smooth, cold surface.

Ice.

The blizzard came back to him then, memories of the cold and wind and ice chips stinging his face and suffocating white making his breath come faster and the back of his throat prickle like he was about to burst into tears again. His face felt dry and stretched, his head foggy.

A door at the far end of the room opened slowly, and far above where anyone should have stood, a face appeared in the doorway. Red eyes gleamed at him from crags in winter-blue skin.

Loki screamed.

He launched himself off the bed, crashing hard into the ground and cracking his head against the hard edge of the bed when his limbs tangled in the furs. He didn't care. The pain brought tears to his eyes, made his vision fuzzy, but he could still see the silhouette of the giant approaching. He kept screaming and pushing himself backwards until his back hit the far wall. Then he just screamed.

Magic, his magic, maybe he wasn't a warrior but he could still defend himself. Wasn't that why Mother had taught him in the first place?

He reached for it, past the pain in his head and the unreasoning panic, and then something was burning, close (maybe too close) and the heat was glorious and awful and terrifying and he couldn't tell where it was coming from through all the tears.

But it didn't work, it didn't work because there were hands on him, pulling away the blankets and the monster had caught him and he was going to die.

Did Frost Giants eat children before or after they killed them? He couldn't remember from the stories, but Norns he hoped it wouldn't eat him alive.

He sobbed harder because he didn't want to get eaten at all. He wouldn't even get a proper funeral.

A noise at the background of his hearing resolved itself into the giant's voice, deeper and more resonant than one of the Aesir. "For Ymir's sake, child, calm down. Are you hurt?"

He swallowed air in ragged gulps, pulling his arms and legs in tighter to protect his body, his face.

It grabbed one of his arms and pried it away, turning it over and running a cool finger along the skin. He hissed in pain as the freezing skin burned him and yanked his arm out of its grasp.

No, that wasn't quite right. His arm hurt, but the giant's touch only felt cool. He looked down at his arm.

It was blue.

If he wasn't already sitting with his back against the wall, he would have fallen over, or tried to scramble backwards. As it was he stopped breathing, and dizzy spots began to dance behind his eyes.

His skin was blue. Not just blue, but Frost Giant blue, and ridged with the same markings (scars? He'd heard they carved them into their own bodies in barbaric rituals, letting the blood flow freely as an offering to the snow) he had seen in the pictures, and a different, rougher texture than he was used to.

Was it a curse? Had the giant cursed him?

Why curse him to look like a Frost Giant if it meant to eat him?

He remembered the feeling as he lay in the snow when the cold became less, the one he'd been sure meant he was dying.

He hadn't died, though, so that must not have been it. Maybe when he was dying of cold, his magic had saved him by changing his shape to something that could survive the snow?

That had to be it. It was the only explanation. He was a shape-changer, and this was a shape he had taken instinctually to save his life.

"You burned yourself when you set fire to your blankets," the giant said, apparently misinterpreting the time he spent staring in horror at his hands. "If you let me see I might be able to help."

Why should it—she, he was relatively certain by now this was a giantess—want to help him?

Because he looked like a Jotunn child.

She thought he was a Jotunn child.

She reached tentatively for his arm again, and he forced himself to relax as she extended it, turning it this way and that to get a good look at the stinging burns. She did the same with the other arm then took his face in her hands, turning it to see. He shuddered at her touch but refused to flinch away.  

"It doesn't look too bad," she said at last, "though I expect it'll sting for a couple of days. Come, I have something we can put on the burns."

He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, walking with the giant as she put a hand on his back and guided him into another room that seemed to be a kitchen. Silent tears started running down his face again when he caught sight of a large pot, but that was ridiculous. She thought he was Jotunn, and even monsters didn't eat their own young.

Now that he was calming down he was ashamed of his earlier reaction. Only cowards blubbered like that in the face of death, and he was a son of Odin. It was unworthy to scream and cry and carry on like a child. Better to remain calm and keep your honor.

Now that he knew he probably wasn't going to die, holding it together was more important still. The giantess must never, ever find out she was wrong. He had to play along, and crying at cookware wasn't helping.

The giant rummaged on a high shelf for a bit before pulling down a stone jar and breaking the seal. "Have a seat," she instructed, and a chair made of ice rose out of the floor where she pointed.

He shied away then bit his lip. No, he had to play along, had to or she might guess—but she only waved the chair away, and knelt down on the floor next to him, taking one entire arm in a large hand and using a finger to rub something slick and burning onto the skin with the other. She was smaller than he expected, for a frost giant, but still most of his arm fit into one of her palms.

"This should help with the healing," she said, "and keep you from getting infected, Ymir willing." She finished up and tucked the jar back onto the shelf. "I have to admit, I was surprised when you set yourself on fire. It isn't often anymore we see little ones with that much magical talent, and I doubt that's how you meant to use it."

"I was scared," he said, his voice shaky. What if she decided he was a threat? What would she do to him then?

"Really? I didn't notice." Her voice, still gravely and deeper than that of any Aesir woman, softened a bit. "You have no reason to be afraid of me, child. I won't hurt you."

"I realize that now," he said, not looking her in the eyes. A look he couldn't quite interpret passed over her face.

"What's your name, little one?"

She must have seen the panic in his face, because she had that odd look again. "I'm called Gryla," she offered when he didn't answer right away.

He couldn't tell her his full name. Even if she didn't mean him any harm as a little Jotunn, she might not feel the same about an Aesir, and an Odinson would probably be impaled before he finished saying the name. 'Loki' was a gamble. It was possible she had never heard of the princes of Asgard, but if she had, she might connect it to him. Were any of his nicknames safe? What was a proper name for a Jotunn boy? He must have read dozens of stories about Frost Giants, but he couldn't remember any of them having names. Monsters don't have names. Except for Laufey, and he couldn't use that name, not when she was sure to know it.

"I'll call you Lopt for now," she said when the silence stretched for too long, "and you can correct me when you feel like it. How does that sound?"

He nodded gratefully.

"So Lopt," she said, "I have this idea that nearly freezing to death works up an appetite. What do you say we find you something to eat?"

He nodded again, even more grateful than before.

Chapter Text

When the time for lunch had come and passed and still there was no sign of Loki, Thor found himself at the base of the Rainbow Bridge, dancing around the question of whether he should give in and ask Heimdall where his brother was. He had told himself he would, but now he was sure it would bring up awkward questions he didn't really want to answer, and anyway, Heimdall was fairly intimidating. Though Loki seemed to approach the gatekeeper fairly regularly, Thor didn't like to bother him without good reason.

Concern for his brother soon won out, though, and he shuffled his way awkwardly to the doorway of the observatory.

"I saw your approach," Heimdall said in greeting. "What brings you here, your highness?"

He swallowed. "Can you tell me where my brother is?"

"As I have often told your brother, I do not use my sight to help little princes win childish—" he stiffened, as much as one who held himself so rigidly could stiffen, and Thor's stomach dropped. "I do not see him anywhere on Asgard."

Right. Thor had forgotten about his brother's new-found ability to hide from Heimdall's sight. Now he'd spoiled it, and Loki would be furious...

Well, it served him right for making Thor worry. Why was he hiding right now, anyways?

"Nor do I see him in any of the other realms," Heimdall finished after a moment of intense staring. "I must tell your Father of this."

Thor stepped out, intending to run and go get him, but Heimdall stepped out after him.

Never, in all of his six hundred years, had Thor seen Heimdall step away from his post. "There's no need for you to come," Thor said quickly. "I can tell him."

"If your brother has gone missing from even my sight it is likely he has been taken by enemies of Asgard," he said. "My king would summon me even if I allowed you to carry back the message."

Thor bit the inside of his cheek. Heimdall was right, except that Loki wasn't kidnapped, he was just playing a stupid and cruel prank on them all. He should confess that now, let him know of Loki's ability to hide from his sight.

He wasn't sure why he didn't.

Hurrying back to the palace with Heimdall at his heels felt wrong in a way he couldn't describe. People were stopping to watch as he scurried back, the gatekeeper keeping up effortlessly with a purposeful stride.

He ran into his mother in the halls, nearly literally, pulling back to avoid a collision at the last second. "Thor!" she said, surprise evident in her tone. "Have you seen—"

Heimdall stepped forward, and she paused. "Gatekeeper. Why are you here and not at your post?"

"I need to speak with the king," he rumbled, and the queen looked worried.

"I was just looking for my son," she said. "Have you seen where Loki has gotten to?"

"It is on that matter I must speak with the king," he said.

Mother went very, very pale.

"What has happened?" she asked sharply. "Where is he? Is he hurt?"

"I do not know. I cannot see him."

Thor felt someone come up behind him, and he turned to see Father standing there, eye fixed intently on Heimdall. "I received word that Asgard's gatekeeper had left his post," he said, frowning in disapproval. "What is so urgent that you come here in person rather than remain at the bridge?"

"Loki is gone," Mother said. "I have not seen him all day, and Heimdall could not find him with his sight."

Father fixed Heimdall with an intent look, one of the sort that always reminded Thor uncomfortably that his father was also a king and a general. "Is this so?"

"Indeed."

Father looked down. "Gather a search party, and make a list of the people or places that can avoid your sight. Keep searching, and I want to be notified the instant you find him. Understood?"

Heimdall nodded.

Thor could bear it no longer. "He isn't lost!" he burst out. "He's probably just playing a trick."

Father looked at him askance. "Heimdall would not lie about such a thing for the sake of a trick. I fear your brother may be in danger."

"Loki learned a way to hide from Heimdall's sight," he said. "We tested it a few days ago. It works."

His father fixed him with a glare, and he was angrier than Thor had ever seen him. "Why did you not speak of this sooner?"

"I don't know. I didn't want—but he's probably just hiding." He looked at his shoes, unable to meet that one furious eye.

"If that is the case, rest assured he will be in a great deal of trouble when he is found," Father said through gritted teeth. "Until then, we will proceed as planned. If you do see him, let him know I am not amused, and it will not end well for him should he continue to make your mother and I worry."

"Yes Father," he said, ducking his head.

Father's face softened. "I hope you're right," he said. "Angry as though I would be, I do hope you're right."

Gryla seemed to understand the vehemence in his nod, because she wasted no time putting together a soup, thick and made with browned meat and some vegetables he didn't recognize. It was cold by Asgard's standards but warmer than the ice, and seasoned with a ravenous hunger he hadn't felt since he first started practicing magic. Even as a prince he nearly forgot his manners.

The giantess watched him eat with open amusement. "How long has it been since you had a proper meal, boy?"

"Not terribly long," he said truthfully.

"Uh huh." He slowed down, self-conscious, but she didn't say anything else, only refilled the bowl once he'd emptied it.

"Thank you," he said when he finished.

"You're welcome, little one." She took care of the dishes, then came back to sit beside him, folding her arms in her lap. "Okay. I think it's time we had a talk."

The nervousness came back with a vengeance, roiling in his now-full stomach.

"Do you remember when I found you?" He shook his head. "I'm not surprised. You were half frozen solid and buried under a foot and a half of snow. If I hadn't tripped over you on my way to check on old Eistla next door you'd probably have frozen to death.

"At first, I thought I'd missed the path and tripped over a rock. When I saw it was a child, I nearly died of shock. You didn't move at all when I picked you up, and until I got you inside and thawing out I thought you might be dead."

He swallowed. "Thank you," he said, "for taking me into your home. I appreciate your kindness and hospitality."

They were the words his mother had taught him, and if it felt odd saying them to a monster, then that was no reason to be rude. Manners were important for a prince, she always said, usually chiding when he or Thor (more often Thor) did something childish and rude. He had to bite back a sudden surge of longing and loneliness at the thought. 

"Of course, child. I couldn't exactly leave you to freeze to death, now could I?"

"I suppose not," he said carefully, "but I appreciate it all the same."

"You're welcome, then," she said. Then "so. How did you come to be freezing to death in the snow outside my door?"

He froze. Honestly, he knew the question was coming, he should have already come up with an answer, but he couldn't think of a reasonable excuse for huddling in the snow in the middle of a snowstorm. He tried to control his breathing, to keep his voice calm, and he mostly succeeded.

"I, um, got lost," he said.

She studied him for a moment, seemingly trying to decide whether to press further. He could tell she wanted the rest of the story, but she let it go, for now. He would have to work out something plausible before she brought it up again, if he stayed that long.

Instead, she asked "Where are you from?"

He cast about wildly for something, some scrap of knowledge about Jotunn geography, something from half-remembered maps he'd last seen years ago. No matter how he tried, his mind felt like it was trying to grasp something that kept sliding just out of reach. Panic twisted in his gut. Now she was giving him an odd look, he'd taken too long to answer a simple question and even if he did come up with something she wouldn't believe him, he had to think up an excuse and she was still waiting and...

He twisted just in time to empty the contents of his stomach onto the floor rather than the table.

Colorful lights danced in front of his eyes, and he knew enough to grip the edge of the table and forcibly slow and deepen his breathing. His lips and the tips of his fingers gradually regained feeling, and the world swam back into focus.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized the giantess had moved behind him and was helping him stay upright, and she took a step back when he winced.

"Looks like we might have eaten a bit too quickly," she said wryly. He flushed, and she disappeared for a second and returned with a too-large glass of water. "Here, sip this slowly," she said as she handed it over.

He did as she said for a moment, focusing on the pleasant coolness of the water and calming his cramping stomach. When she tried to help him down from the chair, though, he resisted.

"No, I have to clean up the..." he gestured down to the mess on the floor.

She shook her head. "Don't worry about it, child, I'll take care of it later," she said, but he was already frowning and muttering as he concentrated on the gestures to work a cleaning spell.  

It wasn't an especially simple spell, exactly, but he'd had plenty of practice for obvious reasons. It was much easier to get away with something when the evidence was gone, and as a result he could usually clean a floor or table or other surface as easy as breathing. Even stains in cloth or caked dirt on skin he'd managed to master, if only out of necessity.

Here, though, it was a significant struggle, and he had to put his strength behind a mental push before the mess on the floor vanished.

The dizzy spell that hit him after that left him swaying a bit, but he recovered quickly.

Gryla had her eyebrows raised. "Impressive," she said.

"Thanks," he managed.

"I'd be more impressed if you didn't look like you were about to pass out." She helped him down, and this time he didn't resist. "Why don't you lie down for a bit, then if you feel up to it we can try again to get some food into you. Sound good?"

He nodded and allowed himself to be led back to the bed he had woken up in.

After she tucked the furs around him and left, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

He had survived, and for the moment at least, he didn't think he was in much danger. But while Gryla seemed surprisingly kind for a monster, she also seemed fairly smart, and he doubted he could fool her much longer with his limited knowledge of Jotunheim.

Trying to navigate another Way was out of the question. Even if it wasn't for the complete exhaustion of his magic after his first trip, he didn't want to risk getting any more lost than he was already. Clearly the navigation methods he thought he understood didn't work, and while Jotunheim wasn't someplace he wanted to be, it was still better than Niflheim or Muspelheim or some place beyond the nine where even Heimdall's sight did not reach.

The only thing he could do, then, was to wait for Heimdall to see him and tell his parents. They would be angry, no, furious with him, but at least they would bring him home.

The thought nagged at him. Shouldn't they have been here already? Unless...

The shadows that hid him from Heimdall's sight. They must still be wrapped around him from the journey. He focused until he could sense them, faded but still there, then grabbed hold and tore them away. The Gatekeeper should be able to see him now, if his gaze turned this way.

A sudden thought froze the breath in Loki's lungs. Would Heimdall even recognize him like this? Or would he see just another Frost Giant?

He didn't dare shout—Gryla was in the next room and could hear—but he whispered and hoped it was enough.

"Heimdall," he said. "It's me, Loki." He gathered the furs to himself, squeezing them tight. "Please, if you can hear me, tell my amma and papa to come get me." He closed his eyes, felt a tear run down his cheek, cooling against his skin. "Tell them I'm sorry," he whispered, and he couldn't keep his voice from wobbling. "I'm sorry. Don't leave me here, please, I'm sorry."

He stayed there, crying into a crumpled wad of his covers, until he finally drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Heimdall stopped suddenly as he was briefing another search party, this one preparing for an excursion to a forest in Alfheim. The trees in that area were suffused with magic from an enchanted underground spring, and they gave off a sort of hazy field he could not see through. He looked off into a distance as the guards shuffled uncomfortably, then walked straight into the throne room where the king sat on Hlidskjalf, looking out across the realms.

"You have seen him," the queen said, more nervous than hopeful. He was difficult to read, but he knew he must look especially grim. He did not particularly like to be the bearer of bad news, even if it was better than it could be.

He nodded.

"Where is he?" Odin ordered, looking down from the throne with a faraway look in his eye.

"He is in Jotunheim, my lord."

"Held prisoner?" the king asked, even as the queen said "Is he well?"

"He is frightened but unhurt," he said. "I do not know if he is a prisoner or otherwise. He is staying in the home of one of the Jotnar, and does not appear to have been mistreated."

"There is something else," his king said.

"Yes. The boy has shifted his form into that of a Jotunn."

The queen gasped; the king frowned. "Why?"

"I suspect to ward against the cold," he said. "An Aesir child might have frozen to death after such a prolonged stay. Or perhaps to blend in. The Aesir are not well-liked in Jotunheim."

Odin nodded. "Call back the search parties," he said, "and tell my generals to stand by."

He bowed. "My king."

The second Heimdall left, Frigga turned on her husband. "What are we going to do?"

Odin sighed. "We do nothing yet. We wait, and we plan, and we prepare."

"You need to go. You need to bring him back." She wasn't crying, not yet, but it was a near thing.

"If I go now, we run the risk of starting the war with Jotunheim anew."

"You can't leave him there! He's our son."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have no intention of abandoning him indefinitely, but we have to consider the consequences of any actions we take now."

She shook her head rapidly, wild curls working free of their usual orderly arrangement and falling into her face. The tears collecting in her eyes overflowed into hot streams that ran down her cheeks, which were turning blotchy and red. For one of the few times since he'd met his wife, she didn't look like a queen. Today, she just appeared as a panicked and grieving mother.

"We must consider the cost," he said, and the words settled heavily into a space behind his breastbone.

"Whatever the cost, it is worth it," she insisted.

"No, Frigga," he said as gently as he could manage. He reached for her hands, looking to comfort, to still their trembling. "We both know that isn't true. I can't start a war, not now."

She slapped him across the face, a serpent-quick flash of pain that brought a stinging heat to his cheek. "You would for Thor," she said, voice trembling with anger.

You would for Thor.

He looked once more on the desperate anger in his wife's features before turning on his heel and walking away.

When Loki woke up, he was alone. He pushed to his feet, a little unsteady but far better than the day? Night? before.

Now that he was neither panicking nor being carefully observed, he had time to observe his surroundings. While the floors and furniture seemed all to be made of ice, the walls and ceiling were carved in glossy black stone that looked almost as though it had been raised from the bedrock itself. The walls were largely unadorned but the floors had rich fur rugs, and windows with clear ice instead of glass or crystal filled the rooms with cool white light.

He also, now that he noticed, was no longer dressed in his Asgardian pajamas, and in their place he was wearing loose clothing made of a soft leather he didn't recognize. How he came to be wearing it was something he didn't want to think about.

Right as he ambled into the outer kitchen or dining area, a large, heavy door slammed open, letting in a gust of cold wind, a few eddies of snow, and a large, fierce-looking giant who was not Gryla.

The giant blinked down at him, looking utterly confused, then turned to Gryla, who was standing over the counter, chopping a vegetable he didn't recognize.

"Sweetheart," he said, in a voice deeper and more gravelly than Gryla's, "I know I don't always pay enough attention to things, but I like to think I would have noticed if we had another child."

"This is Lopt," she said. "I found him freezing out in the middle of the storm.

Loki gave a weak little wave.

"Lopt, this is my husband, Vornir," she said. "He was in the city when the storm began and had to stay until it passed."

"Lopt," Vornir said. "Where are you from?" He frowned when Loki didn't answer, and was opening his mouth to ask again when Gryla cut him off.

"He was lost in the storm," she said, with an edge to the inflection Loki couldn't quite translate.

The giant seemed to understand, though, because he dropped the line of questioning.

"Where is Beli?"

The giant pulled his wife into an affectionate half-hug. The gesture seemed wrong on them, somehow, even if did look natural. "Outside, unloading the sleigh. He'll be along in a minute."

"Good." She nodded.

She took up an enormous kettle on the stove next to where she was working and filled a mug large enough to be a bowl for Loki, though it still looked small in her hands. When she handed it to him, the savory smell told him it was some sort of broth.

"Slowly," she warned. "Let's not have a repeat of last time."

He nodded and sat, wrapping both hands around the mug and savoring the warmth. No steam rose from the liquid, and he suspected in his Aesir form it would have been tepid at best, but here like this it warmed his insides when he took a slow sip.

"Thank you," he said, breathing deeply against a twist of nausea as the broth hit his empty stomach.

She watched him carefully as he sat on the floor with his back against the wall, curling around the broth with his limbs in tight. Her appraisal made him anxious; it seemed far too knowing.

"You know," she said, "I know what it looks like when someone's running from something." She paused; the silence was curious but not insistent. "And you'd have to be pretty desperate to be running in a storm like that. Now, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, and you don't have to trust me if you're not ready, but I promise you, no one here will hurt you, little one."

He curled up further on himself, staring into the depths of his cup to avoid meeting her eyes.

"Thank you," he murmured, again. It seemed like, when it came to this strangely kind monster, he kept circling back to debt and gratitude.

Odin Allfather stormed through the halls, the quick steps burning off just enough of the energy crackling through his veins to keep everything around him from exploding.

You would for Thor.

The worst part of his wife's accusation was that she was right, if not for the reasons implied.

He would go to war to bring back Thor, if the Jotnar had him. He wouldn't hesitate.

But the realms would follow and support him, too, without hesitating. He would have a clear right: Thor was his son, and no one would deny him the attempt to take him back.

Loki was his son, and no one could ever tell him differently, but he was Laufey's son as well, and that complicated things. The same ethos that would lead people to support him in reclaiming Thor would make people question whether Loki's Jotnar parents didn't have the greater claim, whether Odin was right to try and take him back. Beyond that, there would be those unwilling to fight for a Jotunn foundling, even a Jotunn foundling prince.

Even so, he would be willing to risk it if it wasn't starting to look like Loki hadn't been kidnapped at all. Heimdall had said Loki was staying in a Jotunn's private home and, even if he was alone and scared in a strange land, that none had tried to harm him. Furthermore, those who interacted with him made no signs that they knew who his parents were, either his biological parents or the enemy king who had raised him.

There had been no demands, no threats, no signs that anyone meant to take their revenge on Odin through the little prince. Surely a kidnapper would do at least one of these things? If it was Laufey who had taken him, he would believe that perhaps he simply meant to reclaim a child once lost (abandoned, he had thought, but he wondered now if the assumption wasn't mistaken, and the thought sent stabs of guilt through his stomach). But it wasn't, and he didn't quite know what to make of it.

It was beginning to look like this whole situation might have been the result of a mistake. Perhaps the magic that lent him an Aesir form had failed him, and some well-intentioned Elf or Vanir traveler with strong enough magic to world-walk had taken the misplaced Jotunn child back to where they presumed he belonged, knowing that a Frost Giant, however small, would not be welcome in the Golden Realm. Perhaps an accident of the child's own magic had torn open a rip in space and he had fallen through, in which case they were very lucky it had taken him to Jotunheim and not dropped him on a world beyond the Nine or into the depthless void. Odin shuddered involuntary. Such a fate he would not wish on his most hated enemy, let alone his beloved child.

However, if it was true that Loki ended up on Jotunheim by mistake, he was safe so long as no one guessed his connection to them. Odin's son, were his presence discovered, would become a bargaining chip in the hands of the enemy, but they would not hurt a random lost Jotunn orphan.

Loki seemed to have the good sense to grasp this, if he hadn't told anyone who he was. Thor would have shouted it at the first opportunity, let anyone who was listening know that he was Odin's son, probably as he shouted threats at the top of his lungs. Loki, fortunately, was more subtle, and that may have been all that kept him alive.

He would go to war for his son, either of his sons, if it became necessary.

He would go to war without the support of the other realms, or even his own realm, if he had to.

What he would not do was risk his son's safety in a possessive rage if patience and restraint could keep him safe.

So for now, he would go against his every instinct and hold back, leaving his little boy in the hands of the enemy to ensure his well-being.

The marble tiles started to crack under his feet, and one of the stone pillars let out a sound like a great oak being split by lightning as he passed.

He turned down a corridor and made his way outside in search of something he could safely break.

Even as the swirling rage threatened to escape his control, the rational part of his brain was coming up with possible names.

A shapeshifter. Someone who could be discrete, whose loyalty could not be questioned. Someone old enough to have lived before the war, who would know something of Jotunn custom. Someone not too scarred by the war itself, who would not be lost in unthinking hatred.

He could not take his son back by force, at least, not yet, but the entire host of Valhalla couldn't keep him from bringing his boy home.

Chapter Text

Beli turned out to be Gryla and Vornir's son, a fair bit older than Thor and much, much taller, nearly as tall as Loki's own father.

The first thing he said upon meeting Loki, once introductions had finished, was "Now I'll have somebody to have a snowball fight with! I was starting to worry there'd be nothing to do with all that snow."

Loki must have let his fear show on his face, because Gryla stepped in. "Not today," she said. "Lopt isn't feeling well. He needs some time to recover."

Loki swallowed. He didn't want to fight this older giant, especially not if the battle was in the snow, where a true Frost Giant would have a clear advantage, but he was a son of Odin. Odinson meant not backing down from a challenge, because true warriors would never show their fear. Thor certainly wouldn't.

"I'm okay," he said, trying to sound certain. "I can fight."

"Not today, you can't," the giantess insisted. "I finally got some food into you, and you aren't about to go running around and losing it again. Ask me tomorrow if you still want to."

Beli looked like he wanted to protest, but instead he took a deep breath and looked at Loki curiously. "That's okay, we can do it tomorrow," he said. "Do you play Fortress?"

Loki followed Beli to a corner of the room, where he pulled a stone board down from a shelf and sat on the floor. As Loki watched, the young giant held out a hand palm-up, and a chunk of ice appeared and grew, changing shape until it reminded him of a Tafl piece.

He picked it up gingerly and set the piece on one corner of the board, then raised his hand to create another. Loki leaned in closer despite himself, watching the crystals of ice gather and grow.

The second piece came out warped and lopsided, and Beli tossed it away with a little grimace of dissatisfaction. "I'm out of practice," he said, holding out his palm and trying again. The next attempt was more fruitful, and he set the second well-formed piece down by the first. "I don't suppose you're any good at sculpting?"

Loki held out his own palm, concentrating and drawing on his seidr. A cool feeling ran down his forearm, different from the magic he was used to, and ice started to gather in his cupped hand.

It froze into a lumpy mess, running over his fingers and even sticking two of them together.

Beli laughed, but clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry," he said, "I couldn't do it either at your age."

With a grimace he summoned up a small fire and allowed the mess to melt off his hand, dripping into small puddles that refroze on the floor. The flame danced between his fingers until he clapped it out. The meltwater left his hands soaked, and he wiped them on his trousers, leaving wet patches that chilled in the cold air.

When he looked up Beli had fixed him with an intent gaze that was less like a hawk watching its prey and more like a child being shown a grand weapon, like he and Thor when Father had first taken them to the vaults. Awe and interest and intimidation and nerves flickered across the child-giant's face. "How did you do that?"

The flame sprang back up in his palm with a thought, barely putting any pressure on his exhausted store of magic. Loki focused on the sensation of magic crawling over his skin, on the mental pull of it and the little nudges he used to give it shape. The feel of the magic wasn't quite something he could put into words. It was like trying to explain to someone how to move your hand: you simply did.

“It is similar to how you summon your ice,” Loki settled on at last, “only less cold.”

Beli made a face. “Everyone can make ice. I've never seen anyone do that before.”

“It used to be a less unusual skill,” Gryla said, and Loki jumped. He hadn't realized the adult was listening. “Never common, but it ran in families. Perhaps one in twenty children would be born with it.”

“What changed?” Beli asked before Loki could.

“That particular gift has been rare since the war,” she said. “Frankly, I'm surprised to see it in one so young. It's very impressive.”

Loki felt a flush of pride, even if it was a Frost Giant saying so, and Beli eyed him with new interest.

He practiced his ice-sculpting while Beli made the rest of the pieces for their game, and on the tenth or eleventh try he even managed to make one of the pieces on his own, usable even if it was a bit lopsided.

The rules of the game were similar to Tafl, and he picked it up quickly, even if it did take six games for him to win one. To his surprise it wasn't bad, sitting cross-legged on the rug and playing with Beli, especially when Gryla brought a warm, creamy drink that reminded him a bit of milk tea, only sweeter.

If it weren't for the anxiety still churning in his gut, the fear that his disguise might fail him or that his family might never find him, he might even have enjoyed it.

Frigga was beside herself.

She went back and forth between angrily pacing the halls and breaking down into tears, either alone or against whatever shoulder happened to be nearest.

It didn't help that they hadn't come forward with an official explanation of what was going on. They weren't sure what to say, not until plans had been finalized, but in the absence of official explanation rumors had taken hold.

Many seemed to believe that the youngest prince had simply made some mischief, hiding away somewhere and causing a fuss, and had been safely found and sternly punished. Others pointed out that if that were the case, it would have been promptly announced, and why did Odin still have the army standing by as though he expected war at a moment's notice?

The most popular explanation was that Loki had died, the search been called off as soon as they found his body, and the Allfather was still determining who was at fault and whether a retaliatory attack was necessary. Frigga heard them speaking of it, even if they lowered their voices as soon as they noticed her. The whispers of a shame and poor dear and too young felt too real without her boy here to wrap her arms around so she could hold him tight and tell herself they were all wrong.

It wasn't until several days after the fact that she remembered Thor's name-day had come and gone unmarked and uncelebrated. She wrapped him up in her arms and whispered how sorry she was, and she never loved him more than when he told her it was okay, he didn't want to celebrate anyway with Loki gone, and if they brought his brother home safe it would be the only present he needed. She cried and told him it was because she was proud and she was only half lying.

The anxiety of living day after day wondering whether her son was okay wore at her, grinding away at her defenses and leaving her scraped raw, and still Odin did nothing.

Worse, he seemed determined to pretend like everything was normal, or as close to normal as life could be with a quarter of their family missing. When she asked him, begged him, pleaded with him through tears to send their armies into Jotunheim he refused, firm and hatefully calm. When she switched up her tactics, asked that they send a diplomatic party to negotiate his release, he still shook his head sadly, clearly hating to refuse her but refusing all the same. In the privacy of their quarters she raged and screamed and sobbed and argued in turn, but nothing would shake him, not even when she used words designed to cut and sting and scar.

His arguments did nothing to settle her. Loki was unhurt (for how long?), no-one knew who he was (and how was that a comfort?), they could not afford to start a war. The last one cut the deepest, the idea that Odin should put the abstract well-being of the realms before the physical safety of their son.

She journeyed down to the Bifrost observatory so often that Heimdall became weary of her presence. He never told her much, only that her son was alive and whole and still in that place, but still it was the closest thing to comfort she could find.

When the better part of a week had passed she found herself in her son's empty room, marveling at how deserted it already felt without an occupant.

This was not the first time she had found herself here, but today it hit her with renewed strength the way nothing at the desk had moved, the coldness of the room's hearth, the unstraightened mess of the bedcovers. She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, then frowned, stood up, and pulled the mattress aside. Tucked into the corner between the bed frame and mattress was a book, suspiciously old and worn. A glance at the bookshelf on the far wall confirmed that it was filled mostly with novels and introductory texts with smooth, brightly-colored spines, the usual fare for a child his age. The hidden book bore no resemblance to them, and she didn't remember giving him anything resembling the worn leather. 

She bent down and retrieved the book from it's hiding place and turned it over, running a finger over the spine. The Ways. Surely that didn't mean—?

Flipping open the book and rifling through the pages left her heart sinking into her stomach. This... explained so much, and of course, of course her mischief-bent younger son would make off with forbidden knowledge and then test its tenets on his own.

Her sweet, foolish little boy, too clever for his own good.

She sunk down onto the bed and deliberately flipped back to the very first page to began reading. It was slow work, and had her boy truly made his way through these complex, convoluted explanations? If the endeavor had ended any other way she might have been proud—he'd still have been in trouble, of course, and rightly so, but she thinks she would have been impressed nonetheless. A part of her still was.

The words were old and unnecessarily complex, but she understood the concepts at least, or nearly all of them. Some seemed frightfully simple at first look, and she suspected Loki underestimated the complexity of what he had attempted for that very reason. She thought, too, that she understood now why this experiment had taken him to Jotunheim. The ties that connected him to that place were old but they existed, and if he did not know about them he could not account for them.

She didn't remember drifting off to sleep, but she woke up to a gentle hand shaking her shoulder.

“My love,” Odin said, “it is late.”

His expression carried a soft pity, and it was a second before she realized she had fallen asleep in her missing son's room. The book had somehow ended up underneath her, digging its age-softened corner into her ribs and hidden from sight.

A split-second's decision had her resolved not to tell him about the book, and she glared up at her husband, pulling back enough to break contact but not so much that the book would be revealed.

“I believe,” she said coldly, “that I have neither desire nor obligation to be in your company just now.”

“Frigga—”

His voice was soft, gentle, but she knew him well enough to tell that he was hurt.

She closed her eyes. “Have you come to tell me that you have changed your mind, you will bring our son back home now?”

“You know why I can't—”

“Then leave.”

He sighed but turned and, after a last long, pleading look that she refused to acknowledge, he left, shutting the door behind him.

Once she was sure he was truly gone she uncurled and reached for the book. After a brief moment of hesitation she tipped the mattress and tucked it back into its hiding place, safe and secure.

After what she had said she couldn't leave just yet, so she curled back into the bed, hugging her son's pillow close until she drifted back to sleep.

The next day passed quietly, and the next. Another storm swept by outside the little Jotunn cottage, not so severe as the last but enough to keep them all inside, and the days passed in a comfortable rhythm of food and rest and games with Beli. On the last day of the storm the wind died down enough that they could step outside and Loki marveled at the snow, still drifting down at dizzying speeds but almost unspeakably soft now that it wasn't scouring his skin.

At night, when he curled up in a bed that was starting to feel like his, a wave of homesickness washed over Loki, overwhelming him suddenly as though the time with the little Jotunn family had held it at bay during the day.

Tonight, though, it returned stronger than before. Beli was nothing like Thor—except for the way he talked to Loki, cheerful and oblivious and kind, and he couldn't decide if that made the homesickness better or worse. Gryla reminded him of his own mother, and what did it mean when monsters reminded him of his own family? He couldn't hate them, not now, not after their astonishingly sincere kindness toward a complete stranger, but he couldn't trust them either, not when he was one slip of magic away from being discovered and declared an impostor.

The worst part, he thought, might be the uncertainty. Since he first realized he was cloaked in shadow and removed it, he had taken to whispering to Heimdall whenever he was alone, sometimes composed, sometimes near-frantic with pleading that left him flushed with shame once he calmed down. As time passed and no one came, he wondered whether Heimdall could hear him at all, whether he passed his words on to his parents, whether they were coming to get him. Surely they cared he was missing, after all, he was their son. Yes, it had to be that Heimdall couldn't hear him. His parents were looking, they just hadn't found him yet.

But surely his father could see him from Hlidskjalf, so why weren't they here? If they missed him half as much as he missed them, the search shouldn't take so long. The need to collapse in his mother's arms, to hear his father's voice, even if it was scolding him for being reckless and getting lost, was so strong it was almost painful.

And Thor, he thought he must miss Thor most of all. What did his brother think of Loki's disappearance? Did Thor miss him? Or was he playing with their other friends, having mock adventures with Sif and Fandral, glad to be rid of his tagalong little brother?

On a whim he reached into the dimensional space he had so recently carved and pulled out the bracelet that was meant to be Thor's present. The texture of the cool metal under his fingertips was comforting, somehow, and he traced the designs under the covers. It was sized a little bit too big for him—Thor was, after all, older and stronger—but he slipped it onto his wrist, pushing it up his arm until it fit. Part of him felt guilty for stealing his brother's present, but he reasoned that he would give it back when he saw Thor again, and for now the weight of it comforted him. His fingertips traced over the design, looping around one snake and then the other, until he finally fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Thor thought he might throw up.

Loki wasn't playing a trick because they'd found him, and he wasn't safe at home, laughing about how he'd fooled them all and made them worry.

Loki was in Jotunheim, with the Frost Giants.

Father wouldn't tell him any more than that, well, that and that Loki wasn't hurt. Not how the Frost Giants had captured his brother (he remembered the unmade bed—oh Norns, had they taken him from his rooms in the middle of the night?), or where on Jotunheim Loki was being kept, or whether he was scared.

Thor knew he was, though. He had to be. Thor's little brother was terrified of the Frost Giants. He used to have awful nightmares, ones where he'd curl up into a tight little ball and make pitiful noises until Thor crept across their shared room to rub circles on his back and whisper promises that he'd protect him into his ear until he relaxed. Thor always promised, and then swore ever more extravagant oaths when Loki didn't believe him, until he was laughing at Thor's ridiculousness instead of crying.

He was breaking every one of those oaths now by doing nothing. It was driving him mad.

He asked his mother, once, why if they knew where Loki was they weren't marching over there immediately and taking him back. She burst into tears, just started sobbing right into his shirt, and he had held her while the sound ate into his very soul. It was fifteen minutes before the tears had stopped. He didn't ask again.

One of the council members had even approached him and expressed condolences for his loss, and when Thor had looked confused sighed and said "it is a terrible thing, to lose a brother."

Thor had tried to set him straight, told him that Loki was alive and they were going to bring him back, but his eyes just filled up with pity and he had squeezed the prince's shoulder in a way he found unnerving.

The night after Mother and Father pulled him aside with grim faces to explain to him where his little brother was, he slept with his wooden training sword under his pillow. The next day, he snuck into the armory, painfully aware of how much more difficult it was without Loki to plan the heist and hide them with magic. The real swords were too large to fit under his pillow and too heavy for him to wield properly, so he ended up choosing a dagger and tucking it into his boot to sneak back into his room.

It didn't make him feel any better, though, because he wasn't truly afraid for himself. They already had his little brother, and even one of the full-size swords couldn't protect someone who wasn't here.

Several times, he talked himself up to mounting a rescue quest, coaxing himself past the terror of facing down giants, and several times he hit the insurmountable obstacle of travel to Jotunheim. Heimdall would never open the Bifrost for him without his parent's permission, and no other routes were open to him. It would be worth the danger to have his brother back, but Father would not allow it, and expressly forbid him to try when he asked.

Sometimes he would pretend, would run through the scenario in his mind and lose himself in the fantasy. He would be a brave warrior, setting forth on a noble quest to rescue his brother with his trusty dagger, or maybe they could make a sword more his size. The Frost Giants would be strong but he would be stronger, beating them back with his strength and skill and sheer force of will. Maybe he would suffer a noble injury—after all, Father lost his eye fighting the giants—but that would be okay too.

Once the giants were all defeated Thor would travel down into the dungeon, which would be horrible (but not too horrible, after all, Loki had to stay there while he was waiting to be rescued), and there his brother would be. Despite the delay Loki would be fine, and very glad to see Thor, and Thor would break down the doors of the prison and give his brother the biggest hug. They'd fight their way back together, side by side, because it wouldn't do to have his brother just sit around the entire time like a damsel, and they'd return victorious heroes. Mother would smile again and Father would clap them on the shoulders and say he was proud to have raised such bold warriors.

It almost made it hurt worse when he remembered the truth, that he was trapped here being useless while Loki endured an ever-lengthening captivity, and more than once he came out of his daydreams wiping away tears of frustration.

If only he was older, Father might let him go, and he could bring his brother back.

If only he was king, he could order Heimdall to let him past, and none could stand in his way.

If only he had Loki's skill with seidr, he might be able to find another way to get to Jotunheim, and then he wouldn't need the Bifrost in the first place.

If only.

Thor curled up on his bed and shivered, and guilt pooled in his belly when he thought that Loki was probably doing the same, shaking in the cold of Jotunheim while he lay here useless and filled with anxiety.

Worse, the cold was likely not the worst of what his brother endured even now, and though he could not bear the thought, it circled back every time he allowed his mind to relax.

After all, there was no telling what the Frost Giants did to his brother while he sat and waited for news.

“I'm ready,” Loki said, falling into a protective crouch and doing his best to hide his terror. Likely as not he was doing a terrible job of it, but at least his voice didn't tremble. Gryla wasn't fooled, if the look she was giving him was any indication.

Now that the sun was burning bright (if not what he would call warm) overhead, Beli had returned to the idea of having a snow fight, and neither of his parents, darting wary, sympathetic looks at Loki, had been able to dissuade him. Loki himself had hoped the boy would forget, especially after they had gotten on so well on the days they were trapped inside, playing games and telling stories and, at Gryla's insistence, helping out with the housework. At one point Loki had dredged up some of his still-weakened magic to animate illusions to go with a story he had been telling, a fable with animal characters that was one of Thor's favorites. Beli had been dumbfounded, and when he finished he realized both the adults had gone quiet and were watching with oddly strained expressions. After that he hadn't drawn from his magic again, but the time had passed companionably all the same.

As soon as the weather cleared, though, he had insisted they fight, and Loki, not wanting to be a coward, agreed. Still, he couldn't keep the tension out of his posture, the fear out of his expression as he waited and hoped that Beli didn't hurt him too badly. Surely he wouldn't kill him? The prospect seemed out of character, but the thought still filled him with a spike of dread.

Beli, though, just stared at him oddly. “What are you doing?”

Loki looked up, but he didn't let himself relax. “I'm prepared to fight,” he said, but this time he couldn't keep a quiver out of his voice. Beli frowned.

“A snowball fight,” he said carefully. His tone turned faintly incredulous. “You've never had a snowball fight?”

When Loki shook his head he blinked, then reached down and scooped up a handful of snow. “You make snowballs then you try to throw them at the other person,” he explained, packing the snow together with an easy, practiced motion that suggested he did this often. “It doesn't hurt. See?”

Loki half-flinched, but he only offered the packed snow, extending it carefully the way one might hold out an offering to a skittish animal. The chill of the snow bit at his bare fingers as he took it, but not uncomfortably, and Beli stepped back, spreading his arms in invitation. With a flick of his wrist Loki sent the snowball spinning right at the other boy and it exploded on his chest, leaving a light dusting of powder on the front of his shirt.

“See?” Beli said again. “It doesn't hurt at all. Now you make a fort over there—” he pointed to a tall snowdrift leaving heavily against a boulder, “and I'll make mine over here, and we can start.”

The snow piled against the boulder in an enormous pile like a folded blanket, and he stared at it blankly before stealing a glance at where the other boy had started piling snow for his own fort. It looked similar to how he and Thor used to make sandcastles on the beach, only without the step where you moved the water to wet the sand, so he set to work, grabbing handfuls and piling them on top of one another to make a crude wall. The first attempt crumbled when it reached the height of his shin and he huffed and started again, packing more snow into a wider base. It was slow going.

Beli finished after a few minutes and wandered over, peering over his shoulder and frowning. “Here, let me help,” he offered, and before Loki could say no, he could manage, Beli was piling snow, using his arms like a plow and creating waves that he patted into the structure of the overall wall. “There's this neat trick I learned,” he proclaimed when the fort had reached the level of Loki's elbows, tall enough to duck behind. He pressed one palm to the front of the wall and scrunched his face in concentration, and a spiderwebbed lattice of ice spread over the facade, reinforcing it. Beli grinned, obviously pleased with the work.

“Let's test them,” Beli suggested, and they backed up a few paces, scooping handfuls of the snow and  packing them tight before hurling them into the face of the fort. The snowballs exploded as they hit but the fort stood firm, completely unharmed. Loki found himself grinning wildly, reveling in the tiny explosions of snow.

They tested the other, Beli's fort that he made for himself, and it, too, stood strong.

“Mama,” Beli called, and Gryla lifted her head from where she was sitting a ways away, engaged in casual conversation with Vornir and one of their neighbors. “Can you count down to start?”

Gryla gave an indulgent smile. “Ready,” she said, projecting the word and pitching it to carry. Loki bent down and scooped up another handful of snow, his fingers, by now, numb to the sting of the cold, and crunched it into a ball.

“Get set,” she said, and he straightened, poised on the edge of his toes, ready to dodge, to run. His heart picked up, from adrenaline or excitement, but it didn't have the heavy, dreadful quality it had when he was expecting a true fight.

“Go!”

He threw himself to the side, barely dodging a snowball aimed at his chest, moving so fast that the cold air burned his nose. At the same time, he twisted and released his own snowball, giggling in triumph when he was rewarded with the soft sound of snow on skin and an indignant sputter.

Something cold and wet exploded against the side of his head and he shook himself out of his moment of triumph, ducking behind the wall of his fort and packing several snowballs in quick succession. A snowball arced over the wall he was ducking behind, sailing overhead and landing harmlessly several yards from where he was crouching. He laughed in triumph and stuck his head out from behind the wall long enough to lob another projectile of his own.

They traded shots for a while, took turns lobbing snowballs over the walls and each other's heads, but the forts were tall and neither of them had good enough aim to angle the throw just right and hit their opponent blind. Acting almost on instinct, Loki pulled light around himself to disappear. The spell was more difficult than normal, a strain like dragging a blanket that his brother was still sitting on, but after an effort that left him slightly breathless he managed to settle the cloak of light in place and creep out from behind his fortress.

The snow crunched and crackled beneath his borrowed boots, and he slowed almost to a crawl, keeping his weight low as he slowly circled behind Beli's fort. The other boy was crouched behind the wall, peering up over the edge with a snowball in one hand and his back to Loki. As soon as he got within range he lobbed his own missile, and it exploded in a satisfying shower of snowflakes off the back of Beli's head. He yelped and spun, launching a snowball that flew wide as Loki took off at a sprint. In seconds the other boy was at his heels, and he ducked and dodged, scooping snow as he ran and throwing it behind him.

He pulled ahead and dove behind his wall, which didn't work so well when Beli was just on the other side. Soon he was laughing through a face full of snow and he took off running again, snow crunching and sliding underfoot, the air in his lungs so cold that the burning almost felt like warmth. When they had first stepped outside he had felt the chill even through Beli's old jacket, but now the running and laughing had warmed all but his snow-numbed fingers and toes, and the jacket was stuck to him by a thin layer of cooling sweat.

He ran and chased in turn, depending on who was currently 'armed', ducking and weaving around tree stumps and walls and their forts, long since abandoned. For the first time since he'd found himself here instead of his bedroom his chest felt light, his spinning thoughts chased away by the blood rushing through his ears.

He ran, head thrown back, enjoying the sun and the ice and the snow and the breeze, spinning together overhead as his breathing started to come faster and faster. The world slowed, his legs felt heavy, and he stumbled almost to a stop while the world kept moving. A snowball exploded against his sleeve but he hardly felt it, not with the way the ground started lurching, and he turned back to ask Beli if he felt it too only to find himself staring up at the clear sky. It was very blue, all except for the wavy blank lines and the dancing spots of color.

The black lines expanded and swallowed his vision, and all the while the world continued to spin lazily underneath him.

Chapter Text

Loki woke back in the bed that had become his, in an ice room that somehow still felt too hot. Someone held a handful of cupped snow to his forehead, and though part of him wanted to shrink from the expected burning cold, the snow itself only felt blessedly cool, soothing the heat that radiated from his skin and numbing the pulsing headache behind his eyes.

“W'happen,” he mumbled, but the words came out slurred and heavy. Gryla shushed him, running gentle fingers through the hair at his brow in a gesture that reminded him achingly of his mother.

“It's nothing to worry about,” she said softly, keeping her tone low and soothing. “You just wore yourself out, is all. You need to rest.”

Loki wanted to protest, to say that he'd been tired before but this felt different, felt wrong, but his head felt fuzzy and he forgot what he wanted to say before the words made it past his lips.

“My head,” he rasped. “Hurts.”

“I know it does, sweetheart,” she said, voice still soft. “If I help you sit up, think you can drink some water for me?”

He nodded, and she slipped an arm underneath him, easing him upright. It wasn't until he tried to take the bowl-sized cup from her that he realized he was shivering, which didn't make sense because the air in the room was sweltering, and the heat seemed to roll over him in waves.

To his embarrassment, he couldn't hold it steady, so she held it for him as he drank and eased him back down once he finished. The water felt heavy and cold in his stomach, but it settled as he lay still.

“Go back to sleep,” she said, more order than suggestion even though her voice didn't change, never lost that edge of softness that for some reason he couldn't explain, left him unsettled. Gentle fingers brushed his forehead again, cool despite the sweltering heat of the room, and he allowed the soothing motions to carry him away.

When he woke again the heat and cold were gone and so was the pain in his head, leaving behind only a sort of staticky warmth and a faint ache in his muscles like that after a sickness or a particularly rough day of training.

He looked around for Gryla and found her still sitting in a chair pulled up next to the bed. Her arms were crossed over his mattress, her head resting on the bed inches from his right arm. He shifted just slightly and she stirred, blinking slowly before sitting up and regarding him with exhausted red eyes.

“Hello, child,” she said, the lines of fatigue on her face smoothing out as she smiled. “You look like you're feeling better.”

“I am,” he said confidently. “I am very hungry, though,” he admitted as a pang twisted through his stomach. It was true; he hadn't felt this hungry since the last time he'd grown, a sudden jump in several inches that had put him nearly even with Thor before his brother had gone on his own growth spurt.

It hit him all of a sudden how demanding that sounded, and he remembered he was a guest, far from home. “I'm sorry,” he said at once, “I should not—”

“Don't worry about it,” she said with another genuine smile. “I'm more than happy to bring you something. It's a good sign that you're hungry; I'm glad.”

She straightened, rolling her shoulders to work out the stiffness. “I'll fix something up, and I'll tell Beli you're awake in the meanwhile. He's been waiting to see you.”

Loki nodded, swallowing down a lump in his throat. Judging by the light filtering on through the window dawn had broken not long ago, which meant Gryla had sat with him all through the night. Somehow, here in Jotunheim, land of monsters where he wasn't even a prince, he had still found people who would be kind to him.

Gryla slipped quietly out of the room, and a minute later there came a light knocking on the door. “Come in,” he called, and there was a slight hesitation before it swung open to admit a very quiet, reserved Beli. He turned to shut the door behind him, softly and nervously, then padded over to stand beside the bed.

“I'm sorry,” was the first thing he said.

Loki frowned. “Why?”

“Mama says it wasn't my fault, but we were playing when you got hurt.” He shifted uneasily. “I threw a snowball at you right before you fell.”

“She's right,” Loki said, “it wasn't your fault.”

“I was the one who wanted to have a snowball fight.” He stared at the ground, determinedly not meeting Loki's eyes.

“It was fun,” he said. And then, without thinking, “my brother would have loved it.”

“You have a brother?”

Loki bit down hard on his tongue. “Yes,” he said, because he'd already given that much away and there was no point in trying to deny it now. He'd let himself be lured into a false sense of security by their kindness, so much that he'd almost forgotten it was based on a lie. Even after all this time he didn't know how they'd react if they knew he was Aesir, much less a son of Odin. Even if such a thing was hard to imagine, he would be a fool to let down his guard entirely.

“I have a brother too,” Beli said, apparently oblivious to Loki's sudden spike of anxiety. “This used to be his room, but then he joined King Laufey's guard and moved to the city. He's older than me.”

“My brother's older too,” Loki offered. “But not that much older.”

“Do you miss him?” Beli asked. Loki searched his face, but he only looked genuinely curious.

“Yes,” he said honestly. “Lots.”

“Sometimes I do too,” Beli said.

Their conversation was interrupted when the door eased open and Gryla appeared with food. The bowl contained some sort of porridge, warm and filling if not terribly exciting, and he took it eagerly.

When he finished she took out a small container, and while he didn't recognize it, Beli's reaction made it obvious that he did. When she handed it over his face broke out into a wide, delighted grin. “Your father and I have to make a trip next door,” she said. “You can shout if you need us. In the meanwhile, why don't you show Lopt how to make snow candies?”

Beli nodded and practically tugged him out of bed, and soon they were kneeling in the snow by the doorway, pouring out a thick syrupy substance over the snow and rolling it into hard candies that reminded him of crystallized honey. Beli showed him how to stretch it out and make designs, and before long they were both giggling around sticky fingers, yesterday's incident all but forgotten.

"What news, Heimdall?"

He didn't need to ask her about what information she sought—she had spent more time in the observatory than out of it these past few days, reassured by the gatekeeper that her son was alive and well.

“There was an incident,” he said mildly, and her heart jumped into her throat.

“A what?” She knew Odin should have gone sooner, if he had only listened—

“He is well,” Heimdall said, “and safe, but he collapsed during a game played with one of his peers. He has rested and is much recovered.”

“Collapsed?” She couldn't keep the panic entirely out of her voice, because though she may be queen, with all the expectations of perfect composure that came with the title, the panic of motherhood still lurked as close as it did for any woman with children. “What happened?”

“It seemed to be a sort of magical exhaustion,” he said with neither inflection nor emotion. “An overtaxation of his skills.”

“But he knows better than that,” she objected. “I always taught him to be careful. To push himself until he collapsed would be reckless and dangerous. What sort of spells did he use?”

Heimdall frowned, then, and his expression of stern puzzlement did nothing to ease her anxiety. “Very little that I could see,” he conceded, “though it may simply be the strain of world-walking continuing to take its toll.”

May be. “If not that, then what?” Even as she spoke the question, a cold dread settled into the pit of her stomach. Having Loki out of her reach was nearly unbearable, but she had been assured that he was safe and hale, if sometimes lonely or frightened. But if something had happened... if something was wrong...

She fixed her gaze somewhere in the bottomless void, eyes unfocused, and bit her lip to keep from shouting at the gatekeeper, demanding an accounting of every second. "I must tell my husband of this," she said.

"I have already informed the king of this development," Heimdall said mildly, and she felt a surge of irritation.

"And what was his response?"

"He has traveled to Alfheim, and is visiting with Lord Freyr," he said.

She stared at him, unable to speak. She thought she might shout, she thought she might rage, curse her husband in every language she had studied in her long years in Asgard.

When she finally regained her voice, though, it was calm and collected, if terse.

"Send my husband a message, if you would," she said grimly.

Heimdall somehow managed to look questioning without changing his expression in the slightest.

"Tell him that if he will do nothing, I will go and find our son myself, consequences go to Hel."

"Is that all, My Queen?"

She nodded. "He has until the sun rises tomorrow morning, else I will go."

"I cannot open the Bifrost against the orders of my king," Heimdall pointed out.

"I need not ask it of you. There are other ways to travel between realms, if one keeps an open mind."

He inclined his head. "I will deliver your message, my queen."

She nodded and started back across the bridge at an impressive clip, not trusting herself to say anything further.

When she got back to her chambers, she pulled the door closed and collapsed onto the bench where she did her weaving, head in her hands.

Loki and Beli finished the candy well before the adults returned so they took to eating handfuls of snow, stuffing their cheeks as full as they could then trying to talk around it until they collapsed into hopeless laughter at the resultant gibberish.

Their tongues were numb by the time the adults came up the front path, and Vornir smiled fondly down at them when they both started babbling unintelligible greetings and spitting chunks of half-melted ice. After a few seconds, though, his smile faded, and Loki sobered as he realized both adults wore unusually serious expressions.

“Come inside and get warmed up,” Gryla said, and while her tone of voice wasn't stern in the slightest, something in it compelled the both of them to slink back into the house without complaint despite Loki's certainty that they would both rather be outside.

Everything seemed normal when they got in the house, but the sense of unease wouldn't leave him. It stayed when Gryla put together some warm drinks and they all sat until the numbness leached out of their fingertips. He didn't miss the uneasy looks the adults were trading, or the uncharacteristic silence that had fallen over the little house.

When the drinks were finished, Vornir turned to Beli. “I think we're nearly out of iceroot,” he said a little too casually. “Do you think you could go collect some more?”

Beli made a face, but at Gryla's faintly reproving look he nodded. Loki stood to follow him, but Vornir spoke again before he reached the door. “Lopt,” he said, “we'd actually prefer that you stay. We need to talk.”

He froze, and Beli watched curiously for a few seconds before the awkwardness of the room became overpowering and he had no choice but to leave.

At a gesture from the adults a sort of long couch formed from the ice and they sat down, patting the space between them. “Come, sit,” Gryla said, and he obediently clambered up, unease growing when neither of the adults smiled.

“When I found you,” Gryla started, “you seemed very reluctant to tell me where you were from.”

Loki stared hard at his hands in his lap, mind racing. Of course they hadn't just let it go; how could they? He had allowed himself to foolishly believe it wouldn't be a problem, to forget that he had no good explanation still for how he came to be here. By now he should have at least thought of a lie, but he didn't even have that much, so he stayed silent, dragging his thumbnail viciously against his left palm.

“I showed the clothes you were wearing when we found you to old lady Eistla, and she confirmed that the weave and make were Asgardian," Gryla said gently.

Loki froze. His mind with all its half-formed lies and excuses ground to a halt as his breath caught in his throat, panic burning in his chest. They knew, somehow they had guessed, the charade was over and he was going to die. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he should be brave, that a son of Odin should meet his end with dignity and not cry, that Thor wouldn't cry, but he was a child still, and he could feel his lip quivering. He bit down on it, hard, and the pointy teeth he had nearly forgotten dug into the skin, filling his mouth with the taste of blood. His face contorted and cold tears ran in odd patterns down the raised lines on his cheeks.

"You don't have to say anything, just hear me out. There are rumors," she continued, "that some among the Aesir took Jotunn children back with them to Asgard, either as prisoners or slaves, during the war or after. Some say they went so far as to hunt down families in their homes and kill the older relatives who defended them."

Loki didn't say 'in Asgard they say you eat naughty children as snacks'; he was too busy trying not to sob openly. He prayed silently that Heimdall wasn't watching, or that if he was, he wouldn't tell Loki's family what a coward he had been.

The Jotunn was studying him silently, watching the tears as they slid down his terrified face. "It wasn't your fault," she said at last, and the gruff voice was far more gentle than he would have imagined a Frost Giant's capable of being. "There was nothing you could have done to keep them from taking you. You were a child, you couldn't have stopped them. Whatever they did, it isn't your fault."

Loki didn't look up, couldn't look up, but suddenly there were arms around him and he was sobbing a cool wet patch into a blue shoulder.

"Shh," the giant said, cupping the back of his head and rocking him gently. "It's okay, child. You were very brave, and you escaped. You are so, so brave, and whatever you had to do to make your way back here, you did it. I'm proud of you, little one. You're safe now. You're home now. I won't let them take you again."

He couldn't stop crying. Everything the giant was saying was wrong; the Aesir didn't kidnap him, he was Aesir. He wanted to go home, to go back to Asgard, to see his family again. But the shock and fear and guilt of the past few days came bubbling out in this never-ending fountain of tears and here he was, clinging to this fearsome monster as it reassured him he would never be allowed to go home. The absurdity of it might have made him laugh had he been able to stop crying.

"How long?" the giant whispered to him as it continued to hold him close, rocking him the way his mother used to before he had declared himself too old for such a babyish comfort. "How long ago did they take you from your home?"

"I don't remember anything of Jotunheim from before you found me," he said, accurately if not completely honestly, still snuffling embarrassingly with his face buried in the crook of the giant's neck. Now, too, his ignorance would have an explanation, and it was as though another weight had been lifted from the space above his lungs.

"Those monsters," she said, and the anger in her voice could have melted a glacier, or frozen one. "It must have been near the end of the war, then, when you would have been only a babe. Your poor parents." She squeezed him tighter. "I understand why you would not have wanted to speak of this, but you could have told me sooner. We can try to get word out, figure out who they are and whether they're still alive."

"I was afraid," he choked out. "I thought you might be angry, or—"

"No," she sounded horrified, "baby, no. Shh. It's not your fault."

The sobbing had all but stopped, but silent tears still ran down his cheeks in a steady stream that left his face feeling wet and sticky. She tucked his head under her chin, rocking him gently and petting his hair and whispering comforting words until he drifted off to sleep.

Thor sat in his room, toying idly with his stolen dagger. The blade held just enough of an edge to carve deep lines in the wood of his bed frame, though he was careful to only slice grooves into places that would be hidden by his blankets when the bed was made.

A gentle knocking at the door startled him and he all but threw the knife under the bed, straightening just as the door eased open. His mother smiled when she saw him, small and sad like all of her smiles lately.

“What happened? Is Loki back?” he asked even though he already knew the answer. If Loki was back he would be with her, or she would be with him, or at the very least his mother would be smiling again. Still, he had to ask, because otherwise the hope would overwhelm him.

“Soon,” she promised, leaning down to pull him into a one-armed hug. An old, leather-bound book was tucked under her other arm; he thought he recognized it as one Loki had been reading recently. “One way or another, he'll be back very soon.”

“I hope so.” Thor leaned into the embrace, drawing more comfort than he liked to admit from the warmth of it, because as much as he missed his brother, he had started to miss his parents too, especially after all the time they spent working on things he wasn't allowed to help with.

She sat down on the bed and pulled him with her, setting the book aside to wrap both arms around him and tucking his head under her chin. “You know I love you, sweetheart,” she mumbled as she rocked them gently back and forth. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Amma,” he whispered.

He took a deep breath and just drifted, forcing himself to relax and enjoy the feeling of being held, of being loved and safe and warm and protected. The hug soothed something inside him, all warmth and softness and for once his mother wasn't crying. It felt almost normal, like the last few days hadn't been a nightmare of worry and powerlessness and regret.

After a few minutes of sitting together, holding tight to his mother in a way he hadn't for years, she kissed the top of his head and pulled back, smiling down at him again with that same watery smile.

He smiled back, hesitant but genuine.

“It's going to be all right,” she said, squeezing his shoulders before pulling him in for one more last quick hug. She picked up the book again and stood up, making her way out of the room and leaving him sitting in the middle of his bed, feeling raw on the inside and with new sparks of anxiety churning in his gut alongside the now-familiar worry for his brother.

Something woke Loki from his sleep, and he lay in the bed, trying to figure out what. It didn't take long—the argument was conducted in hushed tones, but even so the giants' words rumbled overhead like thunder.

Waving a hand, he drew light around himself to become invisible and crept out of bed, sneaking out of the room and settling into a corner where he could hear the argument.

"So what do you think we should do?" Gryla was clearly upset, and Loki huddled tighter to the wall. "We can't return him to those Asgardian pigs. Even if we knew how, I wouldn't consider it."

Oh. They were arguing about what to do with him.

"I don't like the idea either," Vornir said, "but we need to start considering our options. You saw how sick he was yesterday."

"He's doing much better!"

"Yes, for now. But we both know if he stays here, that won't last."

Some soft sounds that could be pacing filled the brief silence that followed.

"My dear," Vornir began, so softly Loki had to scoot closer to hear, "how many children have you seen with that sort of magical ability since the war? Or even a fraction of it?"

"He's older," she argued. "Stronger."

"And what if that isn't enough? If he grows worse?" Despite its deep register, the giant's voice sounded almost gentle.

"Why would I get worse?" Loki uncloaked himself and pushed forward, and both adults spun to face him. Under different circumstances, he might have laughed at the comic surprise on their faces, or felt guilty for the sudden interruption. Now, though, they were talking about him. He had a right to know.

Gryla recovered first. "Nothing for you to worry about, little one," she said hurriedly.

"It sounded like something to worry about. Am I sick?"

Vornir shook his head. "No, not sick. But you do have a significant gift for magic."

"Yes," Loki said, "but that's never made me feel bad before."

"That's because you weren't here," Gryla said gently, kneeling down and putting her hands on his shoulders. "Back before the war, it wouldn't have been a problem. A magical artifact called the Casket of Ancient Winters sustained our world, which drew power from the Casket's magic to survive. But the king of Asgard, Odin Spear-Shaker, took the Casket when he invaded."

Loki nodded. He knew this, had even seen the Casket in his father's vaults, not that he could say so now.

"Now that it's gone, Jotunheim draws power from wherever she can, including sorcerers among her own people. By a decade after the war's end, nearly everyone with significant magical gifts was gone. Babies will sometimes be born small and then die in their cribs; we suspect they also would have been gifted."

Cold fear slithered into Loki's gut. "Am I going to die?"

She pulled him closer, the hands on his shoulders wrapping around him in a comforting hug. "No, child. Absolutely not. We'll figure something out.

“But what?” He swallowed, hard, leaning into the hug.

“I wish I knew, child, I wish I knew. Don't you worry, though. We will find something. For now, though, you should be in bed.”

He nodded. “I woke up because I heard you fighting,” he admitted, and the adults exchanged a guilty look, grimacing slightly. Gryla took his hand and started walking him back towards his room.

“Well, we won't discuss this any further tonight,” she promised when they reached the door. “Get some sleep.”

He nodded, crawling under the covers as she shut the door behind him, and curled up into a ball with his heart pounding.

“Heimdall,” he whispered, in a plea that had almost become reflexive by this point. “Please, I want to go home. Please, I'm scared. Don't leave me here. Please don't leave me here to die.”

“Please,” he whispered again and again as he lay awake, until his throat went dry and his voice hoarse. “Please.”

Sunrise the next morning found Frigga in her warmest clothes and a fur traveling cape, with a bag packed with supplies. She had not yet heard from her husband, so she strode resolutely to the base of the rainbow bridge, crushing her worries through sheer willpower until only determination remained.

She would check with Heimdall to see if he had any messages or new information to relay, and if nothing had changed, hopefully the paths described in the book would take her where she needed to go.

The Bifrost engaged almost the same moment she reached the observatory, and in an instant she was face to face with Odin.

He looked her up and down, then straight in the eye. "Where are you going, my queen?" he asked, his voice mild.

She raised her chin. "I am going to retrieve my son."

"Why now?"

She clutched her traveling-bag tighter. "He is sick," she said. “Heimdall said that he collapsed.”

"Yes, but he has since rested and is unhurt."

Anger made her face flush hot. "Are we then to wait until he is hurt before we do something? Am I supposed to sit here and do nothing, leave my child in danger while you do not protect him and all of Asgard whispers that he is dead? Must the rumors become true before we act?"

He grabbed her shoulders, and she felt an equal desire to jerk away from his touch and collapse into his arms.

"Peace, my wife," he said. "We have been planning a way to get Loki back all the night." She looked up, and for the first time noticed King Freyr of Alfheim standing behind her husband. "If all goes according to plan, he shall be back in your arms before the day's end, and most likely grounded until he is a grown man."

She wiped her eyes, keeping her back straight and her shoulders squared. "What is the plan?"

“It's good to see you too, little sister,” Freyr said with a wry smile.

“We are sending Freyr to retrieve him without drawing attention.” Odin wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into a half-embrace. “No politics, no putting our son in unnecessary danger, just a man looking for his lost child.”

“And you think they'll believe that?”

“I've a few tricks up my sleeve,” Freyr promised with a confident smile. “After all, my nephew's not the only one in this family who can shapeshift.”

Chapter Text

The next morning dawned clear and cold, and the atmosphere in the little house was subdued. Beli left early in the morning with a list of chores, Gryla set to simmering something on the stove, and Vornir sat with Loki, asking questions he wasn't quite sure how to answer and making notes. When he finished collecting all the half-truths Loki could offer without incriminating himself, he sat down to write out letters, supposedly the first step to discovering Loki's "real family".

He wondered what they would do when, inevitably, they found nothing because there was nothing to find.

A knock at the door made them all straighten. Gryla stood to answer it, but when she opened the door her expression turned wary. “How may I help you?” she said politely, smiling with just a hint of an edge.

The giant standing in the doorway was no one Loki recognized, but the stranger seemed to be looking for something. He scanned the room over Gryla's shoulder, and when he saw Loki they locked eyes and  his expression relaxed just slightly, his smile growing a touch less stiff and forced. Gryla glanced over her shoulder and then shifted, moving to block more of the doorway and put herself between the stranger and the children.

“I'm looking for my son, actually,” he said, and Loki froze, studying the giant's face. There was something almost familiar about his features, but he was most definitely not Odin, and therefore not Loki's father. “He went missing almost a week ago,” the giant said, “and I think I actually see him, so if I might just—”

He stepped carefully around Gryla and into the house, a move that made her tense defensively and scowl. The stranger approached and dropped to one knee in front of Loki, putting them almost at an even height. He was suddenly aware of Vornir taking a deliberate step to move closer behind him, resting his hands on his shoulders in an almost protective gesture.

“Hey kiddo,” the stranger said, “we've missed you. Your mother's garden has been awfully quiet with you gone.”

Loki had already started to shake his head, to pull back, but at the mention of his mother's garden he froze. That was a sign, a code arranged by their parents long ago so that he and Thor would know that an adult they didn't know could be trusted. The intent had been to thwart potential kidnappers, an important consideration when the brothers were also eventual heirs to the throne of an empire, but if this giant was using it now...

Maybe his parents hadn't forgotten him after all. Maybe he could go home.

He swallowed, hard, fighting back the blur of relieved tears that welled up in his eyes at the thought.

“You aren't his father,” Gryla said with absolute certainty. She took a step forward, moving so close that the man had no choice but to straighten and move back and away from Loki. She stood between them, tall and imposing.

“I am,” the stranger insisted. “Just ask him—”

“I don't have to,” she said. “It's obvious that your clan lines don't match. The two of you aren't even related, let alone father and son.”

The giant glanced down in obvious confusion, and Loki did the same, running a finger over the lines that looped and twisted over his arm. A glance at the stranger confirmed what Gryla had said. The patterns did not bear even a passing resemblance to one another.

“You're right,” the stranger said after a second. “We aren't technically biologically related. He's my wife's son from an earlier marriage. Her first husband was killed in the war before the child was born, and we met soon after. He is my son.”

Gryla's lips pressed onto a thin line and she crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. “Really. Because that doesn't at all match the story he told us.”

The giant threw him a hard look, and he winced. The hands on his shoulders tightened.

“Really?” The stranger smiled indulgently. “That doesn't surprise me,” he said tightly. “He can be quite the little liar.”

“He's right,” Loki said quickly, doing his best to try and still the trembling in his voice and not quite succeeding. “I lied. I'm sorry.”

“See? Now that we settled that, if I can—” the giant reached for Loki, and Gryla caught his wrist, pulling him back. He blinked at her, taken aback, and Vornir took a step back, pulling Loki with him.

“Someone's lying,” she said pointedly, “and somehow I don't think it's the little boy I found freezing to death in a snowstorm, so terrified of adults he almost set himself on fire trying to get away from me when he woke up.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don't think that's all you're lying about, either. I don't use magic but I can tell when someone is using it to hide something. Drop the disguise.”

“I'm not,” he started, but a wall of ice rose up behind him, stopping him cold when he stumbled back. Ice ran along Gryla's forearm and sharpened to a threatening edge, and Vornir pulled Loki further back, pushing him almost into a corner and moving to stand in front of him.

“I won't ask again,” Gryla said firmly. “You come into my house, try to take a child who is under my protection under false pretenses, and think I'll just send him off with you, no questions asked, even though he's clearly terrified? Drop it now or get out.”

The stranger wavered, visibly debating, and then raised his hands slowly in a motion of surrender. He shrunk as he shifted, skin turning pale and pink, features resolving into something more familiar. Loki and Thor had never spent much time in Alfheim, but they knew their Uncle Freyr from his occasional visits to Asgard.

Loki's breath caught in his throat and suddenly he was choking, he couldn't breathe because he'd been hiding this entire time but apparently the giants could have seen through his disguise at any moment, and possibly still could. Why hadn't they? Was it luck, bound to run out any minute now that they were looking more closely? He curled into himself, trying to shrink, to become smaller and less noticeable. If anything, it drew attention to him, and both Gryla and Freyr watched him until Vornir moved to shield him more completely, pulling him closer with a hand wrapped around his shoulder.

Gryla turned to glare at Freyr, who was shivering now, keeping half a nervous eye on the ice blade she still held defensively close. “Who are you really?” she demanded. “What are you doing here?”

He swallowed. “My name is Freyr,” he said, “King of Alfheim, and I'd thank you to put that knife away.”

She growled, but they all froze as the door swung open. Beli stood stock-still in the entryway, frozen with his hand still in the knob. “Mama?” he asked, looking with wide, scared eyes from the foreign intruder to his parents.

“Go,” Vornir said, “find your brother or one of the other guards and let them know that there is an intruder here invading from a foreign realm. Go!”

Beli backed out the door, eyes wide and scared, then turned and ran.

Freyr watched him go, gritting his teeth in frustration. “There's no need for that,” he said tightly. “This is hardly an invasion. I'm just here to collect the boy and go.”

“By what rights?”

His eyes flicked back over to Loki. “It's well know that my wife, Queen Gerd, is Jotunn,” he said finally, “even if her magic is such that she doesn't always appear that way in the warmer realms. I believe—”

“Everyone also knows that Gerd is from the mountain clans,” Grlya interrupted, “so if you're still trying to claim a relation you can stop now. Her lines would look like the ones from your disguise, or near enough. She's not related to the boy either. And at this point I don't think I'll believe anything you say, given how many times you've already lied.” She took a step forward and he flinched back as the wall of ice behind him disappeared, sending him tumbling to the floor. “Get out.”

Loki started crying in earnest now. He didn't want them to fight, didn't want his uncle or the family that had taken him in to be killed, especially when it was all his fault. He couldn't stifle his muffled sobs and they only seemed to make Grlya angrier. She set her jaw, a grim, fixed expression that made her look terrifying.

Freyr raised one hand from where he was sprawled back, wide eyes darting between the panicked, sobbing Loki and the furious giantess standing over him. “Look,” he said, “he's my nephew, all right? And I swear my sister will murder me if I come back without that kid. This is all a mistake, I promise, I didn't even want to—”

“I can take it from here, Freyr.”

Loki gasped and looked up, and something inside his chest squeezed and relaxed because his father was here, finally and truly, and he'd come back to get him. He'd come back for Loki; he hadn't abandoned him. “Papa,” he whispered, and his father glanced at him before addressing Gryla.

“It seems there has been a misunderstanding,” the Allfather said levelly, voice firm and commanding. Grlya went pale under her blue skin at the sight of him, falling back enough that Freyr could scramble to his feet and move back. “The boy is my son,” he said simply, “Prince Loki of Asgard, and I mean to bring him home.”

Chapter Text

The giantess opened her mouth and closed it again, a sick expression on her face. “You're Odin the Destroyer,” she said, her voice a mixture of terror and awe and disgust that sent tendrils of guilt stirring in the pit of his stomach.

“Not today,” he said heavily, and hoped it was true. No good man could repay these people who took in his son and sheltered him and sought to protect him with destruction, but neither could he leave alone, especially after what Heimdall had told him. He truly didn't know how far he'd go and hoped there would be no opportunity to find out. The situation could still be salvaged. “Today I am Odin the father who seeks to be reunited with his youngest child.” She shook her head, disbelieving, and he heaved a great internal sigh.

“I think I should go wait outside,” Freyr said from somewhere behind him. When no one paid him any heed, he slipped silently out the door.

“He's just a boy,” she said, something desperate cracking in her tone. “Can't you just leave him be?”

The soft sound of a closing door made him suddenly aware that Loki was no longer in the room. He considered protesting—after everything he didn't care to let the boy out of his sight—but it was probably wise, so he said nothing while the giant who had ushered him out came to stand beside his wife.

“It is not—”

The door behind him flew open with a resounding crash, and he spun in time to see several armed guards duck through the door, following the pointed, trembling finger of a Jotunn child. Between them—

Odin swore internally in several languages long since lost to time as he met the angry eyes of the Jotunn king. The guards visually swept the room as though to determine there were no other, hidden threats, and when they finished Laufey dismissed them with a wave of his hand. They glanced at one another, sharing a meaningful look of doubt. “Wait outside,” Laufey ordered tightly, and they complied, leaving the two kings staring one another down in the small living area while the couple who lived there retreated to the edge of the room.

"Allfather." Laufey spat the title like it was bitter on his tongue. "Why have you come here? Has the throne of Asgard nothing better with which to busy itself than harassing my people?"

His tone was unmistakably hostile, but beneath that was an edge of genuine confusion. Laufey was angry, but he did not yet understand their purpose in coming here, which meant it might not be too late for this to be resolved peaceably and easily. So long as they kept this from becoming heated, it may even go well.

"They are attempting to steal a child," the giantess declared, and Odin didn't miss the way she had angled herself between him and the door to Loki's room. His teeth clicked in frustration, but he couldn't hate her for wanting to keep his son safe, even if that meant she was making his life more difficult.

Laufey blinked slowly. "Must I add child-thief to the list of your unsavory titles?"

Odin arranged his features into a mask of irritation. "Nothing so nefarious. My younger son was experimenting with world-walking and wound up here by mistake. He is a shapeshifter, hence the confusion. We wish only to collect him and then depart."

"He lies," the giantess said, flicking him a nervous look. "The boy is Jotunn. I am certain of it."

"He is my son," Odin said firmly. By the twitch of Laufey's features, he had noticed that wasn't exactly a denial, but Odin hoped the unshakable truth in those words would convince him nonetheless.

"Well, it is a question easily enough resolved," Laufey said. "Let me see the boy."

"He is frightened," Odin said, "and but a child. Surely you would not want to upset him further."

Laufey froze, then his attention snapped over to a seemingly empty spot by the wall. Now that Odin was looking, he could see the faint imperfections in the invisibility shroud there, subtle shimmers that gave away the position of the eavesdropper.

A giant blue hand shot out and closed around the wrist of a now-visible Loki. As the cloaking spell shattered, Odin could hear the breath catching in Laufey's throat. He pulled the boy closer, ignoring his frantic struggles and pinning him in place with a hand clasped around the back of his neck.

Tentatively, he raised one enormous finger to trace the lines on Loki's forehead.

Loki flinched back, his bright red eyes wide with terror, but Laufey only lifted his chin, following the lines as they looped down over his exposed throat.

"You're frightening my son," Odin said, and the words rumbled in his throat, threatening like thunder.

Without warning, Laufey ripped open the boy's tunic, his eyes scanning the markings that ran down his chest. Loki pulled back again and this time Laufey allowed it, staring out into space as Loki scrambled backwards to press his back against the far wall. His whimpers were quiet, suppressed with false bravery, but they still cut through the silence of the room.

"Your son," Laufey whispered. "You dare."

"He is my son," Odin said again, firm.

"He is my son!" Laufey all but shrieked. "Mine!"

He reached back and grabbed Loki by the arm again, dragging him forward as though presenting evidence at a trial. "How can you even think to lie to me when the evidence is written on his skin? Did you really think I would not recognize my own clan-lines?"

Loki let out a pained sob, and Laufey pulled back abruptly, releasing a white-knuckled grip that had grown tight enough to bruise. Loki half-stumbled back, clutching his arm with wide eyes, and Laufey's expression shifted to one of guilt and remorse.

"Loki," Odin said sternly, "go back in your room. Don't come out until I come to get you."

Dazed red eyes met his, but the boy didn't move.

"Go back in the room, Loki," he said, just as firmly. "I'll get you after. Now go."

The boy did go, then, disappearing into the far room, and Odin used a bit of magic to shut and seal the door behind him.

"You stole my son," Laufey said, mingling disbelief and anger. "He was just a baby, my baby, and you stole him."

"No," Odin said. "I found him alone, abandoned. When I took him in I saved his life."

"Liar." His voice sounded on the verge of breaking.

Odin shook his head. "When I went in the temple to retrieve the casket, the boy was there, alone, on the steps to the altar. He cried, and I could not leave a child so hungry and cold and pitiful alone without a caretaker. I thought him unwanted."

"You thought wrong."

Odin drew himself up. "Even if you claim to have wanted him, the fact remains that he was alone, unguarded, and unprotected in the cold. He was half-dead already when I found him. He would not have survived if I had left him where he lay."

Laufey looked as though he had been physically struck. "And whose fault was that? We found his caretaker unarmed and slaughtered outside the temple. Until today I assumed my son perished with her, but had you left him you and yours would be no less responsible for his death than for hers. You deserve no prize for having the decency not to murder an infant. You should have returned him, named a price if you must, but given him back to his family."

"As I said, I thought him unwanted."

Laufey threw up his hands, shouting and threateningly close while Odin stood unmoving. "Why? What reason could we possibly have for not wanting our own child?"

A bit of heat rose up into his cheeks, and he hoped it would be disguised by the cold. "He was very small, for a giant."

"That's because he was a baby! Are you so stupid you do not realize that babies are small? Do you throw out your own children because you have yet to grasp the concept of infancy?"

"As I said, I thought him abandoned, and his small size was my likeliest guess as to why. I see now that I might have erred in my assumption."

"Might have? Might have?" Ice snapped and crackled as a heavy layer coated his fist; Odin actually took a step backwards, readying his spear defensively. "Do you have any idea what we went through those days after the war? My wife nearly died from the grief. All these years later and she still mourns."

"Oh? And where was she when her son was crying alone on a temple floor?"

Laufey's eyes flashed. "Don't you dare. She was with the healers, sick after giving birth. When your soldiers breached the outer perimeter of the halls of healing she could not leave with those evacuating, and I convinced her to send the baby on ahead, with a nurse, for his own safety. When that was the last time either of us saw him she never forgave me for sending him away. She never forgave herself."

Laufey was breathing heavily, one hand frozen solid in a club of ice. Odin took another step back and softened his voice.

"My gatekeeper tells me he has heard some disturbing things these past few days. Is it true that since the removal of the Casket of Ancient Winters, any of your people with inherent magic sicken and die?"

"Of course it's true," Laufey spat. "When you stole the Casket you removed the heart of our land. Jotunheim does what she must to survive. Even so, she sickens. The winters grow colder, the weather more turbulent, the land less fruitful. This realm is dying, just as you intended."

"That was never my intention." Odin frowned. "I would not have your people destroyed. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement."

Laufey's arm dropped, the club swinging at his side then crackling to pieces that piled on the stone floor. Beneath the deep blue of his skin, he actually seemed to go pale. He blinked. "You mean to have me trade my son for the Casket."

"I mean to offer you a way to save your people."

"You offer me an impossible choice! You force me to choose between the duties of a king and those of a father."

"You are not the boy's father." Odin shook his head, expression grim. "For better or worse, I took that from you long ago. I am his father now, as I have been for the past four centuries."

"Is this what it's come to? That I must sell my own child for the sake of my people?"

Odin had no answer for that.

"Tell me," he said, "what would you do in my place?"

The cold air stung in his lungs as he took a deep breath. "I pray I never have to find out."

Despite his giant size, Laufey looked almost small, his posture hunched and tired and defeated. "And if I refuse? You would continue to let our children die, even with the one you call son among them?"

Odin didn't flinch. "I would have him back, even if it means war."

"Truly? Is keeping my son more important to you than your honor?"

"Yes," Odin said simply.

"So the choice you offer me is no choice at all." He heaved a great sigh. "Curse you, Allfather. Even after the war, I have never hated you as much as I do at this moment."

“I am sorry,” Odin said, and he meant it.

He thought he knew, now, what it was like to be faced with the prospect of losing a child, and it was not something he would wish to have inflicted upon anyone. It was a short list of things he would not give up to right that wrong, but his younger son was one.

“One other thing I would ask, and then I will accept your bargain.” Laufey's voice carried defeat like a heavy burden, and Odin felt guilt and relief in equal measure. “When the boy grows older, should he desire to visit us, to learn more about the people of his blood... do not prevent him.”

“I shall encourage the idea,” Odin said, “when he is older. I think perhaps it would be a good idea for our people to develop stronger ties.”

Laufey nodded. “I will never forgive you,” he said, his eyes hard, “but for the sake of my son I would support such efforts.”

“I shall collect him now.” Odin took a step toward the room where Loki was sequestered, already starting to breathe more easily. “You have my word the Casket shall be delivered to you as soon as we return.”

With a single motion he unspelled the door and pushed it open to reveal a bed, a rug, some other furniture, and nothing else. The room was deserted.

“Loki?” He called out uncertainly. “It is time for us to depart.”

When he stepped into the room sparks of residual magic tingled against his skin. It left him uneasy. “Loki,” he tried again. “It is your father. If you are hiding, reveal yourself now.”

He shivered as he stepped through a cloud of magic, cooler and more shadowed than the boy's own. It was unmistakably familiar, though, and when he recognized it he swore.

The boy was world-walking again—upset, frightened, weakened and without a guide.

By now, he could be anywhere.

Chapter Text

Loki stumbled through the greyness of the in-between, tears blurring his vision so much that he could not tell how much of his disorientation was from the ever-shifting landscape. He sucked in ragged breaths too quickly to get enough air and stumbled forward blindly.

He didn't bother trying to find his way; he wasn't even sure where he wanted to go.

Home, a traitorous part of his brain said, but where was that? Not Asgard, not if he was a son of Laufey (a monster, but that didn't sound quite right after the kindness Gryla and her family had shown him), but if not Asgard, then where? He didn't belong on Jotunheim, or any of the other seven realms.

Still, that voice in the back of his head whispered home, home, home, and he pushed through the paths, nearly falling over as he stumbled headlong into one of the boundaries.

He ripped it open and collapsed through it, curling up on a hard wooden floor. The room was bright enough to dazzle his eyes through the prism of his tears, and he blinked as they adjusted. When he looked around at last he swallowed back a bitter laugh.

Of course. He wished for home and this was where the Ways took him.

Thor's room.

After Jotunheim, the air in the room felt stiflingly hot and still, oppressive even without the ripped tunic he had lost sometime as he fled. He pushed to his feet, still shaky, and the world swirled and dipped beneath his feet, gravity tugging oddly at him the way it did on a boat before you adjusted to the tilt of the sea.

He was so preoccupied with staying upright he didn't notice he wasn't alone in the room until someone crashed into him with an angry howl, pinning him to the wall.

His attacker pressed up against him, pinning his shoulders with a forearm and smashing his face into the stone wall. Something cold and sharp tickled his ribs—a dagger, he thought through the haze of exhaustion that still draped his thoughts.

"Where is my brother, Frost Giant?" Thor's voice hissed in his ear. "You will take me to him, if you value your life."

Thor didn't know. Didn't know that Loki was a lie, that he never had a brother at all.

It was too much. Loki reached into himself, ignored the dizzyingly hollow feeling in his chest, and reached out one more time to undo the bindings of reality.

He stumbled through the jagged tear in space-time, sinking to his knees in the grey in-between.

It wasn't until after the hole had knit itself back together that he realized he wasn't alone.

"What have you done to us?" Thor asked, and his voice trembled. If he were anyone else, Loki would have called it fear.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Didn't think—you would fall in after me." His arms beneath him were shaking, so he gave into temptation and lowered himself the rest of the way to the floor. The skin of his cheek felt numb where it pressed against the insubstantial ground.

"Loki?" Thor moved closer, and the ground made a soft sound when he dropped to his knees. "I saw... I thought..."

He stretched out a hand, and Loki wanted to stop him, to warn him not to touch lest the cold of his skin burn his brother.

Thor's touch was searingly hot for a second, then it faded, a shiver of energy washing over him that left the world feeling cooler and darker. He must look Aesir again, then. He wasn't sure how well Thor could see the change here in the between-worlds gloom.

Gentle hands turned him over and ran over his head, down his ribs, checking for injuries in the way they'd both learned as part of their combat lessons and then practiced on each other, going through the motions until one of them inevitably got too rough in their pretend ministrations and it devolved into a wrestling match. When he finished his brother pulled him up into an embrace, holding him from behind so that his head rested on Thor's shoulder.

It was a familiar position, but in light of recent events it felt wrong. Loki felt like an impostor who wasn't sure who he was supposed to be impersonating.

Thor didn't know. He needed to know.

"I'm not your brother." Loki's voice sounded small and weak in his own ears, so quiet he wasn't sure if he'd have to repeat himself.

"What do you mean?" Thor stiffened. His hold on Loki tightened, becoming almost painful.

"Laufey said I was his," he whispered. "Father said—he said he found me. When I was a baby."

Thor's breathing changed, becoming ragged, angry. He would have flinched away if he had the energy. Instead, he let his eyes drift shut.

"I don't care," Thor said at last. "If you're—I don't care. You're my brother. I thought I might never see you again." Funny. Thor didn't sound angry. He sounded like he might start crying.

Loki suddenly remembered the bracelet, the one that was supposed to have been Thor's name-day gift. He slipped it off his own wrist and held it up.

"I got this for you," he said. "Present. Sorry I wore it. I missed you."

Thor took it, running the fingers of one hand over it while the other held tight to Loki as if he never intended to let go. "Thank you," he said. "I'll treasure it."

Loki smiled faintly.

"Brother," Thor said at last, after they'd sat in silence for a while longer. "Do you think you can bring us back?"

No, he thought not, but he realized he would have to try. No one knew they were here, no one would come for them, and he couldn't stomach the thought of leaving them both stranded.

He nodded shakily, and with Thor's help pushed himself up to a sitting position.

Gathering up everything inside him one last time, he grabbed onto the nearest thread and yanked.

With a feeling like the ground slipping out from under his feet, everything slid to black.

Frigga paced the observatory floor, looking to Heimdall for updates on the mess her husband was making of this botched rescue mission.

"They still argue," he told her several times, and how was it that Jotunheim's king, of all people, had gotten directly involved in this?

She was cursing her husband with ever more creative names when Heimdall frowned.

"Gatekeeper?" She tried to keep the dread in the question from her voice, but it crept in without her permission.

"He has disappeared once more from my sight," Heimdall admitted.

"No," she whispered. "What happened?"

"I can only assume he attempted to world-walk once again."

"And where would that take him?"

"I know not."

She cursed and slammed her fist against the golden wall. Not this again. She had been through this once already; she didn't think she could stand it a second time.

Heimdall didn't so much as raise an eyebrow at her outburst, but a second later his face grew even tighter.

"What? What is it?"

He stared into space a second longer before answering. "Thor has also vanished from my sight. I can no longer see either of the princes."

She took a deep breath and collected herself. "Where did you see him last?"

"He was in his room."

She nodded and took off back toward the palace at an undignified, unqueenly sprint.

The darkness was endless, and Loki wasn't waking up.

Thor shook his brother, whispered his name, then shouted it, then shouted for help that he already knew wasn't coming.

His brother stayed limp and too cool in his arms, his deep breathing reassuring even when he wouldn't wake.

When several minutes passed and nothing changed, he sat down and pulled his little brother in his lap, holding him close. It felt wrong for him to be so still, his little brother who was always moving, always so restless and lively. The only time he was like this was when he was sleeping, and even then he tossed and turned and woke easily.

He rocked slowly back and forth, still holding his brother close, and started singing a lullaby, one that their mother used to sing to the both of them when they were younger. He sang it slow, the words deeper in even his young voice than how their mother would sing it, but lilting and soothing all the same.

It was the song, Thor realized suddenly, that their mother always sang when they were afraid of the dark. At night, when the shadows in their shared room seemed to creep closer, these were the words that drove away the dreams of monsters, that calmed them into sleep.

He sang it now to keep the darkness at bay, and when he focused on remembering the words he didn't think about how they were most likely trapped here forever, or about how Loki still wasn't moving, and his voice didn't shake.

The song drifted out over the grey murky nothingness, and he refused to let it fall to silence, for then he would truly be alone in the dark.

When Frigga reached Thor's room she was afraid she would find nothing, no evidence that either of her boys had even been here, but something was off. A few threads in the weave of reality still hung loose and askew, leaving a shimmer like a mirage on a hot day floating in a space near the far wall.

It took all of her patience not to rip the threads asunder, but the backlash from that might have tangled them so thoroughly as to make forming a doorway impossible, so she teased the threads apart, cursing every second. Several she wove back into themselves to block the doorway open, though they would slip and reweave before long, and she unthreaded one a long ways, keeping hold of it to find her way back to the open door.

That done, she stepped into the murky grey.

She could see nothing, hear nothing, and that frightened her not because she feared the dark or the silence, but rather because of who she didn't see or hear. For all she could tell, she was alone in the darkness.

The dark didn't lessen as her eyes adjusted, but a soft sound broke the stillness, rising and falling like the ebb and flow of the tide. As she moved closer it became more distinct, resolving into a young voice picking out the notes of a familiar song. The desperate calm written in the strain of the notes tugged at her heart, and she steeled herself for whatever was waiting as she made her way towards Thor's voice.

He stopped when he saw her, cutting off with a half-choked cry of relief. He didn't move to stand, though, not with his motionless brother sprawled over his lap.

“Amma!” His voice was thinner, higher than usual. “You have to help. It's Loki. I tried shaking him and he won't wake up.”

Her blood ran cold, but she kept her voice calm, her hands steady. “Give him to me.”

It had been a long while since she last carried either of her sons, and they'd both gone taller and ganglier since last she tried, but he wasn't yet too big to fit in her arms, and no child of hers would ever be too heavy for her to carry.

“Stay with me,” she told Thor as she gathered her youngest up. He took the edge of her sleeve in one hand and gripped the fabric tight, and she nodded. “Keep hold and don't let go.”

An instant later they stepped back through the doorway into the light and were home. All of them back where they belonged.

Later, people would whisper to each other about the disheveled queen who marched through the palace to the halls of healing with her unconscious child in her arms and her chin tilted high in victory.

Later, the unofficial but widely accepted story would be that the younger prince was held by the enemies of Asgard, and that the queen, impatient with the political and martial processes working for his safe return, took matters into her own hands.

Less well-accepted, but not fully disbelieved, would be the story that her son had indeed died, but that the queen in her grief, like the Valkyror of old, had gone and snatched him back from the very gates of Hel.

Now, she hurried to the healers with Loki in her arms and Thor at her heels, and resolved it would be a long time indeed before either son was again allowed out of her sight.

Chapter Text

Heart-stopping panic when Heimdall told him that none of his family, wife or child, were within his sight faded to persistent, nagging panic when he found them, whole and together and gathered in the healing rooms.

Frigga and Thor nearly hummed with nervous energy, hovering like hummingbirds and making the healers uneasy, but they were better than Loki, who didn't move at all, so pale and still he could've been carved of marble.

“What is the matter with him?” he demanded, and the head healer met his eye only to shake her head in bewilderment.

“It is no illness I have seen,” she said, hands weaving spells of golden light almost as quickly as Frigga worked her loom. “His Seidr does not behave as it ought. It is almost as though it has been torn, shredded within him. The part of his life force that is tangled with it fares no better.”

“Will it heal?”

Another shake of the head. “I know not.”

He nodded, turned on his heel and headed to the Vault without a backwards glance.

“Allfather.” Laufey's voice was weary, and suspicious, and resigned. Beside him, standing at the right side of his throne, his wife Nal glared in a way that made it perfectly clear she knew exactly what he had done, all those years ago, and the bargain that had been recently struck. “I did not expect you to deliver your end of our agreement yourself. Have you taken up the duties of an errand boy alongside those of a king?”

Odin cleared his throat, fingers tightening over the casing that rendered the Casket of Ancient Winters safe for him to touch. “I come to ask a boon,” he said slowly, keeping his voice deep and steady.

“You dare?” The Queen of Jotunheim's words were so full of fury he nearly took a step back. If the angriest of winter storms were given a voice, Odin was positive it would sound like hers did now. “I promise you, any boon asked by Odin child-thief will be denied. You could bid us breathe and we would suffocate to spite you.”

“I do not ask for myself,” he said, the words heavy, “but for Loki.”

“That is not his name,” she hissed, but Laufey held up a hand to silence her.

“Fulfill your agreement, then speak your boon.” The Jotun king's eyes had fixed almost hungrily on the Casket. Odin held it out, and Laufey shivered when he took it, closing his eyes as the glowing light within swirled and intensified.

“I need you to return to Asgard with the Casket,” Odin said, and Laufey's eyes snapped back open. “Loki is unwell,” he continued. “His time here has left him damaged in a way our healers know not how to treat.”

“If that is true, it is the fault of you and yours,” Nal said. “When you stole the Casket...”

“Yes.” Odin took a deep breath. “That is why I believe the Casket, properly wielded, will be able to heal what has been done.”

“Bring him here,” Laufey said, and Odin shook his head.

“He is not well enough to travel by Bifrost.”

“And how do we know that this isn't a trick?”

Odin sighed. The cold air burned in his lungs, and his breath left small clouds in the freezing atmosphere. For a moment, he felt almost unspeakably tired. “What would it benefit me to lie to you now? If I wanted to steal the Casket I could have kept it. If I wished harm upon you there are easier ways than to use my son to draw you out.”

“What would you offer in return for this boon, were we willing to grant it?” Laufey's eyes were hard, and not quite hopeful.

“Not my son.”

“You would prefer to let him perish than—”

“This is not my only option,” Odin said firmly, “only the one I prefer. There are darker magics that could save him, though they come at a greater risk.”

Laufey's face didn't change, solid and immovable as the cliffs that surrounded them, but after a long silence he nodded.

“Bring us to the boy. We will do all in our power to help him.” Nal frowned unhappily, but he continued. “For his sake, not for yours.”

Odin nodded. “I thank you all the same.”

Nal had insisted on coming along, and Laufey shot him a cold glare when he attempted to protest, so when the Bifrost carried Odin back to Asgard, both rulers of Jotunheim trailed in his wake. Heimdall said nothing, face kept impassive as they arrived, and Odin couldn't tell if he stiffened at their approach, not with the way he already held himself rigid at his post.

The giants following him through the streets of Asgard were not an inconspicuous sight. Though Nal was slightly shorter than her husband, both giants towered over him as they wound their way nearer to the palace, and as they approached his people stopped what they were doing to stare.

It was not only their towering height that drew stares. The Casket of Ancient Winters glowed in Laufey's arms, bright as a little trapped star, not wavering or flickering as it had in the Vaults. Part of Odin—a large part—had originally hoped to keep the surrender of the Casket secret from the whole of Asgard. After all, it would hardly be missed: for the past few centuries it had rested in his Vault, doing nothing, observed by no one, access forbidden to all except his family and a few trusted guards. It would be a long while before someone noticed its absence, if they ever did, and hopefully tensions between their two people would ease in the meanwhile.

Beyond that, he had no desire to explain what the giants had given them in return. While Odin could have conceivably paid the Casket in ransom, such a demand would more likely spark a war, and the kidnapping of a king's son could not be easily forgiven or forgotten. He did not wish to explain Laufey's claim for fear of giving it weight, and doubly did not want to give men who had lost much in the war a reason to resent his youngest child.

Yet Laufey had refused to conceal their approach, and he could not force a visiting king to slink through the shadows. He thought Laufey might be doing it deliberately. This way people would notice, and people would whisper.

He found that, if it meant his son could be safely returned to health, he cared little about the whispers of his people.

After what felt like a torturously slow walk through the palace, they finally arrived at the halls of healing, though both giants had to duck to make it through the arched entryway. Everyone froze at their appearance, though for the healers it was more a mere stutter before they resumed their hurried (just this side of frantic, Odin noted grimly) tending to their small patient.

“What are they doing here?” Frigga asked coldly, and Thor, seated beside her, shrunk back into the arm she had wrapped around his shoulder, eyes wide.

“Eir,” Odin said, and the healer nodded her acknowledgement without looking up from her patient. “Have you discovered a way to treat Loki's illness?”

“Not yet, Majesty,” she said curtly. “I take it you have?”

“I believe so. I need everyone to leave the room.”

“I will not have—”

“Would you have him die?” Thor made a small choked sound, and Frigga glared at him as though by saying such a thing he was daring the fates to bring it about.

He caught Thor's shoulder as he was being escorted from the room with the healers, and he gave it what he hoped was a comforting squeeze. Soon the only people left in the room were Loki, small and limp on the healing cot, and his parents, the ones who had lost him and the ones who had raised him.

Laufey paused before resting a hand on the boy's pale chest, one almost as big as the other. His fingers were long enough to brush the hollows of Loki's throat even as his palm rested well beneath the curve of his ribcage.

Loki shivered involuntarily as a faint green brush of magic swept over him, returning his skin to its true shade. Despite the faint movement, he didn't wake.

Laufey frowned. “He is weakened,” the Jotunn king said, voice rough and deep. “I cannot unleash the full force of the Casket on him at his present strength. It could kill him.”

Frigga and Nal made almost identical noises of dismay. Odin kept himself from reacting, kept his voice calm. He was a father, yes, but also a king and, perhaps more importantly, a general, used to keeping a clear head in the face of unwelcome news.

“What do you need to make the healing possible?”

Laufey blinked, apparently drawn out of his own world by the straightforward question. “The energy needs to be channeled and directed, so that it can repair the damage a little at a time.”

He nodded. While his wife had the better grasp of seidr of the two of them, he was not unfamiliar with the basic principles, and that made sense. Too much magic energy too quickly, and they could burn out the channels connecting Loki to his magic. That sort of extensive damage could easily kill him.

He reached out a hand and summoned his spear with a thought. “Gungnir can direct the energy of the Casket.” It could. It had directed other energies of similar power before, some much darker than Jotunheim's magical heart.

“I cannot wield it and the Casket both,” Laufey said. His voice was cold, businesslike, but he hadn't looked up from Loki's slack face since they'd entered the room.

“I shall wield Gungnir, and you the Casket,” Odin said simply, and Laufey nodded.

He reached out and gently rested the tip of the spear against Loki's sternum, gripping it loosely enough to allow it to rise and fall with his shallow breaths.

Once it was in position he nodded to Laufey, and they began.

Loki moaned pitifully as the first of the icy energy from the Casket trickled down the edge of the spear to disappear beneath his skin. In the corner of his eye there was a flash of movement as Frigga darted forward to comfort her son, but a second later she was pulling back, clutching a frostbitten hand to her chest and staring at Loki in bewilderment that soon gave way to an almost frantic realization. As much as she might be his mother, at this moment, in this form, his very skin was a barrier holding her away from him.

On his other side Nal took his hand and squeezed.

Laufey continued to hold the Casket, channeling its power into Gungnir, and Odin in turn held most of it back, keeping the energy to a slow trickle that could absorb into Loki's magic and help it to heal. Around them the air had grown cold and turbulent, swirling through the room like the winds of a snowstorm. The bedsheets froze and crackled, splitting beneath his son, and the frost crept down the bedframe and over the floor, shifting the very stone and leaving it coated in a thin layer of hard ice. The clothing of everyone in the room stiffened until it seemed carved to fit a statue, and Frigga's tears froze on her cheeks.

At last, the onslaught of winter slowed and then stopped as Laufey snapped the Casket shut. They all stood in a light dusting of snow, at the center of an expanding circle of ice and chill.

Odin blinked. The strain of directing the magic left him dizzy, and it wasn't until he looked down that he realized that the magic flowing through the spear had burned into his hands and arms, leaving an outer layer of rough, blackened skin.

It was forgotten again as Loki stirred, turning his head as his eyes snapped open for the first time since Frigga brought him home.

He looked about fuzzily, eyes unfocused, then curled into himself and started to cry, a wet, ugly sound laced with pain.

Almost immediately the whimpered sounds became a word. “Amma,” Loki managed through his snuffling. Nal held his hand tighter but Loki drew back, instinctively flinching away from her as he reached for Frigga.

The look of absolute devastation that spasmed across her face broke his heart, and even Frigga looked at her with sympathy and something that could be guilt as she gathered Loki into her arms, holding him tight as he sobbed. Now that he was conscious his skin flared and then faded back to its familiar Aesir shade as soon as she touched him, although it seemed to Odin that the color was a bit more pale than was usual.

The boy curled tightly into himself and buried his face in his mother's shoulder, crying noisily and practically quivering with tension.

Odin watched with a spreading numbness that could be relief, or exhaustion, or simply an effect of the room's unnatural chill. Now that there was nothing further he needed to do (and that was a lie, there were infinitely many things he should be doing now, but none of them if left undone should cost him his child),  he could take a second to appreciate that his family was together and, if not well, at least headed in that general direction.

Beside him, Laufey watched the scene unfold with a passive expression, not a drop of emotion making it past the blank mask. Odin had been a father too long to believe the carefully imposed calm.

“You have my thanks,” he said softly, quiet enough not to attract the attention of the room's other occupants.

“I didn't do it for you,” Laufey said. No bitterness, only the matter-of-fact tone of one stating an indisputable truth.

“Nevertheless, I am grateful.”

Laufey nodded, a gesture of understanding rather than acquiescence.

After a moment of silence in which he never took his eyes off Loki, Laufey spoke again.

“What will you tell your people? Not the truth, I assume.”

Odin sighed and shook his head. “No, but not far from it.” Laufey turned to look at him, and he continued. “I think to tell them that Asgard's younger prince wandered off, as children do, and through misfortune fell victim to an illness our healers knew not how to treat. The people of Jotunheim, having greater familiarity with the disease, offered their aid, and the Casket was returned as a show of gratitude.” No response, anger or otherwise, so he continued. “The story is near enough to the truth and paints neither of our people in an unfairly harsh light. Perhaps it will even pave the way for freer relations between our people.”

“I notice it makes no mention of Loki's true lineage,” he said tonelessly.

“No,” Odin agreed. “Perhaps someday, when tensions have eased, we may reveal that truth, but I think for now it is best kept hidden.”

“You would.” Laufey still made no expression, but Odin's own face must have betrayed his alarm, because Laufey went on. “For once, though, I agree with you. I know how Asgard views us. You needn't worry that I would jeopardize the boy's safety to spite your lies.”

“I appreciate that,” was all Odin said.

After another quiet moment Laufey said “You should never have kept him. I'll never thank you for that.”

“I know,” Odin said, the words heavy. The frostbite on his arms had moved from numb to stinging and he would soon be in pain; he'd need to ask a healer to look at them once he had a moment to himself.

“Yet if he had remained in Jotunheim he likely would have perished. I do not regret that he lives,” Laufey said, his voice tightly controlled.

Odin studied him out of the side of his eye. “I know.”

“At first, when I learned that you were raising him, I thought perhaps it was to spite me, or some sort of political maneuver, but it isn't, is it? You truly do care about him. You and your wife.”

Odin nodded. “We do.”

Laufey hummed, a noncommittal sound, and looked away, studying the walls. “I believe this is the first time our two realms have worked together since the war.”

Odin smiled, tired but genuine. “I believe it is the first time we have had cause to.”

At some point the healers had been allowed back into the room, and they proclaimed Loki well enough, though they insisted he stay in their care a day or so longer in order to recover fully. They also insisted on moving him to another room with less frost damage, and the entire small company moved with him, hovering as he was settled in another bed.

Frigga and Nal had lapsed into intent conversation, and what Odin caught of their words had to do with the details of raising Jotunn children, from cultural traditions to typical childhood ailments. It was almost enough to make him smile; countless times Frigga had lamented to him that she had no source of such information, fretting over unknowns and worrying that they in their ignorance might unintentionally damage their son. Nal, for her part, seemed equally absorbed in the conversation. Perhaps she saw in this a chance to help the boy she still saw as her son, to act as a mother even by proxy.

Thor, too, was allowed back in, and after a moment or two of staring warily at the two giants he crawled to the edge of his brother's bed and sat down. Now they sat together on the bed, their legs crossed underneath them as Loki taught Thor some sort of strategy game he had learned during his stay on Jotunheim. Loki moved Thor's pieces at his direction so that they didn't burn the sensitive skin on his hands, and Loki's own fingers flared blue whenever they touched the ice. Nal herself had made the pieces after Loki, much to the surprise of the adults, had crept timidly over to her to make the request. If the queen of Jotunheim had minded being asked to set up a children's game, it hadn't shown.

Thor was losing badly but taking it in good humor, darting frequent looks at his younger brother's face as though to confirm that he was still here, still well.

It eased the old king's heart more than he could say to see them playing together as though nothing had changed. Perhaps for them, without a full lifetime of built-up prejudice, nothing had. It gave him hope for the future Asgard that his boys would one day lead.

Laufey watched the two boys with an equally thoughtful expression, though perhaps a bit darkened with longing and regret.

“They remind me of my two youngest,” Laufey said when he noticed him watching. “The way they play together.”

“I once entertained the idea that he might bring about a lasting peace between our two realms,” Odin admitted. “This was not what I pictured.”

Laufey looked back to the two boys, children of different realms but brothers, undeniably, all the same.

“All the same,” the King of Jotunheim said, words rumbling deep in his throat, “he just might.”

Chapter Text

Winter hadn't quite fallen on Jotunheim yet, but the air still blew cold enough to sting Thor's ears and nose as he strode through snow that climbed in drifts halfway up his calves. Not for the first time, he wondered why the Bifrost site was so far away from the Jotunn cities, and which would be easier to move. Mjolnir swung against his leg with every step from where it hung at a loop in his belt. She was useless to fight the wind, though, and he almost sighed in relief when the path finally cut downward into the calm of the valley where the city was located.

The palace was at the far end of the city, and people still stared as he made his way though the streets, though not as many as once had. Not many more, in fact, than stared when he walked the streets of Asgard, though perhaps for different reasons.

When he reached the audience hall where Laufey sat he strode in, not bothering to address the guards at the door. They made no move to stop him.

“Odinson. Why have you come here?” Laufey's voice was cold, brittle, but it carried a faint undercurrent of amusement.

Thor bowed politely, graceful despite the heavy enchanted furs he had grown used to wearing on his visits to the Realm of Eternal Winter. “I was hoping to see my brother.”

“Really, Thor,” Loki stepped out of the shadows behind the throne, infusing the simple motion with an impressive amount of drama, “I've been gone for less than a week.”

Thor's face split into a grin. “I know, brother, but I've missed you. It's always so quiet when you aren't around.”

Loki rolled his eyes. “You say that like it's a bad thing.”

As if on cue, two little blurs shot past Loki's legs and threw themselves at Thor, and he let the twins tackle him to the icy floor.

“Gotcha, uncle Thor,” Nari crowed triumphantly. Vali smiled with delight and shifted in a way that drove his small elbow into a tender part of Thor's stomach.

He grunted and shifted until his position was slightly less uncomfortable. “Indeed,” he moaned theatrically, “I have been vanquished by a pair of noble warriors far mightier than I.” Both boys giggled. “My only hope is to resort to tricks—” his hand shot out, finding the ticklish spot between Vali's ribs and making him shriek out high-pitched laughter before scrambling back, “and villainy.” The other hand wrapped around Nari and rolled with him, and soon he fell to the same ticklish fate.

When the boys had finished panting and caught their breath, he stood up, and immediately four small hands tugged at his arm. “Uncle Thor, have a snowball fight with us!”

“None of that just now,” Loki said before he could agree. “We are headed to take the midday meal with your grandmother.” The plaintive looks remained, turned now on their father, but they kept hold of Thor's hands, tugging insistently.

“Uncle Thor can come, and perhaps if you behave he'll want to have a snowball fight with you after.”

“Can't we have lunch after the snowball fight?” Vali pleaded.

Loki pretended a thoughtful look, catching his eye. “I suppose,” he said, “though Uncle Thor looks rather hungry.”

“I am,” he said, rubbing his stomach demonstratively as the boys looked between them with open suspicion.

“I'm not hungry,” Vali countered.

“Very well then,” Loki said calmly, “I only hope Uncle Thor doesn't eat all the dessert before you two come to lunch...”

Both little boys' eyes widened.

“Hmm,” Thor said, “that could happen. I do love the food your grandmother serves, and I am very hungry for dessert.”

“No, Uncle Thor,” Nari said with emphasis, “don't you dare eat all the dessert. Don't you dare!”

He took off down the hall at the back of the chamber at a sprint, his brother half a step behind him.

Thor chuckled, and Loki turned to address the King of Jotunheim, still seated on his throne and watching with undisguised amusement painted across his face. “Will you be joining us?”

He waved a hand. “Not today, I'm afraid.” He smiled then, all sharp teeth but not unkind. “You have your mother's cunning.”

“With those two? It's a survival mechanism.” He bowed as they took their leave, and Thor followed his example.

When they reached their destination food was already on the table, and Nal was waiting for them. “Tell Uncle Thor he can't eat all the dessert,” Nari demanded as soon as they stepped through the door, and Nal chuckled.

“I think I've made enough that not even our unexpected guest can eat it all,” she said. Nari didn't quite look convinced.

“Hardly unexpected,” Loki said. “I'm surprised he made it as long as he did.”

“Hey,” Thor said, though he wasn't truly offended. “I do have my own affairs.” He picked up a plate and, at Nari's direction, started to fill it with the more child-friendly foods before setting it down and filling a plate for Vali.

“Does that mean you've finally asked Sif out?”

“We are merely friends, brother, as I've told you before,” he said, smiling a little despite himself.

“Do it soon,” he said, waving the fork, “else I'll lose the pool. There are high stakes riding on your actions here.”

He frowned. “There's a pool? That is in poor taste.”

“Nuh-uh,” Vali interjected. “Pools mean you get to go swimming.”

“It's too cold for swimming,” Nari objected.

“Not here,” Vali said. “Asgard. Or Vanaheim.”

“You agree that it is in poor taste,” Thor said to Nal.

She shrugged. “I wagered that she'll ask you before you get around to it.”

“I placed my odds in favor of your courage,” Loki said. “Don't prove me wrong.”

“Are you attempting to manipulate me?”

Loki raised his eyebrows. “That depends. Is it working?”

He rolled his eyes. “You are all impossible.”

“How much longer are you planning on staying?” Thor asked when they finally excused themselves, striving for a casual tone.

Loki laughed. “Don't worry, we'll be back underfoot before you know it. Though I do intend to stop by and visit Beli before we leave. It's been far too long.” Yes, that was unsurprising. Thor thought he remembered the giant's youngest being about the same age as the twins; perhaps if nothing called him back to Asgard he'd offer to watch the lot of them so the adults could catch up.

“Is Sigyn still with her sister?”

Loki smiled, warm and genuine. “She is. The baby was born yesterday. It's a girl.”

Thor smiled too; the mood was infectious. “Pass along my congratulations.”

“I will. Though I expect we'll both be allowed to visit soon enough.”

He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “So if my brother's wife's sister has a child, am I still an uncle?”

Loki laughed. “If I say no will it stop you from claiming the title?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then by all means, spoil away. Perhaps it will distract you from indulging the twins.”

“I don't spoil them!” Thor protested, though it sounded less than convincing even to him.

Loki only raised an eyebrow. As if to prove his point, Vali came barreling around the corner, his face splitting into a wide grin when he saw Thor.

“Uncle Thor,” he shouted, “put me on your shoulders!”

“Really, child, are you ordering the future King of Asgard around like a stable hand?”

Loki's tone was half-serious, but Vali only giggled. Probably because Thor was already settling him onto his shoulders, putting him nearly at height with his giant ancestors.

“Me too!” Nari shrieked, and Thor chuckled before picking him up, splaying a broad hand under his stomach to hold him up as though he were flying. He took off down the hall at a fast trot that left both boys screaming and giggling.

“Make the noises, Uncle Thor!” Vali demanded.

Thor did.

Loki watched with a small smile as the Mighty Thor, god of Thunder and heir to the Golden Throne, made a fool of himself running up and down the halls of Utgard like a lunatic.

He didn't move as someone came to stand beside him, the heavy footsteps nearly drowned out by the boys' excited squealing.

“If someone had told me a few centuries ago I'd ever be peaceably hosting a son of Odin under my roof,” Laufey's voice rumbled from overhead, “I'd have laughed in their face.”

Loki hummed and nodded. He didn't point out that there were two sons of Odin in the halls of Jotunheim's palace; that was still very much a sore subject, more so even than his decision to keep to the Aesir skin that had become familiar and comfortable to him, even here in frigid Jotunheim.

“As would I,” he said instead. “Back then I think we hated and feared you as much as you us.”

“When did you stop?” Laufey asked suddenly, and he paused, thinking.

“Slowly,” he said at last. “It started with the family that took me in when I stumbled here by mistake, and it took years of learning and unlearning. To be honest, I think a part of me held on to the idea until the twins were born, worried still that it might be, that I might be—.” He took a deep breath. “I looked down at them the first time I held them and knew that none of those things could be true, because they were half-Jotunn and they were perfect. Is that ridiculous?”

Laufey dropped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed as the sound of Thor imitating a bilgesnipe, badly, rang out through the hall. “Not at all,” he said confidently. “Not at all.”