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Chapter Text

Alex

The forecast predicted the cold would break. As I drove down the snow cluttered road, I cursed the local weatherman under my breath. "An estimated high of sixty degrees and partial clouds," lasted approximately three hours that morning, giving way to a rush of winter as snow plundered the earth with heavy flakes and icy sleet.
        Sixty degrees had dwindled to a horrible twenty. When the wind blew, howling against my car like hungry wolves, it may as well been in the negatives.
        I gripped the leather steering wheel with bright red fingers. I held them to heater when they'd start to go numb. The dismal breeze of warm would eventually breathe my little digits back to life but couldn't manage to warm up the car. I meant to get that fixed, but never found the time. 
        I didn't think to pack gloves. No winter coat. Just a beaten old hoodie, two sizes too large. The sleeves ran past my knuckles. The hood slung partially off my slender shoulders. I dressed for spring at the very end of winter. Just three more days until the vernal equinox. The twentieth of March. The first day of Spring. 
        My birthday.
        Having survived twenty-seven of them, you'd think I learned the unique pattern of Michigan's seasons.
        Six months’ worth of snow, cold, and freezing winds. The sporadic days of sunshine, only to be thwarted by another downpour of snow. Then I'd blink and it would be June. Bright, blaring, and too hot for my thick winter blood.
        Autumn would waltz in and take over until the end of November. By Christmas, it would be a snowy wonderland again, and I'd be excited for March. For my birthday, the first day of Spring.
        I'd fantasize about flowers freshly bloomed and the balmy breeze, knowing full well they wouldn't appear until April or May. I was always setting myself for disappointing. 
        Miles of snow smothered trees flanked the brown slushy branches. Their stark white branches looming over me as I drove like skeletal arms, crystalline and shimming. They curled like gnarled fingers. 
        Within first hour of driving, the road narrowed to one lane. The never-ending rows of forest left me claustrophobic in my cluttered metal death-trap. I've heard the two-hour drive from Detroit to Hillsdale be described as "scenic". Plenty of untouched land. Creeks and rivers ran through seas of pines, maples, and oak trees. In Autumn its beautiful. But I was staring at the bleak iron-clad sky and dirt colored snow. The occasional flat farmland offered some reprieve, if only for my eyes.         Unfortunately, in these rural parts of the Midwest, they were often accompanied by "Fuck Liberals" and "All Lives Matter" signs. I had already counted four. I still had an hour to go.
        I let out a tired sigh. I truly hated Hillsdale. It was a small town with small-minded people, mostly made up of retirees who turned a blind eye to the fact that the Michigan charter of the Klu Klux Klan had their headquarters there.
        "The land up there is beautiful, Alex," my mom insisted. "We won't find a better deal anywhere else. Its seventy-acres. Seventy! Lake-front property. It’s our dream home, pumpkin," she said when I questioned her choice of residence.
        She insisted her and Dad had "earned it" after so many decades in the work force. She tried to convince me to move in with them. Drop my dreams, give up on my degree, and leave my boyfriend so I could move to some tiny racist town in the middle of nowhere.
        I refused, but promised to visit. To her dismay, I moved in with that boyfriend.
        To my own dismay, we got engaged.
        As if mocking me, the ring hanging on my review mirror swung back and forth like a pendulum. Trying to wave me down and pay attention. It worked. I snapped away from my thoughts and glared at it. My stomach wrenched into knots. A rush of anger drummed just behind my sternum. My face went hot, prickling in contact with the cold air.
        I snatched the ring. Stopping it once and for all. I hated the way the cheap aluminum pressed into my palm. I hated everything about the ring and the person who gave it to me.
        With a quick jerk, the dainty silver chain broke. I tossed the stupid thing in the glove compartment, promising to get rid of it once and for all once I reached the lake house. Today was a day for goodbyes anyway.
        I slammed the glove compartment shut. As it clicked into place, the clouds broke apart, and my attention snapped to the sky.
        Cutting across the somber grey canvas was a comet, leaving a prismatic streak of light in its path. Every color in the rainbow shimmered in a clear sweep through the clouds with a head of bright white light. It illuminated the land. Casting its beautiful frenzy of colors across everything beneath it until it disappeared somewhere to the south, the direction I was driving.         The comet fizzled and was gone. Probably breaking apart like most due when they enter our atmosphere.
        I grumbled. It was the most beautiful thing I'd seen in a while and in a blink it was gone.
        My first instinct was to reach for my phone. Before I realized, my thumb was hovering over "Mom". One tap and her phone would ring. And ring. And ring. Until finally I got her voicemail and then I'd have to hear her voice. Just the thought turn my stomach into a void. My heart hovering over its depths.
        I quickly scrolled up to the contact simply titled "Brother" and gave it a call. The ring trilled through the car speakers with a tinny sound. I meant to get those fixed too.
        "Hey, sister," muttered the tired voice of my older brother, Joey
        "Are you at the house yet?" I asked. I shifted my attention to the sky for a beat, looking for any trace of the comet. Its dazzling tail as disappeared along with its brilliant flame.
        I could hear the yawn Joey tried to hide. "Not yet. I'm on my way." His voice was so gritty with exhaustion and the drawl of a hangover. 
        The red neon numbers on my dash red 8:37AM. Joey had most likely just rolled out of bed. Whether it was his or a woman's, I didn't want to know, but I knew it would be a while before he was even in his car. I let it slide this time, given the day. It took me every ounce of will to roll out of bed, despite the sleepless night. My blankets felt weighted. The air heavier, yet I knew the world was one person lighter.
        "How you holding up?" Joey asked.
        I made one last attempt to scan the sky. "I just saw the coolest meteor. It was like watching a sun fall to Earth on the trail made of rainbows," I mused, unleashing a heavy breath.
        Joey sucked teeth. "Damn, sis'. Reading rainbow out there or some shit," he chuckled lowly. "How far out are you?" He took a drag of something, sucking the air in loudly, and blowing smoking into the receiver. "Why you calling me while you're driving? Didn't school teach you that shit is dangerous?"
        "Why are you picking up the phone if you're driving?" I vaguely remembered an assembly in high school. I got to play the role of "texting victim 4". The theater department dressed me and several other students as dead kids, taken too soon by the reaper-our principal in a black cloak-after texting and driving. 
        "Shit, Alex, why you call me out like that? We're supposed to be family," Joey whined. His voice went soft with sadness. There was a tremble in his words. "I'm going to head out, okay? We need to be stay close today. Do you need me to bring you anything?" he said through a sniffle.
        I eyed the black duffle back in the passenger seat. Lumpy with my lazily packed clothes and necessities. "No, I got everything." The black dress in the back seat became an intense shadow presence. I turned my head to acknowledge.
        My armor for the day.
        "Word, sister. I'll see you soon."
        The call ended. My chest felt heavier than before. I found myself cursing our mother in my head. It was just like her to do something like this. Three days before my birthday, she goes and dies. The same woman who got engaged at her sister's wedding. The same woman who announced her pregnancy at her other sister's baby shower. It was just like her to croak on someone's birthday.
        The god of peaceful death took her in as she slept. It was coming. I knew she was on borrowed time when they diagnosed her. Lung cancer. Yet she continued to smoke. Refused the treatments. Said that she didn't want to lose her hair. I knew it was because she didn't want to put us through what she had gone through with her own mother. Different cancer, same results.
        I held my hands to the heater and drank the meager warmth. I needed all the comfort I could get. It was going to be a miserable day.
        I spent the final hour of my drive fortifying myself for the onslaught of emotional damage that comes naturally with family reunions. There would be no mercy, even for a funeral. I patched any blemishes in my adamant walls and hoped they would be serving alcohol.

In spite of all the flaws in its location, I did like the lake house. It was a modest ranch with an upstairs loft. Built in the thirties, it had the original dark rust-colored brick throughout the wide home with few modern additions. The charcoal roof was new. It was in need of repair. It was one of the last things Dad fixed before he passed three years prior.
        I knew he wanted to tear down the second barn. A miserable old shed of rotten timber on the opposite side of the drive. No one ever bothered to walk that far. It was nearly a quarter mile from the main house. It was nothing but rusty nails and splinters.
        There were more things on his to-do list. Mom kept it pinned to the fridge, but never finished it. A small piece of me hoped to keep it when the family cleaned out the house.
        The house was big. Not tall, but wide, spreading across as much land as it could before reaching the lake. There was a few feet of yard before the hill sloped to the shaded shores of the calm blue waters. My parents owned the lake and the seventy acres that surrounded it. The nearest neighbor was well across the waters. A small dot of white.
        I had no doubt that insignificant speck was actually a broad summer home for some wealthy lawyer, but I never stuck around long enough to explore the town. I didn't care to meet neighbors, since the closest one was over a mile away.
        It was a twenty-minute drive into town. Hillsdale was the type of place where everyone knew everyone. They had one school for every grade. One doctor, one dentist, and one general store with a short list of franchises scattered across several blocks. I was a foreign face. I was tattooed with a leather jacket and colorful hair. I was sure to draw attention I didn't want or need.
        I pulled up the gravel road and parked near the dull red barn a few yards from the main house. I knew if I took a spot closer, the aunts would have my ass for not respecting their seniority. As I drove, I couldn't help but note no other cars. Not that I was surprised. I had the transparent hope that Joey would miraculously beat me there.
        When I waved away that disappointment, I was grateful to have the house to myself for a few hours. It gave me more time to prepare for the family. My big, obnoxious, invasive, and rude family.
        I trekked up on the gravel road with my duffle bag and black dress over my shoulder. I took in a lungful of fresh air. The pines and lake water wafted through the frigid breeze.
        The cold bite through my skin, turning my walk into a jog. Mom always kept the house a maddening seventy-six degrees. I hurried along, excited to finally feel real warmth for the first time in two hours.
        I stopped when I reached the door.
        Wide open.
        Wet boot prints sank into the cream carpet. I shivered, but not from the cold.
        Every horror movie I'd ever seen flashed through my mind all at once as if to reinforce my instincts. Turn and walk away, Alexandria. But at the same time, my mind was flooded with rationalizations.
        "Maybe Joey's girlfriend dropped him off and stopped into town for coffee," I convinced myself. My eyes glued to the first boot print. I tried to recall Joey's shoe size. Did he even own boots? In all my life, I only ever saw him wear sneakers. "It's just like him to leave the door wide open. Even when it’s snowing," I thought to myself.
        My teeth sank into my bottom lip. I took another gulp of air. This time for courage. I called out, "Joey! I made it!" Before I entered I waited to hear movement. A robber would scurry if they heard someone come home. A murderer would hide.
        Fuck.
        I took my first step in. Closing the door behind me, I listened closely. The shower echoed from the west hall and into the open living room I was standing in. The center of the house. All noise seemed to funnel there.
        The water splattered against the linoleum like hail. The hiss of the pipes as they rattled in the walls.
        The boot prints led straight to the guest bathroom.
        I dropped my duffle bag in the living room and followed them. "Joey!" I called.
        Steam curled from under the door. I could smell the coconut shampoo and lavender body wash. It conflicted with the stench of nicotine and black coffee that seemed to cling to the off-white wallpaper. As gross as it was, it was Mom's smell.
        When I walked through the threshold, I half-expected her to scuttle around the corner with her mug of bitter coffee and a cigarette hanging lazily between her bony fingers. She'd been toting the awful oxygen tank with her. Wheeling it around. I could still see the skinny twin lines it left in the carpet. Crisscrossing like streets on a madman's map.
        But Mom wasn't here. Despite what I told myself, neither was Joey. I knew that. Yet, I brought my knuckles to the deep walnut door and knocked. Calling my brother's name.
        It was fear pulsing through my veins. A hot flash of adrenaline with each beat. I curled my fingers into my palm. My mind was a frenzy. I made note of every exit. The nearest was behind me. A sliding door that led to the backyard. I could make it in time and run. So why wasn't I? My feet were rooted to the floor.
        I tried to think of where Dad kept his guns. Did Mom part with them when he died? Would they be in the same spot? Would they be loaded? I shook my head. It didn't matter. I never shot a gun in my life anyway. The person could be two feet in front of me and I'd still manage to miss.
        The slugger.
        Dad always kept a slugger by the front door. It was an old wooden bat, nicked and scratched from his childhood, but it was solid. I could grab. It wouldn't take anytime at all.
        I all but froze when the water stopped.

Chapter Text

Loki

The water was more than warm. More than comfort in this cold grim winter. It was searing. Cascading over Loki's back like a scolding waterfall.
        His inky black hair clung to his face. Water poured down the matted locks, burning trails down his cheeks and neck as he braced himself against the cool checkered tiles of this foreign bathroom. The brand on his forearm was still fresh.
        Loki glared at his shame. His cool blue eyes sharp as daggers. Etched into his snow-white flesh were garish crimson burns of frayed branches, barren of life, which stretched like desperate fingers around the thickest plane of his arm. Just below the ditch of his elbow.
        Above his wrist, the gnarled roots of the tree hung lifelessly.
        Yggdrasil, the tree of life, ripped from the earth and casted out. The brand of an exile now marred the prince's muscular arm. Not just any exile. A criminal. A treasonous villain, banished for crimes against the throne.
        His family had branded him as such. Discarding one their own to the ilk of the vilest of scum. He'd never forget the look on his father's face as he ripped the white iron from Heimdall's grasp. Odin, his own father, pushed the iron into his arm with nothing in his eyes. No fury. Not even disappointment. Just an unyielding vacant stare. Even when Loki screamed and thrashed against the ground. Odin simply looked on. As did Frigga, his mother, but she had the decency to cry.
        But Thor.
        Rage burned in his veins like a fever. Just the name echoing in his head brought his blood to boil. Loki clinched his first until his nail burrowed into his palm. Thor.
        No guards could hold Loki. Even with his power stripped, he was too quick. Too slippery. After the last guard fell, Thor tackled his brother. With the weight of a mountain on his chest, Loki was pinned. That's when Thor ripped the sleeve off his leather robes, holding down his shoulders. Loki kicked and bucked, but the massive warrior would not move.
        "You brought this onto yourself, Brother," the golden prince sneered.
        The words hurt more than the brand. More than being tossed into the Bifrost. More than crashing into a frozen lake. More than anything he'd suffered in the last thousand years.
        Steam licked the wound like a whip, but he endured with stone-like calm. Yet fury thrashed inside his chest. His heart was like an animal, wild and wounded, beating against its cage. His ribs felt tight. His flesh near suffocating. The measly bathroom he inhabited made him claustrophobic. The shower was barely big enough for him alone and it quickly filled with billowing clouds of steam, making the four glass walls creep in closer.
        Pain was his only distraction, but soon the water would run cold. He couldn't sit in his chamber of sorrow forever. No, Ragnarök was coming, even if the fools on Asgard couldn't-wouldn't-see it. Loki tightened his fist. Chords of muscle tensed beneath the brand. Their ignorance would doom them all.
        A knock at the door snapped him out of his fog. His attention darting to the sound. The shrill feminine voice behind it called out a name. "Joey!"
        Fuck. Just what I need.
        Loki searched his memory for a face to match the voice. The pictures he passed when he entered the house. One stuck out. Hanging above the mantle in the den. A large, framed portrait of a family. A couple and two older children.
        The voice was tremulous and too youthful to be the woman. The daughter. Her face popped into his head. Young with an angled jaw and high cheek bones. Her silvery blue eyes looked dead in her photo. Her wide toothy grin clearly forced. She was a messy of frizzy copper hair and awkwardness. Freckles dotted her nose and beneath her hooded eyes.
        What was she compared to a god? Mortal. Simple and weak. The girl in the photo was a budding young lady. The type to swoon at men as handsome as him. He could string her along with ease, even without his powers. Loki smirked to himself. 
        I can handle the daughter, he thought as he turned the shower handle. The pipes screeched as the water slowed to uneven droplets before shutting off completely. He secured a white and navy towel around his hips with one hand while combing his hair back with the other. Stray black strands fell over his face.
        The girl behind the door was not the girl in the photo.
        Her hair was a cascade of sapphire waves, falling far past her ample chest and curvy waist. The awkward smile he pictured was a scowl of plump red lips. A silver ring penetratingly the lower left lip. Another through her right nostril.
        Her features were positively lupine. Her eyes were like liquid silver melding into pools of lapis with flecks of obsidian, hooded by her sculped brows.
        Her slender neck slipped into jutting shoulders and protruding collarbones. She was helplessly skinny. The black hoodie she wore clung to her like a cloak on a skeleton. Swallowing her. If she drew the hood, she could've been the reaper. The sunken hallows of her cheeks gave her a sharp edge like a dagger. Could she be starving? Midgardians had a tendency to thin out in the colder months, but the house was stocked with food. He checked. Perhaps he was mistaken. She may not have been the daughter at all but instead an intruder like himself, delirious from starvation.
        No, the freckles gave her away. From to cheek to cheek like a bridge of ginger constellations, there was no mistaking that this was the girl. Just a few years older. 
        If he lowered himself to Midgardian standards, Loki may have called her pretty, but he quickly banished the thought from his mind. She was probably the best this realm had to offer. Yet, she was still beneath him.
        Loki brandished a devilish smile. "Hello little Earth girl," he purred.
        He didn't see the fist before it collided with his jaw. Never in a thousand years did he expect it to hurt. Especially from one so small.
        The world blurred for a moment. Stumbling back, Loki groaned in pain. He was able to keep a grip on his towel. 
        A new shade of shame marred his face. Never in all his years had a mortal harmed him. Not with their bare hands. Either she was a special breed, or he'd lost more than he initially feared.
        She was running. Scrambling through the living room like a scary rabbit in a frenzy. Loki followed with smooth and graceful strides. Passing the threshold of the hallway, he spotted the girl running for the door. It would be bad if she made it out. She could draw unwanted attention. Loki knew Midgard had some kind of authority system in place. He didn't want an altercation with this realm's guards.
        He vaulted over a brown couch. The worn leather felt fake and cheap as his wet palm slid over the cushion. He landed on both feet, with all the grace of a cat. 
        Mustering his softest voice, he called out, "I'm not going to hurt you. Just let me explain."
        She stopped just before the door. Loki let himself relax. His shoulders eased and he plastered on another smile. Kinder than the one before. Approaching quietly, he reached for her, but first noticed the slight shift in her stance. The slack in her left shoulder. Her fingers winding around the grip of a wooden handle.
        "Don't-"
        The bat's solid core made contact with his shoulder with just enough time to shield his face with his arm. He curled away from the impact. Before he could register the pain, the girl reeled back for another swing. The bat howled as it whirled through the air. This time he caught it. It smacked into his palm, stinging the calloused skin red. He squeezed, firming a grip around the bulk of it. Even in this weakened state, he was quicker than the average man. All those centuries of training would not falter in spite of what was stolen.
        As his palm swelled, his arm throbbing with a new bruise, he could feel the vacancy in his core. Like there was a shadow in his blood. Something blocking his true power. He should've been able to crush the bat like a toothpick. A simple flex to turn it to splinters. But that strength was gone.
        His brand burned mockingly in response.
        The girl yanked with all her might, but Loki didn't budge. A one-sided game of tug-o'-war. On one side, a small mutt jerking with nothing but spite pumping through its veins. On the other, a statue, effortlessly holding down its win.
        "That's quite enough," he spoke with a growl hidden in his otherwise calm voice. One quick jerk and the bat was free of her hands. She blanched. Her face revealing every fear that swam through her simple mind in a one wide blue gaze. He knew that face well. The face of someone about to plead for their life.
        Her lips parted, about to say the words, but Loki was quicker. "Before you start begging, I'm not going to hurt you." He was about to toss the bat aside but thought it best to keep it. She might make a dive for it. 
        "Fuck you," she growl coldly. Her voice was the grating sound of rocks grinding together. A hideous graceless noise. Nothing like the silvery melodies of Asgardian women. It was as if her throat was full of venom. "Get the fuck out of this house," she demanded. Every word was coated in disgust.
        Her fingers were a balled into a boney fist. Elbows bent like she was ready to hit him again. Loki took one cautious step back, just out of arm's reach.
        "If you would let me explain-"
        "No," she hissed. "You broke in-"
        "The door was unlocked," Loki muttered with a roll of his eyes.
        The girl glanced at the wide-open door. Her thin shoulders dropped as if a defeating shroud weighed them down. She also rolled her eyes, letting out a heavy sigh. "That tracks," she whispered under her breath. "Regardless, you can't just walk into people's houses. Are you sick in the head?" Her voice was just beneath shouting.
        "I had no other choice," he insisted.
        "There's always another choice, you fucking psycho!" she snapped, her voice loaded with corrosive bite.
        Loki balked. The ire radiating from those icy eyes were enough to make him flinch. He glanced at her knuckles, jutting out like rocks beneath her reddened skin. The punch may have hurt her more than him, but he had no doubt she would strike again given the chance. This was a viper and he had invaded her pit.
        She may be more of a problem than I predicted. The bat was light in his hand, but solid nonetheless. If someone as frail as this angry skeleton could land a hit on a seasoned warrior such as himself, Loki was certain one clean swipe would be the end of this trouble. He banished the thought, though it crept on the outskirts of his mind. The voice behind it wasn't his.
        He wasn't beneath murder for the sake of convivence, but, he always found diplomacy a more beneficial route. He would not stain his first two hours on this planet with senseless violence. No, that was something Odin would do. Had Thor or Odin been in his place, well, they'd never would've gotten here. She never would have landed the blow. She wouldn't live to regret it either.
        Loki pictured her face on a pike outside. Her body on a pyre so the world, this world, would know a god's wrath.
        His fingers went limp around the bat. "I'm going to put this down," he announced, slowly bending towards the floor. The bat settled on the carpet with a muffled thud. For good measure, he kicked it aside with his bare foot, and let it roll past the metallic bump between the cream colored floor and the red oak hardwood. The slugger tumbled out of sight down the east hallway. If she wanted it, she'd have to make it past him. He suspected she wouldn't make that mistake.
        Still securing his towel, Loki raised his free hand in a show of mercy. "You're right, it wasn't wise to come here, but please understand I was left with few options," he allowed, though the words weren't entirely true, "I'm sorry I invaded your home. Truly, I don't wish you bring you or your family any harm. I...fell into the lake outside and when I swam to shore, I was so delirious and cold that I wasn't thinking straight. I stumbled to the shower, desperate for warmth, by the time I realized where I was, you'd already confronted me." He flashed her a small smile. Brows curled to make his eyes appear bigger and meek.
        Her stare didn't relent. Her fingers remained clenched inside her palm and grim line pressed along her lips. But she fell quiet. A good sign. That meant she was contemplating his story. All his half-truths and lies meshed together to sweetly that she had to take pity on him.
        Her rigid shoulders dropped again. The tension in her frail frame slowly beginning to thaw. Her chest fell as she released a quiet breath. "You're an idiot. A crazy stupid idiot," she huffed. "You have to be a special kind of stupid to be on the lake in this weather."
        Loki smiled in relief. "Surely, being crazy and stupid isn't a crime."
        The woman shook her head. Cerulean locks ruffling like artic tides. "No, it's not. Though..." she looked him over for a beat. Loki was well aware of his nudity. Drops of water going cold as they trickled down the muscular planes of his torso and the curves of his well-worked arms, outlining his impressive features. "neither is being a liar, but I'll beat your ass all the same."
        "Liar?" Loki raised his eyebrows in surprise, but she was right. He was a liar, just not about the lake. Not entirely.
        "You don't seem the type to be gallivanting around a half-frozen lake in a snowstorm."
        "You vastly underestimate my stupidity." He flashed her smile, a dashing cut of white across his face. The smile that won him numerous hearts and favors that he kept piled up at home. A small twist in his chest reminded him that he'd never get to cash those in. 
        The woman's lips pursed. "You vastly underestimate my intelligence," she snapped. "Now tell me the truth, before I call the police."
        Her hand went to her back pocket. Loki stepped forward out of impulse and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Okay, I'm sorry!" he exclaimed. She smacked his hand away, hard enough to make him flinch. "I'm sorry," he repeated, but for this other infraction. "Listen-"
        "Don't tell me what to do," she hissed.
        "You're a very cautious woman and I respect that. Let's start over?" he presented his hand, "My name is Loki, son of Odin." He steadied himself for a breath, "Prince of Asgard."
        He planted his feet firmly on the ground. Straightening his back and pulling his shoulders to broaden his chest, a pose he mastered in his infancy as a prince. Regal and elegant.
        The woman blinked. Her silence was deafening as she gaped at him with shock and awe. Another blink, longer than the last, as if her brain was trying to process his words but had slowed to a crawl. He didn't realize that she could be silent for so long.
        Her eyes fluttered, realization kicking in. Her lips parted slowly, but no words came out. Just a shrill gravely noise as if her breath was clawing its way out of her throat. Seconds pasted like hours. All she said was his name. Slow, as if savoring the sound as it rolled off her tongue. She drew out all four letters.
        She studied him with unsettling curiosity, keeping her eyes on the striped "Life is a Beach" towel for a moment too long before snapping her attention to his face. "Should I bow?" she finally muttered.
        Loki shifted his stance. "Its customary for females to courtesy," he answered with a sense of pride. Something he thought he lost, but his pride was a part of him. Crown or no.
        "Oh my god, you're serious," she gasped.
        His jaw clenched. His patience had run thin. The brand on his arm seared as if his restlessness made it flair. A rush of anger heated his veins. He wanted to prove his might. A flash of golden light should have surrounded him, transforming him into something spectacular. He'd brandish his beautiful ornate daggers and crown of solid gold. The immaculate horns frightful and sharp.
        But there was nothing. Not even a wisp of shadow. As his heart raged in its cage, he couldn't help but notice the unevenness of its rhythm, as if there was a beat missing. Loki's frozen blue eyes narrowed on her.
        "I'm very serious, girl," he growled, "you stand in the presence of a god, and you would do well to sheath your tongue."
        She didn't balk like she was suppose to. She didn't cower or even look away as he gazed down at her with heated steel in his eyes. Chords of muscle bulging beneath his arms. No, the little viper stood her ground. Rooting her feet to the floor and tightening her firsts.
        She's going to be a problem.
         Anger burned his stomach, writhing like a pit of snakes.
        She had the audacity to smirk. Just a tug at the corner of her lips, but the ghost of amusement on her face was enough to shatter his mask. His brows knitted between his eyes. His lips pressed into a grim line as the muscles in his jaw tensed.
        "Prove it." The two words rolled past her lips on a gravely whisper just as lightning struck the sky in a blinding flash.
        Jagged streaks of white cut through the iron-clad clouds, tearing them open like a hammer shattering glass. It was the unnatural roar that made Loki shake, both with fear and with rage. As if the sky parted and revealed a monster. A monster made of pure light and fire.
        Lightning struck, shaking the earth beneath their feet.
        "Get behind me," Loki commanded. The girl didn't move. She turned her head to the bay windows and gawked at the figure standing on the front lawn. A mountain made flesh and shrouded in blinding white.
        The hammer of the gods. Their judgement and their wrath.
        That's exactly what Thor was.

Chapter Text

Alex
Standing before me was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. I contemplated if he was real.
        From the sharp angle of his strong jaw to the chiseled planes of his chest, and the ridges of muscle in his stomach, he seemed to be sculpted out of pure white marble. Water ran down his body like rivers in the toned creases between his abdomen. Clinging the bulging chords of muscle in his arm. Recements of his shower fell from strands of inky black hair and outlined his vulpine features. He had to have been sculpted by an artist.
        He couldn't be real. No one was this beautiful
        He studied me with a glacial blue stare. I dared to stare back. It was like staring at the surface of an artic ocean. There was gorgeous chaos raging inside him. A dark frenzy, unrelenting and cruel. It flickered beneath the frozen surface of cold lapis eyes before slinking back into the shadows, the flecks of absence space around his iris, like microscopic voids.  
        When his lips parted, the illusion shattered. The words he drawled were as cheesy and gross as any pick-up line I could hear at the bar. "Hello, little earth girl."
        I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. It was then I remembered where I was. What he had done. The danger he posed. Rolling my eyes would cost me time I couldn't afford to lose.
        Adrenaline surges like fire through my body and funneled my fist straight to his jaw. My knuckles and wrist blared with pain, but I didn't have time to worry about it. As he reeled back, I ran for the slugger by the front door. His foots were heavy and closing in behind me. Pounding away at the floor as the earth shifted beneath us. The few feet between the bathroom and front door stretched into miles. The world pulling itself further from the reach.
        I nearly choked when he called out to me.
        His voice turned to honey in my ears. A graceful purr. Whatever artist made this man built his throat with golden strings. He was born to read poetry and tell long tales.
        So beautiful. So perfect and strong. It was a pity that he was also a criminal.
        I put all my might into the first swing. It bounced off his shoulder like it nothing. His face didn't even flinch. Without thinking, I went for a second. My mind was blank. My body had been given over to instinct. I was fully prepared to bash this man’s beautiful head in. Scatter the contents onto the floor and see if were truly human. But he couldn't be. He caught the bat with unnatural ease and jerked it out of my hand without a lick of effort.
        I was impressed, but within the same second I was full of rage. The weight of the last month finally cracked my shell. Just a sliver. Everything I'd been holding back began to spill like some vile infection oozing from an old wound. I should've been scared. I should've grabbed my phone without a second thought. But standing before me was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen, and he made the mistake of breaking into the house of my newly deceased mother. I wanted to rip him apart.
        So many foul words slipped past my censors. I hadn't yelled at someone like that since high school. It was like being in the principal's office again. I always had a habit of digging my own grave. Gnashing my teeth at any authority figure that caught me doing something wrong.
        I tried to convince myself that I had cause to be this nasty. To spew insults at him like bullets. Perhaps I did in truth, but I couldn't help but make note of the cracks in my wall. The venom that bled through.
        When I reached for my phone, he brushed my shoulder with is fingers. A shiver trickled down my spine. It felt like someone threw an ice cube down my shirt. I smacked him away. It should've stung. He should've been angry. He should be yelling and trying to hurt me. He was an evil man with vile intentions, not some poor helpless moron who fell into the lake. As beautiful as he was, he was a thief, at best. 
        But he was charming with a kind smile. With a voice like melted chocolate and silk. How many women had he ensnared with his honeyed words?
        As he said his name, I wanted to laugh.
        Loki
        Son of Odin.
        Prince of Asgard.
        It staked me to the floor. The fact that I was dealing with a certified delusional man. I majored in Criminal Psychology. I studied abnormal minds. I knew better than the bait him, yet the venom kept leaking. The water was cloudy. My mind was a fog of disbelief, rage, and fear. I shouldn't have made jokes. I definitely should not have asked him to prove himself.
        As if in response, thunder erupted, igniting the sky with blazing white fissures. The sound that followed was like nothing I'd heard before. Louder than thunder. God herself was unleashing a wave of torrent drumming.
        "Get behind me," Loki commanded. 
        An explosion of light shattered the sky. I turned to see it myself. Outside the bay windows, for the first time in my life, I watched a bolt of lightning strike the earth. Then another. A third, fourth, and fifth, until there were so many I couldn't count, all at once whipping the driveway. It became a column of white. Radiant and blinding. I had to squint to see. Thunder erupted and nearly tossed me from my feet.
        It felt like a hammer was beating away at the inside of my skull, back and forth between my temples. It must have been reason trying to pull me back, screaming at me to look away, to run, but I ignored it and looked on. 
        Beyond the stream of light was a shadow. A figure. A man.
        If Loki was too beautiful, this man was too big.
        An icy grip held my shoulders and hoisted me away from the window, twirling me around. I met Loki face-to-face. All calm and kindness left him, replaced by some mix between pain and hate.
        "You need to listen to me. Don't talk. Just listen," he said just above a whisper. Sweat beaded his brow. "That man out there will kill you if you don't do exactly what I tell you, do you understand?"
        "Ye-"
        "Don't talk. Just shake your head or nod."
        I nodded through sheer force of willpower. I wasn't sure how I was able to move my lips, let alone my whole head to nod. The blood in my veins turned to ice. My muscles went stiff, and my brain had left the building. I wasn't certain that I believed a word he was saying, but I believed in his fear. I believed that anyone who could step out of a pool of lightning wasn't to be trifled with. 
        Loki squeezed my shoulders, pulling me back to reality. "First, I need you to give me your sweater. Whatever I say, whatever you hear, you cannot respond unless you're told to. Whatever happens, do not let him see your weakness. Understand?"
        I nodded. "I-I'm not wearing anything under this," I stuttered. A lump formed in my throat. 
        Loki chewed his lip. His eyes glanced at my exposed collarbone and the strap of my bra that fell lazily off my shoulder. "Unfortunately, that may work in our favor. I'm sorry. This won't be pleasant...erm...I didn't catch your name."
        "Alex."
        "Alex," he echoed. My name sounded lovelier on his tongue than mine. "I promise you; I won't let him hurt you. If you follow what I say, no harm will come to do. Yes?"
        I nodded. I slipped my arms through the sleeves and pulled the too-big hoodie off with a sweep. Loki took it and tossed it to the floor. The cold air caressed my skin, turning me red in small blotches like kisses left by winter before sinking its teeth. I shivered. Crossing my arms over my chest, I hugged myself for warmth and modesty. I became hyper aware of how my ribs poked through my sides. The black pants I bought only three months ago hung off my hips. The cold took advantage of my frailty. My skin no thicker than paper to defend me from its cruelty.
        Outside a final crash of thunder boomed. The light outside faded as quickly as it came. It was like someone flipped a switch.
        Carefully and quickly, Loki ushered me to the brown leather couch and pulled onto his lap. My instinct was to jolt. To turn and slap him, but he already had a hand over mine and the other on my thigh. His touch was light. He didn't explore my body. Instead, he went still as if posing for a picture, despite my squirming.
        His body was still wet. I felt the hard planes of his chest against my back as he leaned forward, holding me in place. The knot of his towel pressing into my rear. I was the only thing keeping him decent. 
        "Be still, little Earth girl. I think we have a guest," he purred with his mouth against my neck, loud enough to reach the ears of the new intruder. I shuddered. The heat of his breath curled against my neck and his voice dripped like hot wax over my skin.
        A hulking mass of muscle and leather barreled through the doorway. His footsteps were like smaller rolls of thunder as his studded leather boots hit the ground. 
        He had to turn sideway to enter, bending at the waist so he didn't hit his head on the doorframe. When he rose, I could no longer feel the cold, or the heat of Loki's breath. I felt numb. Even the venom stopped spewing when I saw the shear mass of this man.
        He just the right size to not collide with the eight-foot ceiling with a shoulder width that put any linebacker to shame. He wore sleeveless plates of beaten armor. His biceps were larger than my head. I was sure a headlock from him would pop me like a dandelion.
        He had sun-kissed skin with shoulder length locks of threaded gold, and a jaw line an anvil. But it was his eyes that numbed me. Lightning in a bottle. They were blue as the open sky, but more. They shimmered with a glow so radiant, I could only describe it as lightning. A constant stream of blinding light contained inside one man.
        A short hammer rested in his hands. It was a block of steel with runic letters etched into the sides. A chord of brown leather wrapped around the hilt. 
        How many people had been bludgeoned with that hammer? Were their deaths quick and painless? I could only hope.
        "Brother," the mountainous man said with the ghost of a smile on his thin pale lips. "I see I've caught you in the middle of something. Apologies." He hung his hammer on a hook secured to his belt before stepping further inside.
        Loki made slow figure eights on my thigh with his fingers. "None needed, brother. One can only go so long before a rest is needed. These Midgardian girls haven't felt the touch of Asgard in some time. They're practically starving, but you provided a much-needed excuse to pause our delicious affair." I could feel his smirk as his lips pressed into my shoulder.
        "Yes, quite starving," the man mused as he studied my frame and the bones I let get out of hand. "Girl, fetch me an ale." He waved his massive mitts and sat himself down on the recliner oppose us. He kicked his muddy boots on the ottoman before resting back. 
        It took me too long to register that he was speaking to me. Loki squeezed my hand. I snapped my attention to him. His face only inches from my own. I dragged a long shallow breath to steady my nerves, taking in his scent. That sweet ethereal scent. A cosmic chaotic whirl of fragrances that could only dance on his skin. Sweet like lavender infused vanilla and cream, yet smoky, like charred oak in a campfire on a cold winter night. Something beautiful and destructive.
        He squeezed my hand again and I realized that I had been staring. Lips parted in a slight gape.
        "Best not keep our guest waiting, sweetling. He has not the patience of his younger, more handsome brother," Loki purred with a wink. His tender lips brushed my ear, and my heart went still in response. He raked his teeth against my lobe, nipping me gently with a slight pinch. 
        The golden mountain threw his head back and laughed. A boisterous sound like festival drums erupting from the trunk of his throat. White sparks skittered over his thick knuckles. The windows rattled until he stopped. By then I was on my feet, Loki holding my hand in a delicate embrace. Though his face was the definition of calm resolve, there was noticeable shiver thrumming over the pads of his fingertips.
        It dawned on me that I truly wasn't safe. I had every reason to fear a mysterious giant that walked through a column of lightning. I was a mortal standing in the presence of myths made flesh, but Loki called this man brother. What did to have to fear? Surely he had some legendary strength tucked away in his veins as well.
         I was given a role. I slipped into the uncomfortable skin presented to me and casted a small smile on my face. "Can I get you anything?" I said to Loki. I hoped his brother didn't see the tension in my lips as I held myself together with sticky tape and dread. 
        Loki drew my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles, still red from when I clocked him. I was quite proud of it. "Just your beautiful self, Sweetling."
        I turned on my heels when Loki gave my hand a final warning squeeze, drawing my gaze back to him. His blue eyes softened, but there was a plea behind the glass. I peered over at his brother. Reclined in my father's old chair with his fingers digging into the worn brown pleather arms. Lightning rolled over his knuckles like a coin trick, circling around as static raised the hair on my body to attention. Behind his coarse blonde beard, his jaw was tense, teeth grinding like rocks, and his burly wheat-colored brows were knitted. Waves of thunder rolled behind the baby blue surface of his eyes. 
        Had I offended him simply by standing?
        "Sweetling, you stand in the presence of royalty. Thor, son of Odin, and Prince of Asgard," Loki announced like a herald calling a court to order.
        "Rightful heir to the golden throne of Asgard, first in line as the protector of the nine realms, and god of thunder. Less than a day on this realm and you already forgotten your manners, Loki." The look Thor gave his brother had me shaking. His eyes darkened like a storm shadowing the day as they flickered to Loki's arm.
        The bright red brand I'd been ignoring all this time. The outline of a tree was a garish blackened shade, the skin around it scarlet and tender. It had to be fresh. With how cleanly it was place; it must have been intentional.
        Loki's gaze didn't falter though hand shook between my fingers. "Apologies, brother, please forgive me I meant no offense. It's been a rather long day for me, wouldn't you agree? My companion knows nothing of our court nor our etiquette, do not fault her for her ignorance." The words poured from Loki's silver tongue like he'd rehearsed them.
        The silence lasted no longer than a heartbeat, but the tension between the brothers stretched into eons. As if there was an invisible battle taking place between every breath.
        Thor cracked a smile. The corner of his lips lifting like a twitch. His hand drank the lightning, but the static stayed, electricity heavy in the air. I could taste it in my throat. A hot battery pressed to my tongue. Sour and bitter.
        "There's always time to learn isn't there?" Thor sneered. Those clouded eyes shifted to me. The air went still as death, as if he commanded it. As if the very breath in my lungs froze in fear.
        A low thrum reverberated off the walls. A whine like a radio between stations. My teeth began to vibrate painfully.
        "Kneel, girl," Thor ordered. His voice was low enough make the windows shudder. 
        I hesitated, taking a glance at Loki. When I turned my attention back to the prince, he was on his feet, towering above me like shade. His hammer was in his hand. That's when I realize the sound, the irritating whine of static like nails on a chalkboard, originated from it. Lightning crackled around the hilt and spiraled up Thor's thick arms. The steel was less than inch from my face. It felt like I was holding a nine-volt battery in my mouth. The bitter taste of electricity danced on my tongue, coating my mouth. 
        I dropped to my knees and bowed my head. The cool metal pressed against the back of my head. I could hear the crackling between my ears.
        Thor let out a low chuckle. "Ale. Go."
        "Thank you, your majesty," I balked as I quickly rose and scurried down the hall.
        Bile rose like a serpent, lashing at my throat as it writhed. I just made it to the kitchen when I hurled my stomach into the sink. Anxiety took over me. Tremors rippled through my muscles, making my hands shake as I struggled to turn the faucet on.
        As the remaining contents of my stomach sloshed down the drain, I took to gripping the stainless-steel sink for support, my legs buckling under me. The tremors explored every limb. I felt like I was on the verge of collapse. If I didn't appear with something for Thor, my life would be forfeit. Loki's as well.
        Bile coated my tongue like a sludge. I stored a mouthful of water and rinsed, taking a moment to feel the temperature. Cold. Sharp like needles grinding back and forth and around. When I spit, I focused on the sound. How it scattered against the hollow steel like raindrops on rooftops. The men were chatting in the living room. Something about their father and their realm. Thor's laughter rattled the countertops, but Loki let out a strained chuckle. Something his brother said must have hit a nerve.
        The shaking continued.
        Breathe. Breathe. Breath.
        In through my nose, I held my breath for four long beats, and exhales for six. "Cardwell, Linden, Elmira, Joy. Cardwell, Linden, Elmira, Joy." I muttered the street names like a prayer with every exhale, touching my thumb to the pads of each finger, until the shaking stopped.
        I could hear the brothers laughing while I raided the fridge for something alcoholic to serve. Everything inside was untouched. Deli meats and cheeses still wrapped inside the drawers, leftovers, juice, and a mug of coffee Mom probably meant to warm up a few days ago but forgot it in the fridge. Everything just waiting to be consumed. 
        I couldn't ignore the painful twinge in my chest, though I tried to swallow it down. A tear rose and fell. I flicked it off my cheek and managed to choke back the remaining sorrow. I had a part to play. I didn't want to be another epitaph.
        Mom didn't drink. One shot of rum made her tipsy enough for karaoke and she hated the taste of beer, but Dad had a minifridge in the garage full of lagers and pale ales. Three years he'd been gone, but she couldn't bring herself to get rid of his things. Occasionally, Joey or a cousin would pop into the garage and swipe a bottle, but his stash was well stocked.
        I piled several amber glass bottles into my arms and carried them back into the living room. The gods were chatting about something I couldn't be bothered to listen to, but they halted when I entered. Thor cheered brightly as I set every bottle on the coffee table in front of him. I counted eight, but the time I set the last one down, he'd already popped a top off with his teeth, and drank it dry. The frothy liquid making his boulder of an Adam's apple bob up and down.
        Loki took my hand once more, leading back to his lap. "Thank you for your generosity. You're a gracious host, my dear," he chimed sweetly. I sat on his lap, trying not to move. His other hand fell back onto my thigh, idly twirling stars and figures against the black fabric. It wasn't much to protect me from his touch. Light, yet piercing. The cold of his fingertips bit through and made my thighs shudder. 
        "Why do you do that?" Thor snickered. He ripped off second bottle cap, spitting it onto the floor.
        "Do what?" Loki replied with his lips on my crook of my neck.
        Thor's face twisted into one of confusion and disgust. "Use frilly words with them. Give them pet names."
        "It's called seduction, brother. Some call it an artform." His kisses were gentle plucks on along the line of my shoulder, trailing up, hitting every sensitive spot on my neck, until his teeth grazed my earlobe. His fingers brushed a lovely trail slowly up my inner thigh then down, just before he reached dangerous territory. 
        On impulse, I let out a sigh. A testament to my weakness.
        "Isn't that a lovely sound?" he mused. Raking his teeth down my neck, I let out another sigh. My eyes fluttering close in a lapse of judgement as I let myself settle into him.
        Thor huffed, draining another beer, and scowling. "I call it a waste of time. We're gods. Well..." Lightning skittered across his eyes as a smile twitched on his lips "Bed the bitch and be done with it, I say. Girl!" He snapped his massive fingers together and produced a loud quake. "Come."
        Loki curled his fingers. His gentle caress became a grip, pinning me in place. "Well, sweetling? Did you?" he mused. His nails threatened to pierce the black denim. He glanced at his brother but found no amusement.
        A blank expression marred Thor's face. Unyieldingly stoic. Then he cocked his head to the side and lightning blasted the front yard. I screamed and jumped, but Loki kept me still against him, matching the thunder god's stillness.
        "I jest, brother. I've heard you're more than sufficient. Unfortunately for my companion here, I'm the possessive type, and can't afford to lose another one to your pervasive libido," Loki laughed, a low dark chuckle slick with venom. "I've lost so much in the last twenty-four-hours, do me the mercy of sparing me one sweet soul to warm my bed. Allow my residence in this realm to be a pleasant one." His hand clamped down on my thigh, intertwining our fingers in a possessive grasp. I could almost feel invisible claws curl out of his knuckles, digging past skin and bone, and imbedding themselves into my soul. Thor would have to tear us apart.
        Thor's nostrils flares. His eyebrows furrowed, casting a shadow over his eyes that illuminated with an ethereal white light. "My mercy was letting you live, brother."
        The air went cold. More than old. Static and frost permeated the room, lashing at my bones like whips. I sank into Loki's lap, wishing I was anywhere but here. Wishing I had stayed in bed.
        His skin was ice against mine. Any warmth or kindness had melted. His body was mass of tensed muscle and glacial rage.
        Thor rose to his feet. His head just brushing the ceiling. He slammed another beer before tossing it at the wall with a flick of his wrist, letting it shatter into dust on impact. I didn't even hear it break. It was as if it turned to mist as soon as it left his hand.
        His raised his hammer, rings of lightning crackling around it in chaotic coils. I tasted metal. Bitter and hot. I was sure these would be my final moments and all I could do was mutter the names of streets near my childhood home.
        Cardwell.
        Linden.
        Elmira.
        Joy.
        I wouldn't even be an afterthought of someone like Thor. A casualty in this war between him and Loki. I'd be dust, floating away as they brought down the world around them. And for what?
        "You live by my will. By father’s will. Remember that as you waste your days on this pathetic rock with ugly Midgardian whores. As your unremarkable life dwindles away day by day, and I, Father, and Mother live on, outshining you in every regard. For centuries to come. I will be a king, brother, and you shall remain worthless, until your mortal life expires, and you will endure your greatest feat yet, providing food for worms." Thor lowered his hammer to his hip and hung it on its hook.
        His eyes receded to sky blue. Slowly, he backed away, never taking his gaze off Loki, who was seething with rage. My leg had gone numb where his fingers dug deep. I hadn't the voice to say it hurt. I almost welcomed it. I needed something to keep me grounded, else I feared I'd float away, or melt into a puddle.
        Thor reached the front door and exited without another word. Once he made his way to scorched driveway, lightning enveloped him, and within the same fraction of a second, the god of thunder was gone. Though his presence lingered. The hairs on my arm and neck stayed at attention. I could still taste hot batteries in my mouth and there was a high-pitch whine in my ear for the rest of the day.
        I stayed perched on Loki's lap, terrified to move, until his grip eased. He was my only tether to my body. Once he let go, I collapsed.

Chapter Text

Loki

"Odin. The wisest of all Aesir. Resting on his golden throne, the All-Father passes judgement on all his subject the upmost fairness, seeing well beyond the realms of men with his one-eye, penetrating the heart and soul. He can see the threads that tether nine realms to Yggdrasil and very fibers in which they were woven. Blessed by the Norns, the God-King saw the fates of each realm, beginning to end. Only he and they know what is to come, which is why we must honor him and his words as scripture and truth," Frigga recited as she sat between her two boys.
        Flames painted her summer honey ringlets orange. The great maw of the library's hearth roared with life with warmth as the boys nestled against their mother, hanging on her every word. Loki, the smallest of the two, pressed his back against the couch's velvet cushions, trying to escape the flames. He hated the way they licked his skin. Sweat beading his dark brow.
        "How did Father get so wise?" Young Thor beamed brightly.
        Frigga cupped his beautiful cheek in her palm and crinkled her nose with a proud smile. "Well, when your father met the Norns in his pursuit of all-knowledge, they transcribed the fates into an illustrious tapestry, but when Odin went to study it, it appeared to him blank. He had not proven himself worthy of their knowledge. So, he made the greatest sacrifice a man could, and hung himself from on a branch of the World Tree, forbidding all help from god, man, and spirit," Frigga told with a glimmer of joy in her soft amber eyes.
        Loki laid his head on her arm, watching the dance of yellow, white, and crimson within the hearth. He pictured his father with a noose around his neck. His fat face only getting fatter, turning purple, eyes-bulging from the socket.
        Frigga continued, "For nine days, and nine brutally cold nights, your father remained until the runes deemed him worthy. They spoke their secrets and taught him all they knew. As each day passed, color bled into the fabric, and a new rune appeared. Images brightened and rendered until they told a whole tale. 
        When he was cut from the branch, he became known as the Father of the Runes. Growing wiser than all other Aesir."
        "But there was still one wiser," Loki chimed.
        Thor furrowed his brow, nostril flaring with disgust at his younger brother. Frigga went quiet for a beat. She ran her left hand over her son's jet black hair, smoothing down any stray locks. "Yes, sweet one, there was one wiser, but even he grated your father worthy of his immense library of knowledge."
        Thor sneered, "Only after he made Father tear out his own eye. It's just like a jotunn to be so barbaric."
        "Thor," Frigga snapped. "Mimir's test was so Odin could prove himself worthy. No other man could shoulder the burdens he bare. He had to show Mimir he was that man."
        The young boy, yet twice the size of any child his age, scoffed and shook his head. "Making him gouge out his own eye and toss it into the well seems more cruel than wise. Now Father has to be half-blind."
        "Half-blind, yet all-knowing. Seems a fair price to me," Loki shrugged. Not only did Odin lose an eye, he also had to drink from the well, staring back into his discarded organ. "What happened to Mimir, mother? Did he die when Father destroyed Jotunheim?"
        "Father didn't destroy Jotunheim!" Thor squawked, "He let them live. He showed them mercy."
        Mercy. The word was bitter on Loki's lips. Thrown so casually around the palace, it was hollow, gutted of its true meaning. Mercy seemed to mean "the least cruel of a hundred cruel options". Ravaging a planet and leaving its inhabitants on a frozen wasteland, to starve, to fight, to disassemble their traditions and build a new, more brutal life in shadow and frost. Yes, that was Odin's mercy.
        Loki wanted to spit venom at his brother, but held his tongue, knowing the boy inherited their father's mercy.
        Frigga soothed her sons by tracing circles on their backs and cooing. "Calm now, boys, don't rile yourselves before bed, else you'll have nightmares," she dragged her nails lightly over their shoulders, back and forth, until Thor's breathing deepened, and he settled back into place. "To answer your question, Loki, Mimir was punished by your father for tricking him. After he left the well, Mimir brewed his own stash of mead from the water, and drank from it daily, furthering his knowledge but never sharing it with the other realms. Hoarding it."
        "Jotuns," Thor grumbled.
        "Hush, Thor," Frigga said with a soothing whisper. "Mimir was put to the sword, but he was too wise, even for death. Garishly, his head began spouting riddles after it rolled from the block."
        Loki pictured a talking head rolling around the throne room, spewing riddles and jokes. How his father must have went white at the sight. He stifled a laugh. Even in death, Mimir continued to trick Odin.
        A hollow pain knocked around his chest. If he continued to best Odin, even out-witting death, what sort of mercy did Odin inflict them? Loki tried to imagine a fate worse than death. Scouring his list of mercies. But Odin's list was probably longer and more colorful than anything Loki could imagine. He found himself sorry for Mimir the Wise. His crime wasn't knowledge, or hoarding it, it was underestimating Odin's cruelty.
        "What happened to the head, Mother?" Thor chirped with boyish enthusiasm.
        Frigga simply shrugged. "It was before my time at court. Your father never told me, but, I imagine whatever happened was well deserved." She combed Thor's golden blonde hair and tucked a lock behind his ear. "Any more questions before bed?"
        Loki had dozens but knew better than to speak even one. He went quiet as Thor prattled off about how great their father was. Wanting to know every vile way he triumphed over enemies in grotesque detail. Their mother satisfied some. She kept the bloody bits vague, replacing them with diplomacy, and saying Father only delivered agonizing blows when absolutely necessary. Surely, Thor only heard "agonizing blows are absolutely necessary". Loki could tell by the sparks that glimmered in his baby blue eyes. 
        Loki lay in a bed five times bigger than himself. Frigga tucked him a mountain of furs, smiling, and humming a sweet lullaby as she did. "You know, I won't be able to do this much longer," she admitted.
        A twinge of pain echoed in his chest. "I know," he forced a small smirk. Thor had already opted out of nightly tuck ins. He declared himself "too old" and "nearly a man". Meanwhile, he mocked Loki for clinging to their mother's skirts. Loki simply saw it as enjoying every last minute he had with her. If loving their mother was weakness, he didn't mind being weak.
        "Mother," Loki chimed as she pulled away to blow out the candle on his nightstand. She paused and turned to him. The question hung in his throat, daring to choke him if he didn't spit it out. "What did Father see on the Norn's tapestry? What did the runes say?"
        Frigga looked to the canopy above as if it held the answer. Searching for a way to spin her tale for the ears of a young boy. She sat at the edge of his bed. Running her hand over the dark furs, she chewed on her lip. "Your father's only told me bits, but, my understanding is they told him of the beginning...and the end."
        "Of what?"
        She pursed her lips into a thinner line. Age hadn't yet wrinkled her face, but her lips were pale and narrow. Only the small curve over her cupid's bow gave them depth. She had a small pointed nose that crinkled when she was lost in thought or smiling with all her teeth. At that moment it was thought.
        "Everything. The realms." She picked at the furs nervously.
        "What happens?" Loki pressed on.
        She struggled to meet his gaze. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. "The Norns say there's a great beast that will grow unending until it swallows the moon and sun. A beast that grows so large it coils around the world. The all-seeing eye will meet the face of death and a man made of stars will fall at the prick of a needle. The ground will part like seas in the wind, mountains will tumble like leaves, and the earth will be swallowed by darkness."
        Loki searched her eyes for warmth, but there was none. A bitter cold struck him. He pulled the furs to his chin, desperate for the comfort of their softness, but they became coarse in his grasp. 
        "Are you happy with the answer?" Frigga asked bitterly.
        Loki shook his head. "I fear I've given myself nightmares," he joked with quivering words. Frigga ran her fingers through his hair and gave him a weak smile. A mother's smile. It didn't meet her eyes, but they glowed again nonetheless.
        "My door is always open should you find need."
        She leaned in and kissed his forehead before parting. Loki was left in the dark of his room, alone, and lost in his own mind.
        Odin's tales never resonated with him. Not as they did with Thor. He scarcely believe a word of them. It wasn't Frigga's fault, she didn't mean to lie to them. Loki was sure she believed in what she was telling them, but if Loki glanced at the book of Odin's fables, he'd find they were written in his hand. Embellished battles written and edited by the victor. Loki had no doubt Odin would banish or kill anyone who said differently, so he never spoke of it. But that last tale plucked a strange chord. 
        It reverberated for centuries to come. Fading into the recesses of his mind, until the day of his exile.

Chapter Text

The world swam around me in a dizzy haze of watery light. I awoke bleary eyed and heavy with a whine thrashing in between my ears. Light poured in and I shielded my eyes. Immediately I was assault by the blaring rays of sun.
        I sat up slowly. My stomach churning like snakes wrestling in a pit. I held my head in my hands for a moment, resting my elbows on my needs, as the world slowly shaped into view.
        For a brief moment, I thought I was home. Another long night with a bottle of wine in the bathtub had put me back on my ass. I was paying for it in full. The tumble and churn of my liquid diet sloshing around in my empty stomach lurched me forward as bile swept up my throat. 
        I needed food and a toilet.
        I pulled my legs over the edge of the couch when a voice called out to me.
        "Careful, glass," he barked.
        I turned, still squinting, at the foreign shape near the doorway. Black hair, grey sweatshirt, and casual denim jeans. He was kneeling on the carpet. "Dad?" I called, just recognizing the Michigan State sweater. The bold emerald letters and spartan head coming into view.
        There was an awkward pause.
        It took me far too long realize my mistake. To recognize the stranger cleaning up the carpet. 'Sorry," I huffed. I buried my head into my knees and let out a sigh to stabilize my burning belly.
        Long black sleeves spilled over my hands. The hoodie pouring over my bones like pitch. I brought my eyes to Loki's, fighting back the urge to wince away. He noticed my scowl. 
        "What?"
        He had a red hand vacuum, probably filled with microscopic shards of glass. 
        I couldn't speak. Not with my voice anyway. The exertion threatened to spew whatever remained in my stomach all over the couch and I doubt Loki would be kind enough to clean that for me.
        Instead I tugged at the hoodie's collar and shot him another dark glare. Then I pointed to his wardrobe. Obviously pillaged from my father's closet. The sweater bunched around his narrow hips, the jeans were twenty years old with rips in the knees, and the belt was notched at the final hole. He rolled the ill-fitting sleeves to his elbows, revealing his brand, more vibrant and irritated than before. He clearly didn't find the medicine cabinet then.
        "I took the liberty of getting you dressed while you were asleep. Unless you wanted to remain cold and expose, I don't want to hear it. As for this...attire, I had little choice. My regalia isn't acceptable for Midgard," he grumbled with a shrug.
        All those honeyed words he whispered in my ear felt like a dream. Along with the gentle caress on my thigh and the way he laced our fingers.
        He slipped out of that charming skin and into his usual form. Cold, aloof, and sarcastic. I wondered how often he shed his skin and donned a new one. What sort of life he lived to master that talent.
        The spaces between my fingers felt hollow now? It'd been too long since someone touched me like that. For a moment, I couldn't believe it truly happened. It was like I was remembering a movie and the lines between reality and fiction were blurred. 
        But I could taste the electricity. The bitter sparks rolling over my tongue like a current of hot metal. Loki disposed of the bottles. Any remnants of that impossible man, but he'd been here. Fragments of him remained. 
        I could only watch Loki finish the chore he assigned himself. Knees pressed to my chest. Silence hung around us like a fog. Occasionally Loki would silence through it.
        "Ask your questions," he said. Running the vacuum over the pile of glitter.
        I shook my head. "There's nothing to ask."
        "You don't want to know who that was?"
        "He made himself very clear." I swallowed the urge to gag. Just the thought of Thor made my spirit want to leave my body. Made my skin tighten around my bones until I was suffocating in my own flesh. 
        "Who I am?" Loki offered.
        "Also clear," I replied with an unintentional sting in my voice. If he heard it, he didn't let it show. His godly skin was probably too thick for my mortal slights.
        Godly.
        A real god.
        My mom was Catholic. Dad was Baptist. I dabbled in paganism and demonology in my edgy teen years. I'd read countless books of scripture from King James' Bible, Testaments; old and new, as well as stacks of mythologies and folklore from China to the Baltic peninsula.
        I spent too much time picturing angels, incomprehensible forms with burning wings and millions of eyes. Pictures of demons with the head of a lion, goat, and a man, with talons and a scorpion's tale. How Zeus would appear to maidens in all manner of disguise. Bulls, swans, and even fire. 
        Loki was just a man. Yet not at all.
        His skin was too clear, his movements, however simple, were made with preternatural grace, and his eyes...
        They glanced my way and I held back a whimper. Chewing on my lower lip, I looked away.
        "Do you want to know what I'm doing here?" 
        I paused for a breath. Curiosity rose like a tide on the verge of a swell. I exhaled, pushing the urge away. It wasn't my business. I didn't want it to become my business.
        I dug my fingers into my arms.
        His scent was on my clothes. Sweet and rustic. Floral and rich. It clung to me, and I invited it in, letting it seep through, and linger on my skin.
        It was refreshing. My nausea slowly ebbed as I breathed it the lavender and campfire smell. I could feel my roots digging into the earth, grounding me. The fog was lifting. I could finally think past the whirlwind I was thrown into and remember that there were more important things I had to deal with.
        The arrival of my own brother for starters.
        "What time is it?" I asked. I was able to muster words without a bite or groan.
        Loki looked to the wide bay windows, squinting at the bright sun.
        The clouds parted at some point, letting spring breathe for the moment. 
        "I'd say somewhere close to noon. I can't be certain. Time on Midgard is a bit fuzzy," he said with a shrug.
        Asgard. Midgard.
        He said the words as casually as a co-worker coming back from vacation. Like these were places people just talk about and visit. As if he was spotting by on his way to Hawaii.
        Jumping from realm to realm must be like a vacation to his kind. The gods. 
        The thought made me shiver.
        "Has anyone else come by?" I uncurled myself, lowering my knees so my legs swung over the couch again. "Any knocks on the door? Cars in the driveway?" I craned my neck around the porch to see if anyone had shown up yet. Nothing.
        "Just the lord of ego and grumbling. Are you expecting company?" Loki replied. He rose to his feet, inspecting his work thoroughly.
        I was expecting a the whole Ségolène clan, plus extras. All three aunties, both uncles, their brood, and their broods' broods. Significant others that stuck out like sore thumbs. Cousins that got drunk too quickly (me). The cloud of gossip and judgmental stares that comes with their arrival.
        It would be a whole new storm of unpleasantness.
        I pushed off the couch and made my way towards my luggage, still settled in the small vestibule. I had to pass Loki. I caught the cold air that came with his stare.
        A shiver tumbled down my spine as Loki grazed his fingertip along my shoulder, tracing the sharp curve. "I like this one. I didn't notice it before," he purred, casually tracing the chain of black and white daisies tattooed there.
        I had many tattoos. Some professionally done, expensive, and clean. Others, I hid well, embarrassed by my "stick-n'-poke" days, like the stick figure on my ankle next to a $400 water color portrait of Mary Shelley on my inner calf.
        I shuddered away from his tongue., worried my voice might betray me. I remembered the small erotic sighs he elicited from me before. The treacherous way my body reacted to simple desires.
        If this had been a normal meet up, a run-in at a bar or coffee-shop, I'd take no time in allowing someone like Loki to ensnare me. The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Right? But there weren't people like Loki. Not ones that would patron some coffee shop in Metro Detroit.
        "Did you admire the view as you manhandled me in my sleep?" I snapped.
        Loki recoiled, pulling his fingers away with a snap. My back was turned to him, but I could feel his grim glare. "I enjoyed the artwork, yes," he admitted sorely. His eyes drifted elsewhere. I could no longer feel him burrowing an icy hole in my skull. "I'm sorry."
        "I forgive you," I sighed, equally as sore. I grabbed the red and white Red Wings bag off the floor and hurled it over my shoulder. Turning to Loki, I gave him a small smile. "Did you have a favorite piece?"
        He studied my body, looking through the baggy clothes as if he had x-ray vision. For all I know he could have.
        One of my twin snakes wrapped around a verdant vines of icy were visible as the hoodie slacked over my shoulder, revealing my protrusive collarbone. They faced an upside down crescent moon, holding half of the sun at the center of my chest. 
        He reached for my sleeve for a moment of pause. "May I?" he asked.
        I nodded, and he pulled up my left sleeve, revealing a colorful canvas of ink. Turning my forearm over, Loki tapped his finger to my painted flesh. "This one is interesting," he mused for a moment.
        Powder blue, violet, blushing pink, and pure white forget-me-nots all sprouting from the hollowed eyes and gaped jaws of a skull, discarded on a patch of fertile soil. Their roots running deep near my wrists. I took the imagine from one of my favorite cards in an old tarot deck. Death. The symbol of change, the end of things, and moving forward despite the unknown.
        "Poetic. I like it." Loki draped a finger over the parchment colored skull, gentle and caring. 
        I took his hand in mine in a greeting. "Alexandria," I said.
        "Hmm?"
        "My name. Its Alexandria, but everyone calls me Alex."
        His fingers curled around my hand in a soft embrace. With a strong jerk he said, "Loki, but everyone calls me a bastard."
        A small chuckle escaped. "Can I call you a bastard?"
        The faint whisper of a smirk twitched on his fine lips. "I don't think we've hit that level of intimacy yet, unfortunately," he muttered with a roll of his eyes.
        "You broke into my mom's house, nearly got me killed by your psycho God-brother, and you're wearing my dead dad's sweater. I think I've earned the right to call you a bastard," I said with a bite of snark, a crinkle in my nose, and a smirk to show that I was only half-mad. The other half was what my therapist called "humor to deflect from conflict and past trauma".
        I'll never forget the way she said, "Oh, you're funny," during our first consultation. Not a touch of humor in her voice. I knew she was calling out my best defense, but I still took it as a compliment. I decided that if I could make her laugh at least once during one of our session, then I won therapy.
        Loki's lip curled into a real smile. One of real humor. He unfurled the level, covering his brand, and letting out a huff. "You got me there."
        "You're not going to smite me for disrespecting a crowned prince of Ass-card?" I perked an eyebrow. I'd been testing his patience all morning, yet he still had some to spare. Perhaps he could loan Thor some the next time he came around.
        I shivered thinking of him coming back. The burning acidic taste of molten copper hit the back of throat again. His essence still clung to the air.
        "Asgard," Loki corrected, "As-repeat after me-As-"
        "As," I repeated, drawing out the letters as he did, even trying to mimic his unique accent. Some special mix between high-born English, Nordic, and something else entirely. Something so elegant that I couldn't place it.
        "-gard."
        I echoed him. 
        "Asgard. Crown prince of Asgard and God of...well, it doesn't really matter right now. Point is, I'm not like him," he said with a lace of distain in his silvery voice, "My ego isn't so brittle that I'd go around smashing in skulls for snide remarks. Though you are pressing your luck, little Earth girl."
        "I'll reel it in before I put in a dent in your precious ego, bastard."
        The laugh that left his throat was beautiful and short lived. He snapped his mouth shut as if he made a mistake, replacing it with a sly smirk.
        Silence hung in the air a breath too long. Our gazes meeting too often for my liking. I turned away, shifting the duffle bag's weight around so that my heel didn't dig into my shoulder. Loki shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. He twirled the red hand vacuum like a baton, fidgeting in the uncomfortable air.
        "Where are you off to next?" I chirped, desperate to get the interaction over with.
        His sky blue eyes went wide for a moment before shrinking back to normalcy. "Oh, I have no intension of leaving," he said with a casual shrug. As if I should have known.
        I recoiled. My own eyes went wide in surprise. "No. I don't know how they do things on your world, but you're not the crown prince of Michigan. You can't just lay claim to the first house to stumble into," I snapped back.
        Loki smirked about sly, devilish smile, as if I'd fallen into his trap. As if I'd recited all the right lines in the script he'd been writing, and he knew just the retort. He did. Loki was always a few steps ahead.
        I didn't know it then, but he was an expert strategist. He planned for nearly every interaction to make sure things would go his way. And they almost always went his way.
        "I'm a god," he answered with another shrug. I opened my mouth to speak, but he placed a finger over my lips. "I'm not finished. I am a god, like my brother, the dashing fellow who nearly caved your head in for a simple mistake. He thinks this is my new address, so, when-not if-he comes sniffing around for another chat, he expects to find me here. What do you believe he'll do when I'm not here?"
        There was the arrogance I was looking for. I almost didn't believe in his titles until then. The way it sailed so casually on every word. He was oozing male pride. He was talking down to me, even more so than a normal man. Because he was a prince of some alien realm that meant nothing to me until a few hours ago.
        I curled my fingers into a fist, brimming with the white hot urge to deck him again. His chin was still a little red from the last one.
        I think he expected me to cower at the thought of Thor coming back. The fact that I wouldn't stand a chance against a being so powerful he could command lightning to strike on a whim.
        I didn't doubt that Loki had given this speech to hundreds of little Earth girls over the years, however many he'd been around to see, and that most of them kneeled to him, begging for protection against the threats that followed him.
        Not me.
        He noticed my fist and narrowed his eyes. "The only reason you're alive is because of me," he muttered darkly. 
        "You also put me in danger," I snapped back.
        His broad chest raised with a deep breath. "That is true," he admitted to my surprise, "but, the fact remains, Thor is dangerous. He's less dangerous when I'm around. Would you not agree?"
        I didn't have the evidence to suggest he was wrong, so I shrugged. I was defeated, but I still wouldn't stoop so low as to thanking him. He was still the reason I was in this mess. I didn't want to admit that I stood a better chance with his protection. If I could even call it that.
        "Perfect. So, I'm staying," he confirmed. I couldn't refuse.
        "Perfect," I replied, putting on a smile. "Get yourself ready, we're burying my mom in three hours."
        Loki looked horrified. Apparently, I had gone off script.

Chapter Text

Thor

The Asgardian air filled his lungs with a sweet floral scent. Crisp and clean. Nothing like the smog on Midgard. Even in the most remote areas, the wind there carried pollution and tasted like garbage.
        As soon as his boots touched the flagstone floor, he knew he was home. The whirl of the Bifrost behind him, Thor let his eyes close, and drank in all the fabulous sounds and scents of his home world. The burning cosmic char of the swirling portal he passed through mixed with the crisp enchanting mist from the Sea of Space beneath the beautiful prism of the Rainbow Bridge. Salt and pollen rode the balmy breeze and circled him, as if saying Welcome home, your highness.
        When his eyes fluttered open, he came face-to-face with Bifrost's guardian, Heimdall, glaring down at him with his strange amber eyes. The monstrous man, clad in gold Asgardian armor, twisted the Bifrost sword into place, and closed the portal behind Thor, before stiffening his shoulders and straightening his spine into a perfect practice position of attention.
        "Welcome home, your grace," Heimdall boomed with a voice as deep as the ocean is vast. His amber gaze looked beyond his prince. Beyond all of space.
        Thor marveled at his eyes. How they moved like fire, shift in their preternatural dance behind a glassy lens. Heimdall saw all. Every movement of every creature on every realm, every second, of every day. He watched it all from his station, Himinbjorg. Why? Thor didn't know. He was only ever told that Heimdall was Asgard's first defense. He watched for intruders and threats, both great and small, and acted according to Odin's demands.
        Surely, standing post all day and night, keeping watch over everyone in the nine realms was beyond necessary. But, Thor wouldn't question it. His father knew best.
        "How's his mood?" Thor asked. He walked towards the guardian, pausing to acknowledge the deep brown stain in the stone. Several servants had spent the better half of their morning scrubbing the blood, but so much remained. The stale copper tang seeped into the back of Thor's mouth, churning his iron stomach.
        "Foul," Heimdall grumbled. "He's expecting to receive you in the throne room. Do you bring him good news?"
        Thor perked one bushy eyebrow at Heimdall. He knew what news he had. The guardian smirked. It was like watching a statue crack a smile. The golden prince made his way towards the Rainbow Bridge. Mjolnir, his trusty hammer, hanging from its wrist strap as he gave it was a twirl. "Will there be refreshments?" he asked. Kicking up dust and gravel, the hammer spun at speeds unknown to made, becoming a steel blur in Thor's hand.
        "In the hall. Have your fill, my prince. Wash away the taste of that Midgardian piss water."
        Thor bellowed a hardy laugh before takeoff. Launching himself through the air and gliding over the clear blue sky.
        All of Asgard had been simplified to glitter. From the ice capped mountain range to the vast north, to the sea of emerald trees that surrounded the majestic gilded city. Mjolnir pulled Thor over the plaza near the palace. Clouds skimming across his crimson cape. Valaskjalf, two dozen pillars of pure gold, from the smallest towers at the far east and west halls, reaching as they pulled inward until they culminated the tallest, most beautiful spire that nearly skewered the sky.
        Thor dropped from the sky, diving feet first towards the shimmering gold plaza like a like a bronze and scarlet comet. People ran into the castle and dodged to the side as their prince came plummeting from the heavens.
        When he landed, the ground wailed. A thunderous ripple met with a seismic boom clamored throughout the city, announcing his arrival to every guard, man, woman, and child within a fifteen mile radius. The citizens struggled to find balance as the earth shuddered beneath their feet, but they managed to greet their prince with bright smiles and applause.
        He'd saved them. Just that morning. He and the All-Father, together they banished the wretched traitor Loki to a realm beyond their reach. Together, they halted Ragnarök. The end of days.
        They cheered, praising his name as he waltzed past. Thor beamed with pride. Delicious unfiltered pride. Their cries, their smiles, and the way they bowed so deeply at his presence made the whole city shine brighter than it ever had before. The people--his people--became stars. His stars.
        Securing his grip on Mjolnir's beaten leather hilt, Thor thrusted his famous hammer above his head and roared with delight. He was their shield and their hero. As he passed the broad entry way of Valaskjalf's gilded foyer, their cheers didn't falter. They were barely muffled by the palace walls.
        A row of guards bowed at the waist. Only rising once he passed. The sound of their golden armor slicing together as they shifted was music to his ears. Every sound on Asgard was like a song compared to Midgard. The shuffling of feet against the palace corridors, metal clashing on training ground, and the myriad of gossip between servants and the swell of high-borns with nothing better to do. Absolute bliss.
        It was nothing like the roaring metal birds that cluttered Midgard's smog infested skies. Or the rumbling carriages that polluted their roads. Even their voices. Thor cringed just remembering how the girls voice grated as it crawled out of her throat. He didn't want to give her another thought, but he couldn't stop his disgust from showing. From her scrawny frame to her garish markings. She was unworthy to sit on his brother's lap.
        Even if he was a traitor.
        Thor had to remember that. He didn't want to imagine the punishment Odin would deliver if he discovered Thor still harbored fond thoughts for the treacherous worm. Especially with blood still fresh in their halls.
        The copper scent was faint in the air as Thor entered the throne room. This was where the fighting began. Just that morning. Loki stabbed several guards and strangled another before Thor was able to send a spear through his knee. A brave Einherjar tethered his hands with iron cuffs.
        Loki still managed to shatter the poor lad's knee caps with a swift blow.
        All that was before the All-Father passed judgement. Before the realm learned of his crimes. That resistance alone was proof of his guilty. How quickly he would turn cloak once things didn't go his way. 
        The grand room was full of guards. They were like Odin's little toy soldiers. When one fell, he simply replaced them. There was always some young lad eager to take a dead brother's place. There was never a shortage of the little gold men in the barracks.
        Thor wasn't surprised to see their lines full. 
        Or did see the grim expression marring his father's face. As if ever second of the day had weighed each wrinkle on his face. His eye lid was heavy, shrinking his pale blue eyes to a sullen slit. Even his gild eyepatch bore an air of hostility.
        Odin sat slacked in his curved throne of gold. His broad shoulders dropped to a line of burden. His thick square fingers curled over the throne's arms in a tense grip. His knuckles blanched as Thor approached.
        He rose his mead horn to his father before dropping to one knee. "Father," he said with a grin, inclining his chin. When his eyes rose to meet his father, he saw nothing but a storm. Slowly, Thor's boisterous smile dwindled to a thin line. He brought the horn to his mouth and swallowed three large gulps for courage.
        Facing his father had always been difficult. He was a prickly old man on his best day, but he was wearing fresh wounds. He was brooding old bear stewing in his own rage.
        Thor swerved his attention to vacant seat beside the throne. Smaller, more elegant, with ornate Asgardian knots engraved throughout the trim. Upholstered in crushed cream velvet. Fit for a queen.
        "How fairs mother?" Thor quirked with his last ounce of optimism. 
        Surely Frigga, the ray of sunlight in his life, had found a way to make this awful day into something good.
        Odin didn't shift or budge. His fingers coiled, daring to claw his way through the soft metal. "Heartbroken. She won't leave her chambers," the All-Father rasped. 
        The eyes of the Einherjar shifted to one another. They couldn't believe such a lovely lady could be broken. Tightening their grips around their gold tipped spears, they all wished to skewer the one who did it. 
        Thor drained his horn. Rich spices and honey ran wild over his tongue, filling his mouth with all the succulent flavors of the seasonal wine. It was a momentary reprieve from his father's glare. The iron-clad storm that swam through his eye in a roaring tempest.
        "I come bearing news of my-"
        Thor's throat went dry as his father's knuckles blanched. He could hear the All-Father's teeth grinding, stone grating stone.
        He's no longer my brother. He forced himself to believe, swallowing the word like a bitter pill.
        "Spit it out, boy!" Odin barked in his might voice. The roar bounced off the frescos and gilded walls. All the mosaics of his victories rattled.
        "The traitor, Loki, has made his way to Midgard unscathed. I found him in good humor, but weak. No trace of magic or mischief could be detected," Thor answered. 
        Odin's eye peered off into his crowd of gold soldiers. Past them. His gaze had ventured to the unknown. The all-seeing eye of the All-Father.
        Thor knew he'd inherit the throne. The crown, the vault with all his father's trophies and knick-knacks, and the realm. He's inherit the wealth and responsibility as king, but what of power? He had Mjolnir. He had the raging skies at his beck and call. A snap of his fingers and he could summon a bolt of lightning so vast, it would turn every little gold soldier into smoldering tin cans. The entire palace, a conductor. 
        Yes, Thor had power. Armies, wealth, and the pure roar of a thousand storms in his veins. But he wanted more.
        He wanted that.
        The cloudy iron grey eye that witnessed the Norns fashion the tapestries of fate. The mind that would read their secret runes and memorized every tale. The gift of knowledge beyond any man or god. 
        Odin didn't look at his son. Just the vast space between his Einherjar, through the columns, and pasted the stuck-fast doors.  He only blinked once to root himself back to his throne.
        The great king went limp. His broad shoulders slacked as if a great burden had been lifted. Thor sucked in a calm breath and let it loose. Feeling a similar ease. The sound of four dozen metal shoulders going limp reverberated through the room.
        "Did he ask about the mongrels?" Odin growled through clenched teeth. 
        Thor swallowed a swell of bile as it clawed up his throat.
        Loki didn't ask about "the mongrels", but Thor made it a point not to ask. To steer their conversation to other topics.
        "No, father. He never asked," Thor answered in a shallow drawl. The familiar wretch of nausea churned his stomach. Was he supposed to mention them? He was sent to Midgard with a script. Just a simple instruction. "Check on him" by Frigga, approved by Odin.
        A hardy chuckle erupted from the dark pits of Odin's stomach. "Figures," he muttered below a breath. "Did you hear that, mutts? Your father didn't bother to ask about you." His rotund voice bounced off the walls, finding its way to the back off the hall where three small figures stood with a personal army of guards and escorts.
        Thor snapped to attention. He rose to his feet with unseen speed and studied the creatures wading through the open space. Three children.
        They're not children. They're...
        Mongrels.
        Mutts.
        Monsters.
        They moved slowly. One foot in front of the other in unison. The two boys walked behind the point of their triangle. The leader. A girl dressed a mourning gown. Black as night gauze swished around her ankles and trailed along the ground as she sauntered in long graceful glides. Like she was wrapped from head-to-toe in silk spun from spider-webs drowned in pitch.
        A matching veil obscured her face. The intricate black lace swept over her shoulders, the trim just skimming her elbowed. Her arms were bent in front of her, as if she was holding a bouquet. She could've been a bride, if not for her childish size, and the ominous green glow of the handcuffs latched around her wrists.
        The two boys behind her walked freely yet tethered to her somehow. Their arms swaying at their sides. They were perfectly normal young boys. Lanky awkward limbs and scrawny frail bodies behind simple linens that didn't quite fit them. Their eyes scanning the room with all the wonder and awe that Thor had experienced when he first stepped into the hall as a lad.
        He wanted to smirk. He wanted to approach them and whisper to them every tale painted on the ceiling. Every victory Odin had won and the legends behind them. Thor wanted to introduce himself as their uncle. As he would if these were normal circumstances. But this was anything but normal.
        Leading the surge of guards was a man who needed no introduction. Every guard dropped to their knee, forgoing the traditional bow, as Tyr walked past with strides of both grace and brawn.
        Behind his shirt of studded leather over steel plates was a body harder than any stone. A man sculpt from war. Made by bloodshed. 
        "Brother." Odin glowered at Tyr.
        "My king." Tyr lowered his chin and crossed a closed fist over his heart. His hair fell past his shoulders in long umber locks, peppered with streaks of white. A full beard and mustache smothered his jaw, obscuring his lips. Behind his unkept brows were deep set eyes of hickory, flecked were searing orange embers. Like the smoldering remains of a campfire. 
        Tyr turned his gaze to Thor and offered another curt bow. "My prince."
        "Uncle Tyr," Thor replied. He couldn't help but smile as he dipped his head in respect.
        "Are you too proud to give your uncle a hug?" the massive man bellowed.
        Thor glanced once at his father for approval. With a subtle nod, Thor clapped his arms around Tyr. His hands couldn't even touch as they wrapped around the broad planes and dips of his back. Tyr latched his hands around his nephew, holding him in a tight embrace. The kind that pushed the air from his lungs.
        Tyr's wiry mustache brushed Thor's ear as he whispered, "Take the small one."
        He didn't know Tyr's voice to be so quiet. He almost didn't hear him. The words muddled around the empty pockets of Thor's skull before settling in place. Tyr had already pulled away and took a spot behind one of the child-
        Mongrels.
        A skinny boy with shaggy black hair. Budding muscles rippled through his lanky arms. He was lean. Probably a runner. He had Loki's high cheek bones, sharp somber eyes, and pointed nose. Lupine and wild. 
        Tyr rested a hand on the lad's shoulder, giving him an affectionate squeeze. 
        Thor studied the other boy. Paler than his brother and nearly half a foot shorter. He had a sunken, almost sickly face. Thin lips and a slender nose. His white linen shirt was a shroud on his skeletal frame. It hung to his bony knees. The sleeves were well past his hands. 
        His hair was black as onyx. Swept back and sleek. He was a sickly version of Loki. 
        The boy blinked, startling Thor. 
        It wasn't the mossy haze seeping beneath his oceanic eyes or the glossy vertical lid that slid beneath his normal ones. It was the black slit where his pupils should've been that made the mighty prince balk. That reptilian gaze.
        "Disgusting, aren't they?" Odin barked once he noticed Thor's face. The curl of his lip and the wide surprise in his eyes.
        The lupine boy barred his teeth at the All-Father. A low growl poured of his throat and pasted his fanged canines.
        Tyr squeezed his shoulder, shaking his head when the boy snapped a wild eye to him. "Calm, son," Tyr muttered sternly. A firm grip on the boy.
        "Yes, boy," Thor raised his voice to stop his quivering. He had taken much more fearsome beasts than these three. A boy with snake eyes was nothing. "Has your mother yet to teach you any manners? You kneel before a king," the prince sneered.
        "With all due respect, my prince," the veiled girl said, just above a whispering breath, her voice as pretty as a windchime dancing on a spring breeze, "our mother perished on Jotunheim. Slain by her brethren when they tried to take us to the Ice Queen's castle. She hadn't the time to teach us your customs and etiquette."
        She crossed an ankle behind the other and lowered herself into a crude courtesy. "I hope this is sufficient, All-Father. Brothers, kneel please."
        Her brothers obeyed without question. Both dropping to one knee and dipping their chins in respect. They held for a long while as the Asgardians paused and stared.
        Odin shifted uncomfortable in his metal throne. Fingers curling and unfurling around the arm. His lips would part then close as if his words were stuck in his throat. All the while, the triplets waited patiently, like little statues waiting to be released.
        Odin raised a meaty hand. "That's enough. Rise," he beckoned in a huff. He shifted awkwardly again, settling with a hunched back, and a scowl plastered on his face.
        His crown made him look old. Older. The band of solid gold was crusted with jewels of every color, taken from every realm, with eagle's wings sprouting from the side of his head. It pushed his face down, giving more wrinkles, particularly around his heavy lidded eyes. Like he was perpetually angry or about to fall asleep.
        He cleared his throat, presenting a kinglier voice, and demanding order. "General Tyr, Prince Thor. You've been summoned to witness and aid in passing judgement on the sons and daughter of Loki, disgraced Prince of Asgard. Who was exiled to Midgard as punishment for crimes against the crown and the realm," Odin bellowed.
        It was silent as a tomb? No one dared move a muscle, no one other than Tyr, who has never feared his brother a day in his life. The general walked around the trio and met his brother, his king, face-to-face on the first step that led to the grand throne.
        "If I may have first say," he presented, only as a formality. Tyr never needed Odin's approval but was smart enough to know his rank and place in the palace. Especially in this grand hall, surrounded by walls and a sky's worth of paintings dedicated to the great All-Father. With so many spears prepared to skewer him if he offended the king.
        "You may," Odin allowed.
        "I've welcomed the sons of Loki into my home with my children and wife. For four days and five nights, these boys have shared space at my table and played with your nephews, my king. Just as any young boys would. They're intelligent, curious, and eager to learn the ways of our people. Fenrir here-"
        Tyr motioned to the boy with fangs and lupine eyes. Odin halted him with a laugh.
        "You've named them?"
        His brother's brow furrowed. "What else would you have me do? Mock them? Bark insults at them and poison them with hatred? I represent Asgard's people, as well as the crown and shield that protects them. I won't have them believe their great uncle is so low that he bullies young boys."
        Odin ground his teeth. The clench of his jaw was deafeningly taut. His iron eyes narrowed on Tyr as his nostrils flared with frustration. "Continue," he grumbled, clawing his chair with a slow awful drag of his nails.
        "Fenrir has spared with my son, Baldur, and has shown enthusiasm for battle tactics, the dance of war, and is more than capable of wielding a sword. My wife has read to them at night, gathering them around our hearth with Baldur and Vidar-"
        "I know their damned names. Get on with it, general," Odin grated Tyr's rank against his teeth as if he were dragging it over rocks.
        Tyr pulled a breath into his broad chest and slipped it out through pursed lips. A man of bloodshed and war, yet patient and composed. Thor couldn't help but admire him more.
        "I would take the boys as my wards. They've done no crime and deserve no punishment. Let me take them and raise them amongst my own."
        His lips twitched beneath his silver beard as the All-Father plunged deep into thought. 
        "No crime?" he quirked a bushy grey brow. "What do you call this then?" His hand gestured vaguely to the triplets as a whole.
        "Is it a crime to be born?" Tyr asked quizzically.
        "It was a wicked union of Jotun and Asgardian. Loki was never meant to be on that realm, let alone fornicating with some blue-skinned whore-"
        "And he paid his price!" Tyr shouted.
        He had climbed the steps as they spat foul words at the other. The general nearly on the king's dais, ready to confront him with fists if need be.
        Thor took a step back and studied the triplets. Was Tyr really about to go to battle for them?
        Why?
        He had so many questions that needed answers, but now was not the time.
        "The sins of the father shall not be passed to his children. We are not barbarians who punish babes for the arms that cradled them," Tyr hissed, "Let them carve their own path."
        Odin's hands threatened to strangle the arms of his throne. Better the chair than Tyr.
        His nostrils were flared like a raging bull. His eyes now warped and clouded with anger as he barred his teeth like a wild dog. It was hard to say who he was more upset with. Tyr for being right, or himself for being wrong. It was a good thing there weren't more witnesses. Had the court been summoned, all the high-borns in Asgard would see their king seething with a crazed gleam in his eye. Their king who would punish children simply for being.
        "When you're on an excursion, will you take them with you? Will they follow you when you're summoned to battle? Or would you have Cisza raise five children alone? I can't in good conscious let you take them all," Odin decreed.
        But Tyr already thought of this.
        His uncle turned to face the children, letting his eyes settle on his nephew for a split second. In that moment, he commanded Thor to act.
        Stepping forward, Thor declared, "I'll take one." He pointed to the smaller boy with reptilian eyes. "Him, I'll have him."
        The uncertainty was heavy in his voice, but he manage to stand tall and confident. He even rested a hand on the boy's shoulder as he seen Tyr do.
        "You?" Odin chuckled with a hidden lace of venom.
        Thor puffed out his chest and summoned every ounce of courage to play his part. His fingers coiled into the child's frail shoulder. It was like a hollowed branch about to snap. The boy winced but didn't falter.
        "Every half-decent soldier needs a squire. I've heard some even gets wards. I could teach the little scamp a thing or two. Maybe one day he'll come to serve the crown where his sire failed." Thor winced out a smile.
        "Is that alright with you, Jormungandr?" Tyr perked.
        The small boy with a mighty name peered up at his uncle, the great prince Thor. A smile sliced across his face. "I'll serve you well."

Chapter Text

Thor (cont.)

Tyr and Fenrir stood on Odin's left, Tyr draping a light hand on his new son's shoulder. Thor and Jormungandr took their place on Odin's right. Thor mirroring his uncle.
        His hands were massive and heavy on the boy's protruding shoulder. A thin pale line burdened by the weight of Thor's lazy grip. 
        His ward muscled through. Desperate to show his uncle he was strong. He braved the frost bitten planes of Jotunheim, the Ice Queen's palace, and faced Odin's billowing wrath head on. The oversized mitt on his shoulder was nothing. There might be a loaf-sized bruise when it was over, but nothing more.
        Jormundgandr and Fenrir faced a new trial.
        Their sister's.
        She waited calmly, draped his silks as black as starless night, hiding her face behind a lacy black veil. Her delicate arms presented in front of her, latched together by iron bracelets. The runes etched into the cuffs dampened any magic she may possess.
        Thor remembered how Loki's irons glowed green and bright as he writhed and fought back. On the very ground where his daughter now stood. Beams of emeralds illuminated every rune as the disgraced prince struggled to turn shape shift and escape. His face contorting into ghastly caricatures of animals. Half-man, half-salmon with bold red scales prying beneath his skin, part-falcon, as russet feathers shot from his face like spikes, all before the irons sucked it away, keeping him human. Exhausted, but human.
        He made one last attempt. Claws and talons jutting out from his bloody nailbeds, he slashed an Einherjar across the face. His seider so weaken at that point, the attack took three of his nails. One stuck in the poor lad's eye. A healer managed to save the soldier's sight. He'd make a full recovery in time.
        The girl's didn't glow. She hadn't moved since her brother's fates were sealed.
        Thor couldn't see if she was happy for them. Knowing they would have homes, an education, and a family. Was she angry to the only one left? Was she weeping?
        There was simply darkness. Placid and unflinching. She didn't shuffle or shift her weight as she stood quietly. Still as a statue. He couldn't even tell if she was breathing. 
        "What did you name this one, general?" the All-Father beckoned, lifting a lazy finger at the girl.
        Tyr shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't, your grace. She didn't stay with us."
        "Why? Did you fill your quota of strays?" Odin snickered.
        Fenrir snarled quietly to himself at the sting of the king's words. Even Jormungandr, timid and unresponsive, stirred bitterly. Thor heard a short hiss escape the boy's tight lips.
        But the girl was unbothered.
        "She wanted to stay in the palace. In her cell. She didn't express why," Tyr answered.
        Odin snapped his square fingers to get the girl's attention, unaware he never lost it. "Girl, you refused General Tyr's invitation to sit in a cold cell? Explain yourself," he barked.
        Her midnight veil lowered as she dipped her head to a bow. "Compared to the cold of Jotunheim, the cell was luxurious. A padded bed with blankets and feather pillows. It was more than I could ask, my king. Besides, four young children in one house is formidable, five would be a burden. I couldn't expect General Tyr and his lovely wife to host my brothers as well as myself."
        She spoke clearly. Her voice silvery and light. She had a breathy whisper to her words, as if she were telling a secret.
        Odin chuffed, "A martyr." His rolling chest leapt as he laughed.
        "In addition," the girl continued, the remark gliding past her once more, "the general took some time finding me a name. Lilja, Kielo, Ansa, Elea, and Orvokki-"
        The king spat a hardy laugh. "'Little Orphan'," he howled. "And you said I'm the bully."
        Tyr's lip twitched. "For the flower," he remarked in defense.
        "Safe to say, none of them stuck. He named flowers and stars, trees and seasons, but he never discovered my name, your grace," the girl finished.
        "What is your name?" Odin's laugher went dry. His voice clawing for release as his throat tightened. 
        The girl's stoic figure finally moved. A simple shrug. "Perhaps you could honor me with one after my banishment," she said plainly. Her silken voice warping slightly. 
        "Banishment?" Odin balked, one brow cocked. 
        "I request banishment, the same punishment as my father." The young girl dipped her head and bent to a low courtesy. 
        Thor shifted his eyes to Tyr, who was glaring back. His eyes were black as coals, but a subtle ember simmered beneath as flecks of orange flickered in and out. As if they were breathing. 
        "We don't 'punish' children in Asgard," the king announced in clear mockery of his brother's words. He casted a cruel glance Tyr's way, but the general was shifting between wonder and disbelief.
        He didn't know this child, despite his best effort. She wouldn't come to his home, but Tyr made a point to visit her every day. He sat beyond the walls of her cell and talk. She'd pretend to listen behind the cover of a book. If he was lucky, she'd respond with a sentence or two.
        But he didn't know her.
        Fenrir was playful and held strength beyond his size. He loved running and playing hide and seek with his sons. The boy used coarse language with no intension of expanding his vocabulary, despite Cizsa's teachings. He couldn't read or spell his own name, not yet anyway, and he held a pencil with his whole fist.
        Though he was bristly, Fenrir was sensitive and afraid of the dark. He chewed on his blanket in his sleep. Often curling beside Jormungandr in the middle of the night, only to shove him away come dawn.
        Tyr knew the boys. How Jormungandr was a picky eater, but too polite--and starved--to refuse food. He chewed vegetables quickly, so he didn't have to taste them, but when he liked something, like Cizsa's honey glazed pork and garlic potato mash, the boy was slow. Carefully placing each bite so the flavors spread along his tongue. Even if he was the last to clean his plate, he sat alone at the table with a smile on his face. The candles burn to stumps.
        He was quiet. Most believed it was because he was frail and bashful, but Tyr knew him. He was observant. Intelligent. He had a keen eye that surveyed his surroundings. He was the type to watch a fight, memorizing his opponent's pattern as he absorbed each hit. Striking like a viper at their weak points. A silent killer.
        But this girl was an enigma. She was a puzzle to be solved, but Tyr couldn't bring himself to fix the picture. He was too afraid of what he'd find.
        Odin was never afraid. The man who hung for nine days and nine nights from Yggdrasil would not shudder because of a child. A little girl. 
        "Call it a mercy," she uttered sweetly.
        Thor cringed at the word.
        Mercy.
        He was certain this girl wasn't ready for Odin's infamous mercy. All the cruelty he'd committed under the veil of mercy. Had she known that Jotunheim was one of his mercies? She was too young to know of the mountain giants. The ones of stone and earth. The Jotnar who worshipped a great dragon called Tempest who ruled the clouds. 
        Odin killed him. Maimed all of their gods and eradicated their kind, leaving Jotunheim was a frozen waste for the remaining giants to salvage.
        Thor celebrated those victories with his family and friends. They had week long feasts. For honor, justice, and the All-Father's generous mercy.
        The legend painted was at right above the throne. Beneath the World Tree and it's branching realms, there was a space for Jotunheim, claimed by an image of Odin riding his famed steed, Sleipnir. His eight hooves thrashing the snowy plains as a golden clad Odin charges a hoard of faceless blue monsters. His spear slick with lapis gore, painting his hands blue.
        Thor always wondered if it was warm or cold.
        "Mercy?" Odin chuckled. He ran a hand through his course white beard. A deep thought clouding his stormy eye.
        "I fear I wouldn't do well in Asgard, your grace. I haven't skills or stomach for war as my brothers. I wouldn't be useful for your armies. With my blood, I wouldn't make a suitable match for the gallant lords. I risk bearing more monsters such as myself. What use would you have for me?" the girl almost sang. Her voice so sweet and charming. 
        "You're more than your uses, girl," Tyr exclaimed. "You're family. You're blood."
        "I appreciate the kind words, general, but the king does not agree. I'm a mongrel. A stain on the royal family. We all are. But my brothers have uses where I do not. I can't be married or bred. It's better for me to leave."
        Even has she berated herself, she made it ring with a gentle air. 
        All eyes shifted to Odin. Still stroking his beard and lost in his own mind, he studied the girl thoroughly. The man who read the threads of fate. He ran a thousand different scenarios in his head, filing some away for later, and chucking others in the trash.
        He braced his arms on his chair and leaned forward. A curious twitch in his grey eye. "You'd have me discard you on Midgard? You think you'd fair better with your father? Amongst humans and men?" Odin quirked. The sound that came from his gravely throat could've been called playful.
        The nameless girl bowed her head and brought a hand to her veiled face. A small giggle came out, muffled behind lace. "A generous offer, my king, but I don't think a monster like me should run amongst mortals."
        Odin leaned in closer, as if there wasn't eight steps and several guards between him and her. He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. "What do you think then?" He perked a brow. A smile curled along the corners of his chapped lips.
        He couldn't see her eyes, but Thor knew as the dread sank into his stomach, that girl was starring deep into the tempest brewing inside Odin's gaze. Tempting the wild winds.
        Something was stirring beyond that veil. It drew his hand to Mjolnir's hilt. His fingers hovering just above the beaten leather strap. 
        Her shoulders dipped to a narrow line as she stood tall. Her spine straight as an arrow. "I think there's a realm of frost and bone that's lay vacant for far too long. You, All-Father, the mightiest warrior of the nine realms, command the halls that host the glorious dead," the girl began, allowing a pause for her words to truly settle in Odin's brain. To savor them.
        "Valhalla," he replied softly--curiously.
        "Who commands the...humbled dead? The diseased and painfully ordinary souls who never touched the hand of glory? They walk the frozen bridge, scattered to a waste of ice and iron-"
        "Let me see your face," Odin promptly howled. He was off his throne and taking his first step down the dais.
        The girl was wonderfully still. Statuesque and perfect.
        "Brother wait-"
        Odin raised a hand to Tyr. Slowly, he descended the second step, then the third.
        Thor could feel the young boy quiver beneath his hand. Cowering for his sister. A low hiss slithering from his lips.
        He turned to see Fenrir in a similar position, but it wasn't fear marring his wolfish face, but an angry snarl. Curled nose and barred teeth as he growled. 
        A fourth step. He was half-way to the girl.
        "Your face, girl," Odin snarled. The muscles in his jaw feathered, even beneath the thick bramble of his beard.
        She placed a hand delicately on the lace trim, halting, just for a breath to affirm, "Is this truly what you wish, my king?"
        His old thin lips twitched into a nervous smirk. A mad-man's smile. He gave her a taut nod, eager to witness what she hid beneath her veil of night. 
        The room was cold. Soldier's in their metal suits shivered as the temper dropped sharply. Thor let out a breath he'd been holding. It curled like smoke in the thin air. Bumps pricked up his arms. His neck. Every hair on his body stood at attention.
        Fifth step.
        Sixth.
        Seventh.
        The girl didn't flinch as the All-Father approached. The unnatural chill descending with every new level. Tyr called his brother once more, but Odin wouldn't hear him. Thor shouted for his father, but Odin was gone. Taken by his madness. His obsession.
        Wise old Odin. The man who hung from the World Tree, who severed his eye for knowledge and wisdom beyond the realms of men and beasts. The man whose victories were painted in the sky. The All-Father.
        He reached the last step. The nameless girl cradled her veil in her lithe fingers. Thor was certain they were flesh. Cream colored hands stark against the light draining darkness of her lace. But as she lifted her veil, he was less sure. 
        No, he was sure that he didn't know a damned thing.
        She peeled the veil past her neck, exposing pale skin and a slender throat with hollows and curves as any young girl would have. Cascading down her shoulders, over her plains of her chest, where perfect ringlets of amber. So bright and beautiful, they could threads of flame. 
        He could see the cherish round curve of her tender jawline that lead to her plump and rosy cheeks. Soft lips of pale pink, feather light, and an ample cupid's bow beneath her perky little nose.
        Her eye. Thor knew that color well. The color she shared with her brothers. The frost laden blue with her own unique sheen of silver. A frozen drop of rain circling a pinprick of black, that expanded when Odin fell back in fear.
        She was the perfect little girl. Angelic in every way. Thor had no doubt she would grow to be a beauty, rivaling every lady in the realm. Perhaps it was best to send her away so that she didn't have to fight off suitors and jealous wives when she came of age.
        But then Odin fell. Shouting a prayer as he hit the steps.
        The right side, Thor's side, had been nothing but elegant grace. Beauty in every poetic form of the word.
        Her left side was a nightmare made flesh.
        No, not flesh. There was no flesh. Just dry parchment colored bone. Exposed teeth and muscle in her cheek.
        He could see, very well, the once-lovely curve of her roundish jawline in all his glory. Her amber curls sprouted from the skull as it would her scalp, obscuring some of her garishness, but not enough to stop Thor's stomach from churning.
        In the hollow of her eye socket was a milky blue sphere. Thor couldn't turn away from it. How it swirled. The glacial blue colliding with the pure white, like sky pouring over a cloud. Parting and reforming.
        Inky black tendrils, like threads of shadow, coiled from behind the girl as the runes of her iron bracelets streamed a faint violet glow. It crept across the skeletal half until it wore like a mask of night. Leaving just her angelic face.
        Her lips parted, but no bells rang. A cacophony of harrowing whispers were unleashed instead. "Are you happy with what you've seen, All-Father?" Some of her voices were sweet, some were awful, like claws and glass raking against Odin's title. Shredding it with just a murmur. 
        Odin pulled himself back to his feet. The patches of skin not hidden by beard or hair had blanched. A sickly film of sweat sat on his brow. "Helheim," he answered briskly, covering his shaking voice with grit. "You wish to rule Helheim?"
        She dipped her chin in a simple nod. The runes still glowing, yet she kept her half-mask. 
        "Have it. Rule it. Tear it to the ground and burn every damned soul on that worthless plain. Sit on your throne of frost and bone, and be gone from my sight," Odin growled. His pale face was turning red with frustration. Teeth grinding and nostrils flared.
        "Banish me, All-Father," the girl demanded.
        Shadow unfurled behind her. Long, slinking tendrils, twirling ellipsoidal in the air. Over and over. They slashed through the invisible veil between realms and ripped a clean whole to another world. A dark world.
        Gust of wind pushed through, stirring bone white dust and frost across the flagstone floor. The hollowed cries of the dead came through, tearing at Thor's ears.
        "I banish you from Asgard and the realms of men..." Odin bolstered but even his courage unraveled. He needed a name. Names have power. He needed to bind her, but she was nameless.
        She would wait for one. As she sliced a hole between Helheim and Asgard. Darkening their world with shadow and the wails of death, completely unbothered by the cold that bit through Thor's armor and burrowed into his bones. 
        Through grated teeth and pursed lips, Odin muttered, "Hel, I banish you from the Asgard and the realms of men. I cast you to the land of the dead, never to return."
        Hela bent her knees, sliding her ankle behind the other, and pulling her skirt into the perfect courtesy. With the grace of a princess who practices since she could stand. "Thank you, All-Father," all her voices whispered before stepping through her portal.
        The runes burst with violet light and shattered. Its rubble taken by a howling wind. 
        The portal closed. Hel vanished as if she were never there. Odin sat down on the golden step with his face in his hands. Utterly defeated.

His father retired to his chambers and refused visitors, not that Thor wished to speak to him after the whole mess. The mighty prince, along with his new bleary eyed ward, walked sullenly to the mess hall. Thor claimed a seat nearest the flagons of ale. An cast iron stein ready that could only fit his massive hand. 
        With a snap of his fingers, Thor instructed the boy, "Sit. Pour."
        Jormungandr scuttled around the polished oak table, seated for thirty, like he was running a race. All to take his place across from his knew guardian. Reaching a lanky arm across the glossy surface, Jormungandr gripped the handle, barely able to fit his fingers around the cold iron, and lifted it nearly half-an-inch off before slamming it back down with exhaustion.
        With a two-handed grip, he made it the full inch. When he added a hardy grunt, clenching his teeth, he made it one-and-a-half. Thor measured his progress with his eyes. His bored, listless eyes.
        "Not many weights on Jotunheim?" the prince sneered. 
        The poor child's arms wobbled desperately in one last attempt before sinking. Jormungandr quietly cursed his weakness. Thor snatched the flagon and filled his stein to the brim. Beneath the frothing white foam was a perfectly golden honey liquid. He took in the scent. Full and rustic with hops and grain.
        He drained it in four large gulps. It wasn't worthy savoring. He wanted to get drunk. Fast.
        Pouring himself another drink, he couldn't wait until the images of that horrible child was gone. He chugged it down, but could still her milky eye swimming in his mind.
        He slammed the stein down hard, making Jormungandr jump. Bile writhed in his stomach as he peered into the empty cup. He pictured the eye sloshing around the wading foam and spits of amber. Sightless, yet staring right into his soul like a dagger cutting through paper.
        Would drinking it make him smart? Isn't that how his father gained his knowledge?
        "You're awfully quiet," Thor noted as the pale amber drink filled his cup for the third time. 
        The boy sat awkwardly in his seat. Two sizes-too large. He was a doll sitting in a rocking chair. Or a boy playing on his father's throne. He crossed his hands in his lap and peered at Thor with those reptilian eyes. "Not much to say, sir," he drawled. 
        His voice was nothing like his sisters. Not the sweet childish song she sang to ensnare Odin, nor the horrid clash of voices that clawed from her hellish mouth. There was no elegance in his Jormungandr's voice. No grace. No one had taught him how to speak, especially not in the presence of a prince. He spoke like a peasant.
        Except when he hissed.
        Thor slid the stein across the table. "If you can lift that, you can drink it," he mused with a clouded smile. The ale was settling now. His head feeling floaty.
        "I'm not sure I'm old enough, sir." Jormungandr shifted stiffly. He ran his thumb over his scaly knuckles. His skin was dry and cracked, yet smooth, strange. 
        "How old are you?" Thor narrowed his swirling blue eyes. Honing in on the boy.
        "Hard to say, sir," he replied wearily.
        Thor took a second stein and emptied the flagon. "Hard to say if you're old enough then."
        A ghost of a smile appeared on Jormungandr's thin lips, spreading like a gash before he stopped it. He kept he hands around the stein, embracing the cold ale that crept over the iron, but he didn't dare lift it. He appreciated the gesture nonetheless.
        He tried to nudge the stein. Just a push. Not so he could drink, but to prove to his powerful uncle that he could do than sit and pout. Jormungandr stared at the mass of muscle bulging from Thor's arms. He raised his cup to his lips and the boy watched in awe as they flexed. Like chords of steel tautly strung beneath layers of sun kissed gold. 
        "I want to be like you," Jormungandr exhaled sharply. He rested his chin on the table's edge, drifting his peculiar eyes over the subtle engravings of men riding horses in single file. Over hills and plains, the men were chasing invisible foes with spears and swords at the ready. Charging, but going nowhere.
        Iron scraped against the hard oak as Jormungandr shifted the cup so slightly towards Thor.
        Another mouthful of ale slipped down Thor's throat, making the lump in his throat bob. He exhaled a hardy sigh and a slash of white teeth crept across his face. His cheeks filled with a warm rosy hue. The ale was nice and strong. He was beginning to feel good.
        "Stick with me, young Gandr, and you will." Thor raised his cup in cheer and downed the rest in a single gulp.
        Staring at the bottom of the stein, he could no longer see Hel's milky blue eye silently judging him from beyond the veil.

Chapter Text

Alex

     I sat the prince down in the sunroom with a bowl of colorful sugar-packed cereal Mom always kept in the house incase Joey needed to stay the night. When I pulled it down from on top of the fridge, it was unopened. I helped ease some of guilt of not seeing her for so long. Though, Joey had more excuses than I did.
        I watched Loki from the kitchen doorway. Rocking quietly in Mom's old rocking chair and gazing at the lake from the window. He set the bowl aside, idly pushing his spoon around, letting the rainbow loops float in their milk lagoon like little buoys.
        He was too polite to reject the food. Though he turned up his nose as it crunched between his teeth. 
        I guess they didn't have Froot Loops on Asgard. 
        I wanted to offer him something more, but there wasn't much in the house. Mom had made the same bland meal--rice, lemon-pepper chicken, and broccoli--for the last week. Her fridge wasn't full, but it was the only prepared food in there.
        I packed a handful of dry Froot Loops into my mouth as I peered at him from the doorway. He said he wasn't going anywhere, but from what I learned of his kind, they're unpredictable and fickle-minded.
        He had no ties to this place.
        To me.
        I was convenient. But how long until he grew bored and left? How long until my offerings offended him, and he decided my life wasn't worth the trouble of protecting? 
        I didn't trust him.
        Not as much as he wanted me to anyway. 
        He wanted me to rely on him as a godly shield to defend against the gods' hammer, but I had the slugger by my side. If one punch could stun Loki long enough to let me run away, a few good swings and I could run from Thor. 
        I knew I was overconfident. Leaning into the realm of delusional. Thor could summon lightning. A fifty-year-old wooden bat couldn't so shit against that. But I had to hold on to some independence. Relying on Loki, solely on Loki, could be a whole new world of trouble. 
        I curled my fingers around the slugger as it hung at my side. I thought of the softest spots on the human skull. A gods couldn't be much different. The back of the head might be best. If I got lucky, I could break the horizon between the occipital lobe and cerebellum, and disrupt his vision and balance long enough to get a few more whacks in. Before he sent a million volts of electricity through me and turned me into meat confetti.
        With a sigh, I leaned the bat against the cabinets, and turned to face what I'd been dreading all morning.
        The long black dress spread across the breakfast nook. All my accessories--a black leather belt with a modest silver buckle and hair pins--on display. I kept fidgeting with them. Taking out the pearl barrette for the purple dahlia and lace, or the French band with swirls of floral patterned, plated in silver. I scattered them all against the dress like a backdrop, pondering, fidgeting, as if it made any difference. I was stalling.
        As long as I didn't pick the one I really wanted, any of them would do.
        It was heavy in my hand. Some kind of polished alloy, it looked silver, but it was too thick.
        I ran my thumb over the wingless dragon's shape. The crude braid of its body as it twisted into an infinity knot, looping, and biting its own side. It locked in place with a skinny iron pin. I always liked it because I could use it as a weapon if the need arose. 
        I wore it at my graduation. Aunt Lorraine called it ugly.
        I wore it my cousin's wedding. I caught Aunt Theresa telling Evelyn it was garish and brutish. Then my mother's sisters gathered in their little gossip square and moaned about my tattooed, how I scarred my face with piercings, and damaged my hair with chemicals.
        How I'd never get a good job. How I wasted my life.
        They picked apart my life, my character, my friends, and my parents. All because of a stupid pin.
        A breath brushed against my neck. I whirled back with a gasp. Fist clenched and ready.
        He didn't flinch. 
        Loki's eyes, a churning ocean of cosmic chaos, peered down at my selection as if they held questions that were far more important than the minuscule threat of my fists. I couldn't fathom how he snuck up on me. The house was quiet, I could hear the wind whipping against windowpanes, The pipes moaned as they settled. My weight shifting from one to the other made the kitchen linoleum groan.
        Yet Loki walked with cat-like silence. As if he weighed less than the wind. He commanded sound to halt around him.

"You can't just sneak up on people like that," I hissed.
        Pressing his chest against my back, Loki leaned in, bracing his hand against the edge of the table. It was like I wasn't there. With his free hand, he pushed the dahlia pin aside.
        "Tacky," he muttered. The pad of his finger skimmed the violet petals. "What's this fabric?" His voice, a plain flat line of boredom as he pushed the dahlia further away, out his reach, and brushed his fingers against his thumbs as if to rub away the lingering texture.
        "I don't need your help accessorizing," I said meekly. The planes of his chest were hard. Rising and falling with each long breath. Pressing against and moving away.

With how quietly he crept, the way his eyes glimmered with stars, and all other inhuman qualities he possessed, I was shocked to feel the steady rhythm beating against me. His heart pushing past the woven chords of muscle and marble flesh. As if to prove it existed. 
        He loomed over me, like a cloud of granite that could fall and crush me at any given moment.
        He picked up the floral barrette and weighed it in his hand. "Pretty pattern, but common, and just...eh," he commented before tossing it aside. 
        It clanged harshly as it bounced away. "That was a gift!"
        He didn't stir. Just continued to pick apart my options. 
        The silver V of plastic pearls made his nose curl. "No," Loki growled stiffly and let the clip fly out of his hand without looking. It arched in the air and landed straight into the garbage can. 
        I had enough.
        I nudged the prince with my elbow and broke through his absent-minded hold.
        "Is that your power? You're the god of being an asshole?"
        "You were taking too long. I thought you could use another perspective."
        I rolled my eyes. His complexity was skin-deep. I had to stop letting myself get swept up in all of the amazing superficial things about him and realize that he was just another arrogant man. Self-imposing and over-bearing. No amount of beauty, godly or no, could mask the fact that he was a blue-blood, silver-spoon-fed, rich boy with a series of complexes I couldn't even begin to name. 
        "I don't know what it's like on Asgard, your highness," I muttered bitterly, "but unless I specifically ask for your opinion, I don't want it."
        His lips pursed to the side and his eyes flattened, lingering on my closed fist. The tip of the pin was pressing into my palm, threatening to break skin.
        He kept eyeing it.
        I let out an exasperated sigh. "What is it?"
        "Are you asking for my opinion?"
        I couldn't tell if he was being funny or serious. Loki's silvery voice was a flat bare note.
        Frost feathered over his gaze, dulling his ethereal spark.
        "Just say what you want to say," I spat out. My eyes darted to the stove's clock. It was nearly time, and no one had shown up to the house, other than my unwelcomed guests. Anxiety sputtered through my chest like a flare igniting. 
        Loki's fingers reached for my fist, halting just before our skin could meet. His eyes fluttered to mine, silently asking for permission. I rolled mine and nodded. Unfurling my fingers, Loki picked up the serpentine pin, and admired it for a breath. Running a finger over the braided loops of the dragon's body, he inspected its weight, shape, and quality.
        He pressed his thumb into the pin experimentally before pulling it from the main body. It was pronged at one end to keep the accessory in place, so it didn't slip out by accident.
        Loki placed it between his fingers, brandishing it like a claw. "This one."
        "I'll get chewed out if I wear this." I hated admitting it because it was my favorite. I hadn't had many opportunities to wear it. It felt silly to bring it and not even consider it. 
        His rigid shoulders slacked. His thumb following the figure-eight pattern in a trance. "Do or don't, it's not important. Just, get a move on."
        He dropped the pin and broach on the table and sulked out of the kitchen. Slumping back into the rocking chair, Loki's eyes went back to the window. 
        A barrier of trees line the edge of the hill that the house sat upon, then slipped down to the lake. Through the bare branches and uneven gaps, I could see the waves weakly lapping against the shoreline, pushing and pulling at thin layers of ice.
        "I'm going to get dressed so don't look," I called to him.
        He didn't respond or stir. Just kept his eyes glued to the trees and watched the lake slowly thaw in the rising heat. Sunlight peeking through the clouds like curtains finally drawn, revealing the long-awaited spring.
        I stripped quickly and dressed even faster. In truth, it didn't matter. There wasn't much Loki hadn't already seen. My matte black bra and matching thong wasn't impressive, and neither was the body beneath it. I just couldn't stall any longer.
        Slipping into the black turtle-neck dress was like donning armor. As soon as the sleeves fixed over my arms, all the pain of the day bounced off. No longer able to penetrate my skin. It felt right.
        The dress, the belt, and the simple-yet-elegant way my hair spilled over my back in vibrant blue waves. It finally felt right. Like I was dressed for the role I was meant to play. 
        I twirled the sides of my hair into a lose braid and wrapped it into a bun. Placing the dragon pin in place, I slid the tiny dagger through the loops. 

        My 2013 Chevy Sonic was a sunburnt orange bug limping on the road as we drove. I used to think it was the color of rust, until I found real rust oxidizing around the tires. 
        It was the little hatchback that could. It could hold layers of trash on its floor, and it had ten places that could store my empty tumblers and fast-food cups. It could play music from my phone, so long as I didn't crank the volume past eleven. Then the speakers would screech, letting out a horrible tinny beast that rebelled against all things Black Sabbath and My Chemical Romance. Even below the sacred number, my little car didn't receive bass very well.
        I was never embarrassed of my car before. Everyone I knew used their cars as trash cans. We beat them into the ground, refusing to get them fix because we didn't have thousands of dollars to shell out every eight months. I didn't care that my car whined until I hit twenty-miles-an-hour. It was something I came to ignore.
        That was until Loki wedged his way into my passenger seat. Until he tried to adjust his seat and was thrown back because the latch didn't work properly. Before I watched him face cringe at all the strange sounds the car made and the way his feet sloshed around the sea of take-out bags, napkins, receipts, and discarded homework.
        My car wasn't a gilded carriage, but it was a reflection of my poor mental health. I took care of my car about as well as I took care of myself. 
        I found myself apologizing more than once. 
        "Do all Midgardians travel like this?" Loki asked with a tight grip on the handle over his door. 
        "All the ones I know," I said. There were no other cars on the long narrow road to support my claim. Maybe that was a good thing. There wasn't anything to compare my piece of shit ride to. I'd hate to see Loki scowl if a Tesla rode by. 
        "Do they not have automobiles on Asgard?" I asked with an ease of neutrality in my voice.
        For the sixth time in ten minutes, I skipped a song before the third beat. It was hard to find a song on any of my seven playlists that weren't tainted by the memory of my ex. Our long drives together. How he'd strum idly and play a lazy cover on any given day.
        I hated how many concerts we went to over the last five years. AJR, the Used, Taking Back Sunday twice, the Birthday Massacre, and so many more. All the bands I loved since my teen years and on, ruined, because of the asshole I chose to keep by my side. 
        Loki muttered a plain, "No," and watched the trees pass by in a deep brown blur.
        "How do you get around then?" My mind flashed to Thor. To the comet that shot through the sky earlier that morning. "Does everyone just zap to whenever they want to go?" There was a large burn in the shape of a circle on my mom's driveway where Thor has appeared.
        I imagined, for a brief moment, a world covered in those burns. 
        Loki pushed a breath through his lips. "We walk when we must. Horses are common. They pull our chariots and carriages. We also have hover skiffs, utilizing anti-gravitational technology. Of course, Thor has his hammer. Whipping through the sky as he sees fit."
        Horses, hiking, and hovercrafts. Plus, men who could fly. "How are your people both behind our technology and well beyond it?"
        He replied with a shrug. "We have a few advantages up our sleeves. Magic for starters."
        The words slipped so casually; it was almost startling. To think that magic was normal in his world. That there was more than just royal blood in his veins, but something I thought was entirely fictional until a few hours ago.
        I sighed and sank into my seat. "Don't have any magic to spare, do you? I would love to see what that's like."
        I expected him to laugh. A chuckle. Something to show a brighter side, but Loki kept his face to the window. That unrelenting woeful ease drowning his golden voice. His hand squeezed the handle with a tight flex that made the chords in his arm flare. "Unfortunately, no. I've none to spare."
        For a beat, I thought I could feel the air in the car stir. A chill that tumbled down my spine and vanished just as fast.
        "Where is Asgard anyway? In relation to Midgard. On top of that, what is Midgard? Is it just Earth? Is it the solar system?" I couldn't stop my lips from spewing words. My dress, a slinky and breathable fabric, became tight around my ribs as each breath took more effort to drag in.
        I didn't like the way his fingers clutched the handle. How his chest heaved in an aggressive way. The unpleasant knit between his brows.  I could only recall the taste of static. I was painfully aware that I had no idea what he was capable of and seemed to be on track to upsetting him.
        He pulled a deep breath in through his nose and released it past his lips. He did this three times before answering. An air of calm circulated through the cramped car. As if I had no room to feel my own emotions and could only emulate his or be suffocated by the tension.
        "Asgard, Midgard, and several other worlds are spread out amongst the vast void of the universe, but they're all connected by the branches of life. Yggdrasil and the Bifrost by proxy," Loki carefully explained.
        "The Bifrost?"
        I passed another song after the few thrums of a bass guitar, skipping my favorite Brand New song because I could only picture Sean singing it. 
        "No questions, shush," hissed the Prince, "Midgard is Earth. Earth is Midgard. Just like Asgard is its own plane, so is Midgard, but it can also represent the conjoin system of stars and celestial bodies if you want to make things more complicated."
        It already felt too complicated. Why would a boring world like Earth need an expressway to a mythical land like Asgard? What were the other worlds? Were they odd little spheres like Earth, or were there several other worlds full of gods and monsters? 
        Thor, one lone man, was enough to terrify me. All that power in the palm of his hand. For all I knew, he was just a foot soldier in Asgard's army of gods. There was still a whole family tree with their own unique gifts. Each more catastrophic than the last.
        And now I had to worry about new worlds. New monsters, new men, new fears sweeping through my mind like shadows. I couldn't picture them. Couldn't fathom their strengths and talents for unhinged cruelty. 
        I could feel space fill my frantic brain as it began to slowly shut down. It was like I was hearing something I wasn't meant to, and I knew it, so I tried to forget it as soon as it passed through my ears. That slow visor of gloss in front of my eyes as I focused on nothing but miles of moraines, black tar asphalt, and swerving around tire-eating potholes.
        But I got Loki rambling. The tired drone of his voice morphing into something that vaguely resembled enthusiasm. A melodic pitch resonating as he spilled facts about the cosmos, no human such as I was meant to hear, but I couldn't help but listen. He had a voice that was meant to be heard.
        "The realms are held together by the tree, therefore, the well-being of the cosmos as we know it is directly related to Yggdrasil's well-being. According to legend, when the tree trembles," Loki paused and glared bitterly at the burn etched there, "it will signal the arrival of Ragnarök."
        Ragnarök.
        The word was completely foreign to my ears.
        A word I'd never heard and yet, as it rolled off his tongue in his strange ethereal accent, it stirred something in me. Completely bypassing that sensual stir that came whenever his tongue stroked the golden chords inside his throat.
        Ragnarök.
        Even he couldn't make it sexy. It was a word that invoked fear. The word crawled over my bones like there were bugs beneath my skin and my blood went cold.
        I kept a firm grip on the steering wheel, the only thing keeping me grounded at that moment. I ran my fingers over the little divots in the plastic-leather coating. Dance, Dance by Fall Out Boy began to play. I wanted to reach over and change it, but I couldn't bring myself to let go.
        "What is Ragnarök?" I asked.
        It felt worse in my mouth. Like a curse. Not a swear or just something bad. It was like when an indigenous person tells you saying a creature's name will call it to you. If I let myself say Ragnarök too often, it would give it strength. Whatever it was.
        Loki looked my way. I turned my eyes from the road just to glance at him, hoping that the angles and planes of his beautiful face would soften the blow of whatever he was about to tell me.
        But when I looked at him--really looked--his eyes were feathered in frost. No cosmic shift of cerulean galaxies to be seen. Just cold still frost, like a glacial barrier. Solemn and harsh.
        "Ragnarök," the word grating in my ears as he said it. His pause only made it worse. It lingered like nails clawing against a blackboard. Then he turned out the window and sighed, "is nothing you need to concern yourself with."
        I was holding my breath. It burned in my chest before I let it out. Swelling like an infection. Not knowing did nothing to ease the looming presence that entered the roster of problems I'd accumulated that day. 
        "I need coffee. Do you drink coffee?"
        He perked his brow into a high black arch. His lips twitching curiously as I pressed my foot into the gas pedal, barreling for the bright orange "B" down the road. We were nearing civilization at last.
        The beauty of Hillsdale was nature. A tight-knit town flanked by walls of drooping white pines, billowing red oaks, and maples, and you were never more than a mile from a lake. Wal-Mart never reached this place. Franchises were scattered like unwelcomed guests on the edge of town. Five miles before the true "Welcome to Hillsdale" sign sat a Biggby's Coffee, a Wendy's, and a Dairy Queen that was smaller than the rest and completely unmanned until summer. Out here, it was easily outshined by Dan's Dairy Barn in the heart of town.
        I pulled into the Biggby's drive-thru and crawled towards the box.
        "What do you want?" I asked, knowing full-well Loki had no idea.
        He studied the gigantic lattes pictured on the flimsy cardboard sign and then scanned the large menu. Pursing his lips, his eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth a few times as if to say something, but quickly shut them when he realized he didn't know what he was looking at.
        "Mocha?" The word dragged out of his mouth like he was reading another language. Words like "mocha" and "snickerdoodle snow bear" were as foreign to him and his entire existence was to me. "What's a Cinn-ful Delight?" he said. Less curious and more confused.
        I stopped the car just before the drive-thru box. There were no other visitors in the lot. I doubt they'd get any.
        "What flavors do you like? Hazelnut? Vanilla? White chocolate? Are you a fruity guy? Or a..." I looked at his puzzled expression and couldn't help but crack a small smile. I stumped a god with lattes. "You kind of look like you take it black like your soul," I quipped.
        He closed his gaping mouth and sighed with frustration. "Coffee has gotten a lot more complicated since my last visit." He raked his fingers through his messy black hair. His chest sank as he let out another tired breath.
        "When was that?"
        He closed one eye and pondered. It was like watching someone shift through an archive as he shuffled through his vault of memories. He studied his surroundings. My car, my clothes, and the building we were parked by. His eyes went wide as saucers. He was doing math I couldn't begin to understand.
        "I had an espresso at the airport lobby. My ticket was dated..." he squinted and ran an experimental thumb over his bottom lip, "November-"
        "It's March," I replied, completely underwhelmed.
        "-1971."
        Fifty-one years. His last visit was half of a lifetime. I wanted to picture him young. Younger. A child, maybe a toddler, sitting at the airport with his father. But even if he were a baby at that time, that would make him at least fifty-one or fifty-two-years-old. The man sitting next to men couldn't have been older than thirty.
        I couldn't picture a child drinking espresso. He had to be an adult.
        Fifty-one-years plus how many more? Not a wrinkle marred his face. The telling signs of aging couldn't touch him. Not in ways that would hurt him. I was only twenty-seven and already plucking out stray grey hairs every few months. I bathed in expensive oils to cure the stretchmarks on my thighs. Moisturized to fight back fine lines and took chalky collagen pills three times a day.
        But I wasn't a fucking god.
        "I look very good for my age," he answered.
        I must have been gawking. My tongue felt like sandpaper. I quickly closed my mouth and pushed the car forward. "I'm just going to get you a sunburn. Frozen, iced, or hot?"
        "Whichever you prefer," he replied with a casual smirk. I was flustered and he enjoyed my pain.
        I ordered him some frilly chocolate coffee frap with white chocolate, whipped cream, and a butterscotch drizzle. I indulged myself in my basic "Chumpkin". A chai latte with pumpkin spice. 
        Back on the road, I watched Loki toy with his stray, carefully studying the fluffy white peaks sitting on his strange frozen beverage. He sniffed it a few times, reciting that didn't smell anything like the coffee he knew. The coffee he knew was dead. Long live over-sugar frozen desserts!
        "What does this have to do with a sunburn? I don't understand," he griped.
        I sipped my chai in one hand and steered with the other. Cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla made my worries disappear for a breath. I could just indulge and drive, not thinking of the destination. I didn't even think about my radio.
        "Drink it or don't, just stop whining. You're like a toddler," I hissed playfully.
        Loki scrunched his nose but accepted a small sip of his frozen latte. I could see the moment it touched his tongue. The frost thawed. He glanced at me, straw still in his mouth, as if I'd given him a gift. His throat bobbed as he swallowed the sugary chocolate mixture. Then, he sighed pleasantly, slacking in his seat.
        "It's acceptable," he muttered with an affirming nod. He sucked down another mouthful. Scooping a dollop of whipped cream, he slid his finger into his mouth, and pulled it out clean.
        I didn't like what he did to me. The absent-minded way I bit my bottom-lip when I should've been watching the road. As if he were more important. Was that his gift? His charm? The way he made the most mundane movements into an erotic display of grace. I could easily believe he had a dominion over love, or lust. He was handsome enough to be a god of beauty. One of those deities’ people would worship with lavish parties, debauchery, and orgies.
        The god of distracting young women into forgetting they were burying their mom today.
        My tire slammed into a pothole, causing the whole car to jostle. It snapped my attention back to the road. Thankfully, there were no other cars.
        We passed the beaten wood sign that read "Welcome to Hillsdale. Population: 3,002".

Chapter Text

Loki

Alex described the funeral home as a "little yellow castle on a hill", as the pair strolled down the street in her limping hatchback, Loki couldn't find anything that could be called a "castle". 
        All he could picture were the golden spires of Valaskjalf, or the marble towers and crystal moats on Vanaheim. Arching prisms skipping across their pinnacles with an army of gold-plated guards circle the vast perimeter with gilded spears.
        But this was not Asgard, or Vanaheim. This town was maybe the size of the palace plaza with none of its luster.
        Well paved roads sliced Hillsdale into smaller squares of equal sizes, all converging to the heart of the town. A large park full of conifers, maples, and oak trees, memorial benches, and winding walkways for joggers. 
        They drove past beige colored buildings that felt both old and new. They were structured like Mom-and-Pop shops from the late 40's, but everything had modern makeovers. The old wooden tavern had a clear new coating of deep oak lacquer, while the town's one optometrist coated their strange cube-building in pure eggshell white. Small boutiques ran into each other with no disguisable features. Occasionally one store would have a bright neon sign, while the rest had classic bold white font that said something like "Glenn's Daywear and Sandal Shoppe" and "Pretty Girls Dress Up".
        Alex drove so fast, it was hard to discern one store from another unless they had an obvious symbol. The tavern had an over-flowing beer mug on their pine green awning. The pharmacist had a pill bottle. The battered old barn that sat at the heart of the town, nearest the verdant square, had a giant ice cream cone on it weathered red roof.
        A yellow castle would've stuck out in a pathetic town like this.
        Loki never saw a castle. Instead, his companion pulled up to a muted canary yellow house, two stories high, with a gloomy grey roof, and pristine white trim around the open porch. Vines of violet flowers hung from leafy green planters between each white column. 
        In front of the house was a garden of yellow daffodils and pink peonies, planted between rich evergreen spires that concealed a hexagonal gazebo connected to the porch. It was wreathed with blushing pink and angelic white branches of magnolias.
        If it weren't for the yellow sign, elevated by a cobblestone garden of shrubs and daffodils, no one would have guessed it was a place for the dead. "Sullivan’s Funeral Home". Printed in elegant cursive, promising respect and beauty even during the early stages of decomposition.
        To Loki, it was just a house.
        Alex followed the signs that pointed to funeral parking and sat her car in a vacant spot, far away from the other vehicles. Her own little corner shrouded in shadow.
        Her knuckles blanched as her fingers strangled the steering wheel. Some erratic pop-punk song played through her speakers in a hush cry for attention, but her mind was far off. Her steel eyes glossed over and emptying.
        She was burying her mother today. Loki didn't want to imagine how she felt. Couldn't bear to picture Frigga floating down the river of stars before her funeral pyre was set ablaze. Not that he should give her a thought. She did little but weep when he was branded, beaten bloody, and discarded to the blaring maw of the Bifrost. 
        Despite her best efforts, the girl was trembling. Each breath falling out of her lungs like rocks tumbling before an avalanche. Small, unnoticeable, unless you know what to look for. 
        She was breaking. Beneath the weight of the day and perhaps days he'd hadn't been there to witness, Alex was struggling to keep herself together. Sullivan’s funeral home may as well have been a castle. Canary yellow walls stretching to impossible heights as it's clean white trim morphed into lethal terraces. Its manicure lawn was a moat of oozing green circling this dreadful place.
        He could see it now. The fortress standing on the hill. And she, wearing little more than her tight black dress, but it was her armor. It hugged the curve of her waist, hardly concealing the protrusion of her ribs, as it embraced every limb, from her neck, all the way down her ankles. Concealing every piece of artwork. To his dismay.
        They were one of the few aspects of her body that he liked. Each design painstakingly etched into her skin. Creations she deemed worthy to wear on her flesh for eternity. She had good taste, from what he'd seen.
        As he skimmed the curves and ridges of her body, he realized he hadn't seen it all. His eyes fell on her supple thighs, carefully crossed over the other. Loki wondered what pictures were painted there. Did they wrap around to inner thigh? Would this guarded and spiteful creature allow the keen sting of a needle's kiss between her thighs? Probably. But he couldn't imagine her with her legs spread as some stranger carved intricate designs so close to her most sensitive places.
        Before he allowed his thoughts to wonder too far, Loki snapped his attention back her face. The wrath that swept over her lupine features. She bore a mask of stone, but nothing could hide the blaze behind her eyes. Crystal blue fires flaring.
        Her make-up only made her fiercer.
        She took her time in that little kitchen. Dusting her eyelids with rich earthy tones until her slate blue eyes were illuminated by a smoky brown shadow. Lining them with some kind of coal, sharpening her glare. Elongating her lashes with painstaking detail before covering her lips in a burnt mauve paint.
        Her war-paint.
        She was dressed for battle. Now it was time to steel her nerves.
        People, clad in black suits and modest dresses, clamored out of their cars, and embraced in the parking lot. Alex eyed them. Her whole demeanor changing. At first, Loki thought she had softened, but the look in her eye was fury. As if her blood was beginning to simmer.
        Nothing calms the nerves quite like anger.
        "I should warn you before we go in," she began. The tremble hadn't quite left her voice. "These people are the fucking worst."
        Loki watched three elderly women exit a car with the assistance of an older man. He hugged each of them. A tight comforting embrace.
        They were just people, Loki thought. Frail and old as Midgardians are in such a small amount of time. They were probably a fraction of his age. He'd seen their lifetimes twenty times over and still had centuries to go. Time was much kinder to Asgardians.
        Four small mortals, crushed by the weight of their years as they scuttled together with hunched backs and jagged movements. The tall man, barely sixty-years old, based on how much black still sat atop his salt-and-pepper waves, allowed the eldest woman to lean on his arm. She looked like a turtle in a white cardigan. Her spine was a horrible curve that hurt to look at. Her silver bob framing her sad wizened face.
    The two other women, a lean redhead with a toothy smile that reached her eyes, and a plump brunette with too-much make-up, walked inside together.
        Yet Alex bristled at the sight of them. Like a general analyzing their opponent. Her jaw tensed into a hard line as she grated her teeth. She was sizing up the challenge. At that moment she reminded him more of a beast than a lady. Her cobalt mane framed her high cheekbones, carving the hollows below, and sharpening her jaw. She was calm. Furiously calm. A predator gazing from the shadows. 
        Before they entered the funeral home, Alex gave Loki a new persona and an impossible list of rules. He was to play the role of a college student, studying business at Michigan State University. His fifth year. They met in Statistics and became good friends after Alex asked him for homework help.
        She made it very clear that they weren't dating.
        If anyone asked, deny, deny, deny. There is nothing romantic between us.
        He would have no problem slipping into this new skin. He just hadn't decided if he wanted to or not.
        The doors opened, and artificial stench of potpourri assaulted his senses. It was like stuffing his face into a bag of dried petals, mixed with an overbearing layer of fresh linen. The air was thick with it.
        It was all too much. The burgundy carpet was too-plush. His feet sank into with every step, making his graceful strides uneven until he found his natural footing. 
        The air was too-clean. Sterile. Like an infirmary. Every surface had been dusted and sanitized too many times. The too-pastel walls were decorated with too-many framed photographs, too-many plastic floral wreaths, and strange rusty artifacts from decades past. Hoes, rakes, and saw blades, presumably relics from the farm that once sat where the funeral home now stood, if the plaques were to be believed, they were also close to one-hundred-years-old. It was like a museum and a hospital.
        It reeked of overcompensation. The kind that came from cheap fools trying scam other fools.
        Twin cream doors were spread wide open revealing a room of burgundy carpet and taupe walls. Four rows of six chairs sat comfortably at the center, facing a lilac and primrose casket with brass trim. The top half opened. The body sank deep into the silky blush colored furnishing, concealed by the balk of the gaudy coffin.
        Many new faces, young, old, and infantile, scattered like little black and grey dots around. The elders clustered together in a corner nearest their dearly departed, crowding a small memorial space.
        Alex gave Loki a small lecture on her family before ushering herself out of the car. Prominent figures he could expect to meet. In a way, it was like he was being brief for an important congregation, but instead of influential political allies and pretty Vanir bedwarmers, Loki was trying to match names to the grotesquely plain faces of these indistinguishable mortals. He was trying to remember what made them important, but quickly realized that they weren't.
        Not to him anyway.
        Alex stood behind the threshold of the parlor doors, trying her best to make herself small and quiet. Like a mouse before a den of feral cats. 
        He wanted to shove her inside. Get this whole ordeal over with and get back to the house, but not even Loki was that rude. He didn't know their customs, he didn't understand why the deceased was on display like a masterfully carved statue for loved ones to gawk at and gossip around, but he understood the trembling of Alex's hands. The tick in her jaw and the way her eyes fluttered to hold back tears.
        With a quavering sigh, she turned on her pointed heels, and walked away from it all. "I can't do this sober."
        As if hearing her whisper, though he doubted it, the corner of crones snapped their eyes to Alex. The elder muttered her name with a clear hiss of venom. They probably smelled her fear. Noticing her scurry away, they collectively rolled their eyes, and began a few topics. 
        Loki trailed behind, though Alex didn't make it easy. He was surprised such a clumsy little mortal could move so swiftly, especially with her sharp heels. The skinny stiletto did little for mobility but extenuated her legs and back into a lithe sculpted frame. Her dress so tight, he couldn't help taking an extra glance or two, with each determined stride she took. Her curvy hips swaying as she crossed one foot over the other, as if waving to him, trying to grab his attention.
        Loki stuffed his hands into his borrowed pockets and pulled his eyes away, desperately trying to find something more interesting to look at. Monotoned pictures of farmland, barns, and long dead families breezing past them.
        A woman in a grey suit held a hand to grab Alex's attention.
        "Excuse me, miss," she said in a calm somber tone. Alex paused for a moment. The woman smiled kindly. That sympathetic smile that always looked more painful than cheerful. "Are you with the-"
        "Is there a refreshment room?" Alex lowered her determined gaze to the gold-plated name tag on the woman's blazer that said "Peggy, Attendant".
        Peggy the Attendant fumbled a bit. "Erm, yes. Down the hall, past the sitting area, behind the fireplace you'll see the stairs."
        "Thanks, Peggy," Alex chirped and continued her stride, completely ignoring the woman beckoning her. 
        Her black heels stabbed the carpet as she rushed past the stragglers sitting around a white stone hearth at the center of an elegant sitting room. They passed glances at Alex and Loki. If she knew them, she gave no inclination. They might as well be added decorations.
        She was a woman on a mission. Skipping down the deep scarlet stairs into a too-bright room. White, fluorescent lights hummed above them, casting a harsh blue light on everything. Alex's heels clicked in quick taps as she skirted past five round tables cluttered to their edge with food. Prepackaged pastries, cookies, bagels, finger-sandwiches, wraps of deli meats and cheeses, and a bowl packed with a prism of fruit. 
        It was a feast unlike anything Loki had seen before. In the worst way possible. Nothing homecooked or even warm. No care. Just a rushed assortment of garbage food. 
        He hoped the liquor would be better.
        By the time he turned his nose at the pathetic display, Alex had filled-and drained-a flimsy plastic cup full of dark red wine. She held it too-long in her mouth. Disgust and panic curling in her eyes as she struggled to swallow. Her own body protesting. As if she knew it was poison. But she managed. Gulping it down before fanning herself. Sweat beading her brow.
        "That’s fucking gross," she retched before tapping the box of wine once more, all the way to the top of her cup. She shot it back. It was easier the second time, but she still stuck out her tongue and exhaled harshly. "It’s like vinegar."
        It smelled like vinegar.
        It was putrid. An offense to his Asgardian senses. No hint of the floral aroma or earthy undertones he associated with wine. No care, or love, or skill went into making this concoction that linger heavily on Alex's breath. It was simply old rotten grapes to poison the liver. 
        She grabbed a second cup and gestured to Loki. "Would you like some?"
        Crinkling his nose, he replied a simple, princely, "No, thank you."
        There were two boxes of wine. One red, one white. Both disgusting. Alex filled her cup half-way and gulp one last mouthful. Her face twisting and settling as her eyes went wide, pupils sufficiently dilated. The wine had done its job. She was ready to face the den of lions. A mouse full of liquid courage.
        The parlor went still when Alex entered. Conversations paused to gawk at the daughter of the deceased. 
        Loki's brand burned as he took note of their stares. They weren't admiring the way her dress fit her, disguising her frail frame into something worthy of their attention, or the way her hair spilled down her slender back like a blue waterfall. How her sharp eyes stayed perfectly calm despite the storm roaring inside. They weren't even giving her a look of pity. There was gossip on their lips and the narrow gaze of scorn looming around her. 
        "Whose that with her?"
        "Of course she picked a guy over her sick mom."
        "Moving on a little fast, don't you think?"
        "I heard she already dropped out of school. Can you believe that?"
        If she heard them, she didn't let it show. She pulled a graceful smile from thin air and plastered it on as she casually strutted to the crones in the corner.
        They greeted each other with open arms. Each woman hugged her one at a time and they offered their condolences. It seemed so normal. Loki took a breath, as if they avoided all the unpleasantries Alex had been building. They subdued the monster.
        But as the eldest pulled away, her face twisted into a hard scowl. "Alexandria Louise, is that a new piercing?" She pinched the black lip ring between her thumb and forefinger and had the audacity to tug on it. 
        "No, Aunt Loraine, I've had this one for a while," Alex insisted. The round woman let her lip go with a smack against her bottom teeth.
        Was that the worst of it?
        Of course not. Like a pit of vipers, one-by-one the aunts began snapping at their niece, their words soaked in hot venom.
        "Have you been eating, dear? You look unwell," the redhead fretted as she put a delicate hand on Alex's shoulder. Brows turned up in worry.
        The plump one, her face creased with laugh lines, extenuated by cakey make-up, quickly chimed, "Of course she's eating, Eve! You can't get an ass that fat without adding on a few pounds." The woman laughed as her pale-yellow wine sloshed in a plastic cup.
        "Alexandria," Lorraine narrow her stern gaze at Alex's hand, occupied with half a cup of wine, "are you really drinking this early in the day?" Her broad nostrils flared. Her cracked lips withered to a tight line of fury.
        Alex cocked an eyebrow. "Aunt Theresa's drinking," she acknowledged.
        With her lips pressed to the rim of her cup, the drunk one replied, "Its white wine. It's not as heavy as reds, dear."
        "Don't take that tone with your elders," Lorraine snapped, literally, in Alex's face.
        "Not today, dear, please," Eve said as she glanced at the body on display. "We don't want you causing a scene."
        Alex's jaw feathered with subdued rage. Teeth clenched. Loki watched her take shallow breaths to calm the sting of their relentless bites. She finally closed her eyes and simply nodded.
        "Where's Sean?" the drunk slurred. Her sloppy brown eyes scoured Loki once, twice, before knocking a satisfied smile to the side. 
        Alex exhaled her annoyance through her nose. "Probably with his new girlfriend. Things didn't work out." She ran her thumb over her ring finger.
        "That's a shame. I liked him. He had strong hands, a man's hands, you know? What was he again? A welder?" Eve's worried look turned to pity.
        "More like wondering hands," Alex snipped casually. 
        "You can't fuss over things like that, dear. Forgive and forget. You're not getting any younger and you were so close to wedding bells. Having a family of your own." Eve's face lit up with excitement, but not for the joy that could've been in her niece's life. For the blow she was about land.
        She turned to the casket. Her face an example of matronly softness. Big doe eyes, the color of a fawn's coat, and a painful smile that told a life of sacrifices. "Your mother always wanted to be a grandma," Eve muttered, her calm and lovely voice strangled by sorrow.
        Alex went completely still. The knife sank deep. 
        "Do Joey's kids not count?" She tried to make herself sound normal. Unbothered.
        Lorraine rolled her saggy charcoal eyes. "They're not really his kids. They're step-kids. You were supposed to have kids so she could know the joy of grandchildren before she died." What slid out of her mouth was pure acid, slipping over Alex's bones, burning her blood.
        The drunk, Theresa, slid a scornful eye over her niece like predatory slits. Like she could smell blood. "Did you think that dress was appropriate for a funeral?" she hissed. 
        "It’s a black dress," Alex answered through her teeth. Keeping her sharp tongue at bay. 
        "Doesn't leave much to the imagination, sweetheart."
        "I'm surprised I can't see your undergarments. It’s so tight." Lorraine joined.
        Eve gave a sweet look, almost innocent, "She looks fine, girls. She just didn't realize she put on some weight since the last time she wore it."
        They were relentless. Ruthless and cruel. It took every ounce of Loki's will not to lash out. He knew these crones. Midgard or Asgard, they're all the same miserable old hags, ripping apart their nieces and daughters like vultures with carrion. He always took pride in beating them at their own game.
        Rule #4. Don't get involved. It'll only make it worse.
        Out respect for the dead, Loki refrained. Standing just behind Alex as an observer. She took every blow, every bite, and sting, like a punching bag. She was still and composed. Remarkably mute.
        Where was the sharp-tongued warrior that beat him with a bat? Who punched a god without hesitation? Where were her curses and quick remarks? 
        No, he understood. His brand burned as a reminder that sometimes it’s better to be quiet and docile. 
        The vultures had their fill. They fell silent for a moment and eyed the man shadowing their niece. Theresa slurred, "Are you going to introduce us to your new boyfriend?"
        Rule #1. We're friends. Just friends. No romance. At all. You are my friend.
        Loki stepped forward, flashing them his charming white smile with a friendly hand. "Loki. Loki Odinson. Not her boyfriend, just her friend. Her to lend my support."
        Each crone shook his hand. He could feel each of them critiquing him. How firm his grasp was. The softness of his skin. The way he smiled. If his teeth were white and straight. His voice, his accent, his name, and pitch. If he said his name with pride or fear. He said three words, made one simple gesture, and they had already decided, with upmost scrutiny what they thought of him.
        Eve didn't like the lack of calluses. The look she gave was a slight upturn of her eyes and a simple twitch in her lips, but it screamed disgust. Men should have rough hands. Dirty fingernails. She had no idea how dirty his hands had been. The centuries of blood caked between each finger. He had been a warrior. A protector of Asgard.
        Lorraine sneered at his accent. Too foreign. She couldn't place the dialect. Asgardians were funny that way. Their voices were a vast range of tongues that can ring different to every ear. She had no idea how foreign he was. How traveled and educated.
        Theresa, well, she would've eaten him if she had the chance. She smiled with every tooth like a wolf showing off their fangs. Her nails were sharp, ruby red, dragging out the damaged tan off her skin. She thought herself the cougar. She didn't know the real beast that stood before her.
        He was used to this. The prick of politics. Etiquette, first impressions, and the game splayed out in front of them. It was his realm of expertise. 
        "Loki Odinson?" Lorraine quirked. "Odd name."
        Alex bristled. Fear washing over her scent.
        Rule #2. No Gods-talk. No Asgard. You're a student from Michigan State, you study business analysis. You're not a Prince of anything. You're a guy from London.
        Loki smiled pleasantly. "I get that a lot. My parents are from Norway. Loved the traditional names. I even have a brother named Thor." The lies rolled off his tongue like a second language. It may even have been his first.
        "That’s not a Norwegian accent," Theresa noted. She gulped down her wine.
        "Raised in London. Never caught the old tongue," Loki answered coolly.
        It’s not surprising how quickly he found this new Loki. How comfortably his skin slipped over his own. There were brief seconds where his old life felt like the lie. When the brand didn't sting. Like it wasn't even there. 
        He was a simple college student from a city he hadn't been to in centuries. It probably looked nothing like he remembered, but Loki, the business major, knew its roads, its cobbled streets, and could pick out the old buildings between the modern replicas. He had parks he would haunt with friends, regular restaurants he'd take a girlfriend or boyfriend, and an alley, ancient, narrow, and winding, that's where he had his first kiss with one of those old friends.
        He swam the pond after graduating. His parents were moderately wealthy. Wealthy enough to intrigue Alex's aunts. He could have gone to Princeton, Harvard, or Yale. Those high-class schools with prestigious names, but Michigan State called his name.
        His arm rung tight where the brand ached. This Loki's skin was a bit snug, but he managed. 
        Alex took these precious moments to sip her wine and eye the room. A girl, school-age, in a too-pink dress, danced her little fingers over the ivory keys of a battered piano. She was playing a somber tune. Coaxing the tears out of their hearts.
        "I'm so sorry for everyone’s loss," Loki added. He fixed his expression to a sympathetic puppy-dog stare. Theresa nearly swooned. 
        "Did you know our sister?" Eve asked carefully. 
        "No. I never had the pleasure. I've heard wonderful stories and hoped to visit as soon as the semester let up, but..." Loki took a woeful glance at the cold woman in her silken bed, "fate has other plans."
        He tucked his hands into his pockets. Casual. Non-threatening. Baring his chest to the hags in a submissive stance. That didn't stop Lorraine from scoffing. "You don't deserve to be here" her eyes whispered.
        They all did. In their own silent way. 
        "I'm guessing you never met her father either," Lorraine huffed.
        "Afraid not," Loki replied. 
        "He had a sweater just like that."
        Loki peered down at the emerald spartan. So well preserved despite its vintage print. It could've been new. "I heard he also attended. He must have had amazing taste," he mused with an appropriately askew smirk.
        "What are your intentions with my niece?" Theresa spat brazenly. Loki opened his mouth to recite his lines, but she took the opportunity to add another sting, "She's tender-hearted you know. Easily swayed especially in these vulnerable times. We don't need another playboy toying with her emotions."
        Lorraine added, "Not to mention how unstable she gets." Like rubbing salt in an open wound. The sisters nodded in agreement.
        "How is that going by the way? Are you still seeing the...doctor?" Eve mused with her tactical smile. So, kind. So vicious.
        Alex pinched his collar and tugged for his attention. "We should find my brother." 
        Get me the fuck out of here she meant. 
        Loki put a hand on her's. He was here. He had heard her. He understood. "Sorry, ladies. We'll talk later. It was a pleasure." He smothered the instinct to bow. This Loki wasn't raised that way. A nod would suffice. 
        "Alex," Lorraine beckoned. "You will perform something for the eulogy, yes?"
        It wasn't a request. 
        Alex eyed the piano and winced. Tapping her fingernails over the plastic cup. "Sure, yeah," she quickly muttered. 
        Before she could turn away, the matriarch gripped her elbow like a vice. Her berry-colored nails sinking in.
        "Something appropriate," the eldest demanded. She let go as soon as her words settled. Creating a harsh film of understanding and resentment in Alex's eyes.
        As they escaped their venomous grasp, the sisters shared the morsel of gossip they ripped from their niece’s vulnerable self-esteem. Practically licking their fingers. To call them vultures, vipers, or any other fangs creature would be an insult to the animal kingdom. Scavengers and predators, they hunt for survival. Picking shreds of meat off sun bleached bones, not for pleasure, but to live another day.
        These crones where as human as they come. Cruel. Nasty. Miserable.
        When Loki thought they'd drained their venom, satisfied their hunger, Lorraine whispered loud enough for all to hear, "She rather hop on another dick than be with her mom when she died."
        And the chattering that followed, even Loki cringed. Alex's name passed their lips like a curse as they all muttered agreements. He hated these people.
        Curling his fingers, his nails dug into the heel of his palm. Residual flames licked his burn, like sandpaper on raw flesh. He beckoned his magic, his seidr, to come forward. It was still there. Somewhere in his blood. It was second nature to him, like breathing. He just wanted a simple illusion. Fill their cups with worms. He'd been pulling that trick since his fifth birthday.
        The vacant holes in his veins filled with fire. Searing, horrible fire. The brand pulsed, threatening to break around its blackened edges, and open more wounds. The pain swelled in defiance.
        Loki huffed, gliding across the room, and unclenched his fist. No worms today.
        The flames receded, leaving him emptier than before.  
        Alex slugged back her wine. Her footwork giving way to the booze that quickened in her veins. That confident catwalk became off-kilter. Before she could stumble, she fell into the too-red couch set by the fireplace. She sprawled across the plush cushions like a girl who just came home from an exciting night. Ready to kick off her heels and crash into a well of dreams. But she craned her neck and peered into the fireplace, as if the dancing waves of orange and red were whispering sweet comforts.
        Loki opened his mouth to speak, but his voice caught in his throat.
        Fire and steel rippled in her eyes like a river of molten silver. Threatening to spill over.
        He wanted to offer her something. Anything. Just don't cry.
        But he didn't have to. She steadied her breathing. She even smiled. Between clenched teeth and her grating voice, she seethed, "I'm going to burn every bridge in that room." The hearth flared in her eyes.
        The rage, the absolute chaos that rushed out of her and into him, felt like fireworks in his chest. For the first time since his exile, Loki cracked a genuine smile. Devilish and wild. He was beginning to like this little earth girl.

Chapter Text

He'd been a warrior. Swift and brazen on the theatre of battle. He'd been a prince. Clad in robes of gold silk and fine leather. He'd been the hero--and villain--in many myths and legends. The deceiver, the loyal son, a philosopher, and sorcerer. Loki changed skin like people changed clothes. 
        But this was his favorite.
        The Watcher, he called it.
        A spectator to the chaos that unfolds. He didn't need to lift a finger. He could just bask in the glorious bedlam. He didn't expect Midgardians to put on a good show. Their lives had been dull, as he witnessed over the last couple hundred years. There were no princes to flirt with, no husbands to rattle as he seduced their ladies with the bare minimum of kindness and compliments. He always enjoyed watching Frigga's stuffy dinner parties erupt to a flurry of finger sandwiches and wine as he sowed the seeds of chaos.
        Asgard's upper elite always had the best secrets. Plump veins ripe for draining. There was always a cheating partner, promiscuous child, a missing trinket, and so many fingers to point.
        The stage was set.
        A parlor full of tear-stained faces, weeping politely behind their hands, as a man clad in black robes stood at the podium just beside the beautiful husk. His purple stole denoted him as a clergyman. Father something-or-other. 
        The aunts were already in tears. Huddled close on a cream-colored couch beside the casket, they clutched their tissues, and had the decency to weep quietly. 
        Father so-and-so claimed to know the deceased well. She was their organist for a few years. A devote woman of god, beloved by her community, and known for her delicious apple pie. Before she became a mother, she ran a daycare out of her home. She read poetry. She loved to cook and bake. Whenever her friend or neighbor was sick, she'd make them chicken noodle soup from scratch, hand delivered with a get-well card, and a bottle of Vernor's.
        Alex held still. No tears. Not a whimper of sorrow. She was the face of calm, though she couldn't stop her fists from trembling. Chaos brewed beneath her skin. Flowing through her veins like flames, dancing wildly. 
        She had drained two more glasses before taking her place in the front row, Loki to her left, and a strange male family member on her right, whose hand wouldn't stop wondering to her knee, despite the countless times he batted him away. 
        The aunts had a few vile words to spit when Loki followed Alex to her seat. 
        "Front row is for close relatives only," Lorraine hissed. 
        Eve was gentle enough to ask him to sit in the back. But as he turned to walk back, Alex seized his hand, lacing her fingers between his. 
        "He stays with me," she bit back with calm rebellion, though the grinding hate in her voice gave her away.
        The aunts didn't protest. The music had picked up and the clergyman asked for everyone to be seat. The devote crones wouldn't bear the embarrassment for disrespecting him with a display of wrath. They allowed Alex this little victory. For the battle wasn't over. 
        The little girl dressed in powder-pink tule and chiffon, danced her agile fingers over the piano keys in a simple mournful melody. Laying on the cool deep notes. By every mortal standard, the child was an adequate pianist, but to Loki's keen Asgardian ears, she may as well be dragging her nails over a chalkboard.
        "School teacher, caretaker, mother, and grandmother," the father said.
        The aunts scoffed at the last title. He fumbled slightly, "step-grandmother," he quickly corrected himself. "Carol was loved by all who knew her. She will be missed. Before we continue, I'd like to read a short prayer, one of Carol's favorites."
        The congregation bowed their head. All but Alex. With piercing blue daggers, she stuck her gaze to her mother's coffin, uttering her own silent prayer. 
        A sweet film coated Loki's tongue. Where Thor's siedr gave the taste of pennies and ether, Loki's was like sucking on a peppermint. The familiar decadence of madness. It was weak. Nearly hollow, sucked dry by his father's draining bonds now etched into him, but being close to this vicious, spiteful creature, filled him with a wonderful sensation. Brimming on the cusp of joy, Loki swallowed the sugar and spice taste like a scavenger sucking out bone marrow. Feeding the bottomless pit inside him.
        "Amen," the priest declared, "now, a few words from Carol's youngest brother, Decan Frederick Ségolène." 
        The crowd clapped somberly as the man besides Alex gave her thigh a lingering squeeze and rose. He fixed his black jacket. Each finger glittering with rings, more yellow than gold, and each gem was made of cut glass. Cheap. Worthless. He wore a shiny plated cross on his lapel, as if that made him godly. 
        Loki leaned into Alex's ear, pushing a strand of blue behind it, and whispering, "That man is your uncle?"
        "Yes," she hissed with delicious rage. The perfect grating tone.
        "Does he always touch you like that?" Loki noticed, as the Decan gripped the podium, one of his gaudy rings was clearly a band of marriage.
        Alex gave a curt nod.
        Her uncle opened a bound leather bible. Worn from years of wear. He regurgitate a few lines in a boastful voice. As if these were his wise words. His gift to the masses. He grinned with every tooth, too-white, too-wide. His skin too-tan. His mouth too eager to spew the gospel while ignoring the corpse decaying to his right.
        "He creeps me out," Loki sneered. Sometimes he didn't have to lie to get what he wanted. 
        "Makes sense," she casually shrugged, "he's a fucking creep." Her whispers had a snap to them, crackling over Aunt Lorraine's remarkable hearing. 
        She shot her niece a warning glace. Her lips clenched tight with fury. Alex bit back a winning smile. She may as well have told the old hag to go fuck herself with how she cringed. 
        Alex dug her nails into her knees to keep herself in check. All that pent up aggression threatening to spill over. 
        "He can't get away with something like that," Loki muttered under his breath. A sweet, spiced scent filled his nostrils. Peppermint and cardamom, like cinnamon liquor sprinkled over dark hot chocolate mixed with a candy cane. Succulent chaos. 
        His attention shot to the girl beside him. She exhaled. Slow and steady, her exhaled every burden. Her slim shoulders slacked, and she unfurled her glossy rain-cloud-colored claws from her palms, like a panther stretching before a kill. A deliciously devious smile crawled along her lupine face. 
        "He won't," she exhaled, fully at ease, "none of them will."
        His hand hovered close enough to hers to feel the violent heat pouring from her pale silky skin. Twenty years of hatred baking in her veins. His brand sang in alarm. Like a thousand wasp stings all at once. Yggdrasil's empty branches bristled then roared. The pads of his fingers a mere inch away from brushing her hand, he recoiled His blood simmered to a reclusive ache, the sweetness and spice went stale. His veins, once again, an awful hollow.
        Decan Frederick Ségolène closed his peace with a verse about God's love also being his wrath. How his people, God's people, must suffer in life if they ever wish to bask in the light of eternal glory. After a long-winded sermon, he finally spoke his sister's name. He claimed Carol was true warrior of god, having withstood his trials, his pain, and was fully embraced in the arms of their lord. 
        Some things never change. Even across realms. Odin regaled in war stories. All the men who valiantly surrendered their lives on the battlefield so that Asgard may prevail. Their souls were welcomed in the grand halls of Valhalla, but only after a great deal of bloodshed, murder, and maiming. Suffering in exchange for glory and comfort. Was a decent mead worth it?
        Ever since he was a boy, Loki wondered about the realms of death. Valhalla, Odin's answer to man's cowardice. The promise of eternity spent in lavish comfort, doted on by gorgeous women and men will endless flagons of rich ale, mead, wine, and ambrosia. Just surrender your mortality and die in the most inhumane ways imaginable. 
        Were enemies also granted access to Odin's grand hall? That must be awkward.
        Loki watched the still corpse of Alex's mother. Her husk adorned with pastel wreaths, bright red roses, pale white lilies, and carnations arranged in a cross. They painted her skin a lively shade of beige and brushed rouge in her cheeks. If it weren't for the obvious film of powder, she may have been sleeping. But Loki could see how the disease ravaged her. Sucked the life from her marrow. Her skin was but a shroud over thin hollowed bones. Whoever cared for her body stained her scalp with black ink to cover the grey streaks in her hair. They kept one aged lock. A wave of silver that framed her skeletal face. It gave away her age. So, people wouldn't feel bad when they came to terms with her death. If the cancer didn't take her, time would've. She was old enough to die, so don't waste too many tears.
        Would she be welcomed in Valhalla?
        Loki knew the answer. If this were Asgard, Odin would've laughed in his face for asking such a stupid question. Valhalla was for the strong. The glorious dead who stood their ground in times of war and paid the ultimate price. But, surely battling something as awful as cancer had its own strength? It was something worth rewarding. 
        No. Valhalla wasn't for the diseased and decrepit. Carol Ségolène-Ramsey, however brave, stubborn, and strong she may have been, would have to find her afterlife elsewhere. He only hoped her god was more forgiving than Odin. 
        Alex's uncle thanked the crowd and bid good-bye to his sister before taking his seat, gripping Alex's thigh with a tight-lipped smile that reached his eyes. Almost pleased with the discomfort that marred her face. She stirred. When his hand didn't move, she placed hers over his, as delicately as a petal falling to the ground. She smiled just before she sank every stiletto into his skin. The over-tanned decan gasped silently. He ripped his hand away, gaping as the tiny beads of blood that pulled to the surface of four crescent wounds on the back of his hand. 
        "Don't fucking touch me," Alex hissed. Sharp and quiet like an assassin brandishing a hidden dagger, she may as well have cut his throat. He was rendered speechless. Peering desperately at his other sisters with a terrified expression. The crones could do nothing at risk of ruining the funeral. They figured they could punish their niece later, but Alex simply smiled at their silent threats. 
        Four more people gave their eulogies. All they could do was talk on and on about Carol did things for them. All her generous acts of service, but no one mentioned who she was as a person. Just what she could do for them. As if her value lies only in what they could get out of her. 
        He guessed that she no longer held value to them.
        There was a moment when Loki feared Alex had lost her nerve. The final guest said their piece and made their way to the back row. The priest paused, giving whoever wanted it their moment. Silence fell like a veil of glass. Heartbeats passed and only as the priest rose from his seat, Alex rose herself, stumbling as her skinny heels were swallowed by the carpet. She laughed as she caught herself. 
        "Sorry, sorry," she chuckled, "dosed off for a second. If no one else is going, I would like to say a few words." She turned to face the crowd. A mixed visage of troubled glanced and unsavory glares. "Joey?" Alex pointed to a tattooed man seated behind Loki.
        To Loki's surprise, the man was unbothered. His light brown hair was shaved close to the side of his head, leaving a well-groomed quoff on top. He had A.J. etched into the side of his neck in bulky Old English letters. More letters on his knuckles and something that could've been an eye tattooed on his chest, slightly covered by the black tank top he wore beneath a black-and-white pinstriped button up. 
        Joey shook his head and casted a rare smile to Alex. "All you, Sis."
        The glass had shattered. Pleasantly so.
        Alex took the girl playing piano by her shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze. "Cory, sweetie, may I take over?"
        The poor girl scurried off without a word. The aunts all sat tight lipped and furious as Alex sat down, tripping over her own feet, and hitting a foul chord with the full palm of her hand. 
        "Shit," she exclaimed. "Sorry, sorry, sorry." She repeated. She turned to the casket and muttered, "Sorry, Mom," before chuckling to herself. The drunken fool. 
        She hit the keys experimentally, letting strange tones ring through the silent parlor. "It’s a little out of tune, but we'll manage," she declared before running her fingers over the ivories with more finesse than before. An almost lovely trill. 
        "For those who don't know, I used to play keyboard in a band. For those who haven't seen me play, which is most of you," her pale steel eyes snapped a glare, "this a song by a band that’s not my band, but I enjoy it. Usually, I have another vocalist help me, but he's off doing prettier and sweeter things right now, so it'll just be me. Sorry."
        "Alexandria," Eve's delicate voice chimed, "your mother loved when you played Amazing Grace at Mema's funeral. Why don't you play that?"
        The blue haired rebel laughed. A drunk snobby chortle. She continued strumming keys in a beautiful melody that was both whimsical and melancholy, despite her clumsy manners, it rang lovingly. Each note curated by deft hands.
        "Not my style, auntie," Alex sighed, "I have a reputation to uphold." Then the real song began. High trilling notes trickling from her nimble fingers.
        "Mom, as everyone has said, was a charitable gal. Always giving. Giving her time, skill, her home, her food, her love, and friendship. Whenever I think of the Ségolène clan, I recall all the church functions. The days and nights we spent baking, cooking, sewing, and crocheting so the less fortunate would prosper from our hard work. Which, is lovely, don't get me wrong."
        The aunts smiled, overcome with pride at their generosity. The decan in particular beamed, as if this high praise wasn't about to come crashing down.
        "We really are a giving bunch, aren't we?" The crowd nodded in agreement. "Just look at all these flowers. Beautiful. Expensive. I know for a fact that cross is well over a hundred dollars, Aunt Ester." Alex pointed to a dark-haired woman sat behind her uncle Frederick. The woman smiled and touched the rhinestone cross pinned over heart.
        Alex hit a loud chord that contrasted her high melody wonderfully.
        "When I look at my beautiful family. My aunts and their wisdom, my uncles and their strength, my cousins and their vastness...I see a troop. Actors," she bit, tickling the keys, the piano let out a high-pitched giggle, "it's all performative. Isn't it? These flowers will wilt. The dead have no need for plucked roses. But they're beautiful, and expensive. It's all a performance of wealth disguised as generosity," she giggled to herself.
        "Sorry, I'm rambling. I just wanted to say, we are a giving family. But we give so much more than material gifts. I, for one, was given a budding addiction to alcohol. Thank you, Grandpa Pierre, God rest his soul. Major depressive disorder. Thank you, Grandma Rose, rest in peace. ADHD, social anxiety, generalized anxiety, OCD, and a touch of insomnia brought on by violent nightmares and suicidal rumination. Thanks, Mom."
        The room was buzzing with irritated chatter, but no one dared stop her for fear of embarrassing themselves. Better to let the storm pass by than get swept up in it. And Alex a darkening sky. Ironclad clouds swirling in her fury-blue eyes. Her somber voice may as well have been rolling thunder.
        Loki could taste her madness. Sweet and decedent like the frozen drinks they shared. Chocolate, whipped cream, and the hint of spice. 
        "This is a song about all that shit," she hissed. She hit that low rumbling chord and parted her lips, filling her lungs with hot parlor air.
        Her voice was like iridescent rays splitting apart the gloomy sky, raining down light in prismatic flourish. High, sweet, and silvery. If he hadn't witnessed her slug back that vinegar wine, Loki wouldn't have known she was drunk.
        She's played this song wasted before, he thought. She's not that good.
        Despite his pessimism and prejudice for Midgardians, he couldn't take his eyes off her. "This'll make a good show," he told himself with a devious smirk. He believed it. Watching her with his keen cyanic eyes. Darting between that dance of her fingers over ivory dancefloor and the way her lips parted, serenading the masses with her anguished cries. Baring her teeth like a wolf before howling to the heavens.
        
        Every time that you fumble, I'm the laugh from the back
        When you think about him, my wings start to flap
        When you make a mistake, my feet lift from the floor
        And when you lie there awake, every night, love, I soar.

        Like waves of honey crashing on rocky shores, her voice rang and thrashed all at once. Anger, pain, grief, and love all flowed euphonically. 

        I promise you I'll be better
        I promise you I'll try
        But like rubbing wine stains into rugs, it's my curse
        To try and make it right, but by trying make it worse.

        She could have been screaming. Her throat grating like a rockslide, but twice as devastating, and twice as beautiful. Loki wouldn't admit it. He couldn't. But, for the five-and-a-half minutes Alexandria Ramsey had his full undivided attention. Whether it was the message in her words, the beauty of her voice, or the pure chaotic ether that poured from her, the fallen prince succumbed to her. And for once, it was pleasant.
        His brand didn't burn. Not even the barely healed edges that emitted a constant sting until now.
        A weight he forgot he was holding melted as her silken song licked at his ears. When her singing turned into an unapologetic crash of harmonic wails, the heart caged in his chest nearly burst like a firework. As if it were something to celebrate.       

        Goodbye to all my darkness, there's nothing here but light
        Adieu to all the faceless things that sleep with me at night
        This here is not make-up, it's a porcelain tomb
        And this here is not singing, I'm just screaming in tune because.
        Farewell wanderlust, you've been ever so kind
        You brought me through this darkness, but you left me here behind
        And so long to the person you begged me to be
        She's down, she's dead
        Now take a good long look at what you've done to me
        She's down, she's dead
        She's gone, oh, she's lost
        She's flown, he's fled
        Now take a good long look at what you've all done to me.

        By the end, whatever remained of that glass veil had been pulverized, sprinkling down around her like fairy dust. Glistening sweat beaded her brow. Silver tears trickled down her cheeks, bleeding her mascara. Her lips posed in a jovial grin. He knew that smile. One of Odin's prisoners, locked in darkness for seventy years, had escaped through a sewer drain. Loki, armed with a handful of guards, found him floating in a river of filth that poured into the starry sea.
        He didn't get far. The mad fool dropped to his knees in a pool of piss, shit, and garbage, and basked in the rays of the setting sun. His stupid face was dusk-lit and grinning. Even after he was pelted with two dozen arrows. He bled out. Slowly. Eyes fixed on the horizon. With his last breath, he thanked Loki for that slow death.
        Every eye in that parlor seemed rather sharp.
        Alex flipped her cerulean hair over her shoulder and stood. She bowed ungracefully to a room of murmurs and hissing. She turned on her heels and leaned over the casket, planting a light kiss on her mother's forehead. She whispered something that Loki could only guess was a good-bye before sauntering down the aisles, staggered, but confident, with that proud stupid smile.
        Loki clapped. All the pointed glared shot to him, but he only quickened his applause. Alex tottered to the back row where she bowed once last time and raised a middle-finger to everyone.
        As Loki followed her out of the funeral home, he noted that the parlor reeked of smoke.

Chapter Text

Alex

My love of Taco Bell will be the death of me.
        If the alcoholism doesn't take me out first.
        I drove (which was already a risky decision) twenty minutes to Hillsdale's outer edges and hunted down the only Taco Bell within 25 miles. They filled a bag with two beef queseritos, five shredded chicken burritos, four orders of cinnamon twists, two 5-layer burritos, and a side of chips and cheese with a large Baja Blast. Loki abstained.
        In the parking lot, I gorged myself like a king at a wedding feast. I was starved. How many days had it been since I let myself eat? Moonshine-soaked cherries didn't count, and vodka gummy bears didn't count. I tried to count back, but all the days blurred together. It was like looking at a smeared canvas. I know I didn't stray far from routine. If I could call it that.
        I woke up whenever the sun was in position to pierce through my blinds, usually around noon, sometimes one, if I was feeling productive, I could open my eyes by eleven. Then I lay in bed for an hour, scrolling through my phone. Casually ignoring my professor's e-mails about my absence.
        I got lucky when Mom died. I finally didn't have the lie to him about cramps or allergies. I even sent him the death certificate. That won me a whole week of self-loathing in my apartment, unburdened by school.
        Not that I bothered with it anymore. Four-hundred dollars worth of textbooks became a lop-sided sculpture of Psychology, sitting in the empty space beside me in bed. A classmate, Sarah...Sasha...Cierra? Was kind enough to drop box me notes. On the days I woke up at eleven, I'd write her a thoughtful "thank you" e-mail. She was my sole interaction with another human. But even that stopped eventually. I think she realized I didn't open any of them.
        I wanted to say I'm sorry for wasting her time, but I couldn't bring myself to.
        Instead, I wallowed. It was easier than trying. I used her as another excuse to sink back into bed, cover myself in blankets, and sleep another hour. When I finally rose from the dead, I started the day-almost night-with a glass of whatever my hand touched first. Whiskey, citrus vodka, tequila, or wine. If I wanted to pretend I was normal, I drank hard cider. 
        I rarely deviated from the path. Barely changed my clothes unless I decided to bathe. Even then, I just slipped into another extra-large t-shirt and pajamas. It was no wonder why I couldn't get my days straight. I probably would've forgotten my birthday if Mom hadn't died so close to it.
        As I sank my teeth into the first of many greasy, cheesy burritos, a little voice in my head squealed that I should try drinking water. I flushed it away with a gulp of vaguely green pop. It was close enough. A major improvement from the breakfast whiskey and bath wine diet.
        "I'm going to warn you right now, your highness," I said to Loki with a mouthful of plastic cheese and rice, "I plan on eating 75% of this bag by myself. There's a good chance I'm going to throw up. So be prepared."
        It only took me three more ravenous bites to finish the first shredded chicken burrito. It barely it hit my stomach before I was unwrapping another.
        Glaring at his own food, getting cold in his lap, Loki crossed his arms over his broad chest, and let out a heavy sigh. 
        "Is this customary?" he asked with the feigned look of interest to mask his disgust. But I saw the way his nose crinkled. The slight lift of his fine lips that could've been a well-hidden scowl.
        "This, Spaceman, is a Midgard delicacy and you'd be wise to partake."
        "Spaceman?" Loki scoffed. 
        "You're from space, correct?"
        "Technically, everyone’s 'from space'."
        "That's a yes." I took another hefty from a five-layer burrito. Beans, cheese, rice, and beef all culminating to a delicious frenzy in my mouth. I sighed happily and continued. "You're a man, yes?"
        Loki blinked and scrunched his face into a thoughtful expression. "That's debatable," he answered, still pondering the question.
        I swallowed. I was already full. My eyes were bigger than my stomach. At least I had leftovers for the terrible reception that was bound to happen. 
        "Space-person then?" I quirked a brow at Loki.
        The sun was on his face. A white light that broke through the morning grey, giving way to clear blue sky. It highlighted his refined features dramatic. His cocked eyebrow a dash of hard black above his oceanic eyes. His lips were an elegant side-slash of white teeth and flawless pink flesh as he hung a smirk to his favored side. 
        He rolled up his borrowed sleeves, letting that garish wound breathe, before studying his hands in strange regard. He flexed his fingers experimentally. Watching chords of lean muscle and tendons slither beneath his fair skin. His brand, vaguely tree-like, like the gnarled branches of some haunted hanging tree, twisted and writhed as he made a tight fist.
        Loki huffed. He either lost or won some secret argument he was having in his head. "I used to be whatever I wanted to be," he sighed as if I should know what that meant. "Back on Asgard that is."
        "Elaborate," I demanded as I forced another bite into my mouth. I could easily blame the river of wine for my newfound courage, but I couldn't pass up this sole opportunity to boss around a space-prince-god-whatever. 
        Loki eyed me curiously. Studying my body language with one cocked brow. He probably wasn't used to people, especially a lower class drunk like myself, making demands of him. It was clear by the ripple of surprise. He didn't let it show for long. Like most emotions. In a blink he was back stony expression. The mask of calm and composure.
        "Thor wields lightning and summons thunder," Loki began. He traced a jagged branch with the pads of his fingers, skirting over the crisp black edge. "My father, now that he's king, his power is immeasurable, but he was once just a god with his own limited domain, the skies, and their wroth. My uncle can rally the blood of men to a boil. He can turn the most docile sheepherder into a blood thirty madman. His domain is war. Any weapon he holds takes whatever shape, any metal or ore he deigns, at his leisure."
        He touched three branches briefly, lingering only long enough to feel the keen ache of his fresh wound. His lips twitched in a wince of pain.
        I could picture each man. Thor's visage was forever carved into my memory, only vaguely shadowed by my need to forget for the sake of my sanity, but he was still the terrifying mountainous man that stormed the lake house. Lightning crackling through his veins like he bled sunlight and rage.
        Their father and uncle, must have been twice as large. Twice as fearsome. Men of war and rage. I could only picture two barbaric shadows that reeked of blood and brimstone. Calloused hands gripped around a great axe and a hammer, twice the size of Thor's.
        Bile wretched in my stomach like a snake slithering up my throat. Out of pure will, I forced it back down. I didn't want to think of them anymore. My food turned to ash in my mouth. 
        I was almost too scared to ask, but the wine hadn't left me yet. "And you?" I pressed foolishly. 
        Loki grazed the jagged roots burned above the ditch of his arm. His eyes flickered a moment as he pursed his lips. 
        "You know when you're standing beside a campfire and the feeling you get in your stomach, the delight to watch things burn? It almost makes you want to throw in other things. Things you never would've thought to destroy, but how beautiful would they be in the flames."
        I knew that feeling well. I stole every lighter and match in the house as a last-ditch effort to get Mom to quit smoking. By the end of the week, I had ruined several notebooks, two bedsheets, a pair of sandals, and three unfortunate Barbie dolls. I couldn't hind the stench of smoke, melted plastic, and fried doll hair.
        She found the evidence in my sock drawer, next to four pairs of charred socks, and grounded me for a week.
        As if he saw the flames from my memory, Loki turned to me and smirked. 
        "That itch of defiance. The stone through a window pain. The resolution to absolve all familial contact with the strike of a match," he said with a flicker of amusement. 
        When I looked at Loki, I saw a man too beautiful to be real, with eyes that churned like ocean swells. Stars and cosmic mist dancing.
        But I didn't see a savage beast standing on a mountain of carrion. If he were a god, he was the kind that laid on silk beds, while cherubs fed him grapes from the vine. Surely, he was born to be painted, not for war.
        "So you're the god of petty vandalism," I joked. That glimmer of blue made me choke on my own laughter. 
        "Mischief," he purred. 
        Pins and needles scattered through my limbs. His silky voice caressed me like a warm breeze, then tightened like an icy grasp. A noose of lace.
        I swallowed a bite and nearly choked. "Kind of got short straw," I joked. It was the only coping mechanism I had left. 
        "Elaborate," Loki mused with a fiendish smirk. Like he smell my fear as it bloomed in my chest. A flower he couldn't wait to tear from the root.
        I sucked a breath through gritted teeth. Forcing my hands still. "Your brother rules lightning, devastating storms, and earth-shattering thunder. Your uncle is a god of war. Enough said. Your father commands the vast and unyielding sky, plus he's a king."
        Loki furrowed his brow, but his smile didn't falter. Through twin slits, he locked me in his sights. "And I-"
        "You're the reason toddlers draw on walls," I snapped. I quickly filled my mouth with pop to stop anymore foolishness from spilling out. 
        Propping his elbow against the window, Loki leaned into his palm, and rested his chin there. His lips parted as if to speak, but only a chuckle came out. Dark and deep like a harpist strummed a lethal chord.
        So many things would kill me on day. 
        Drinking. 
        Fast food.
        Anorexia.
        Depression.
        Reckless driving.
        Not keeping my mouth shut around beings with unknown power. It was a miracle Thor didn't bash my head in when he had the chance.
        No, not a miracle.
        A mercy.
        The same mercy he afforded Loki back on Asgard, apparently.
        It was only a matter of time before I offended one of how many Asgardian gods and paid for it with my life. 
        I could imagine, in great vivid detail, how each god would take my life. Thor, Odin, and the unnamed Uncle o' War. 
        Thor would render my skull to dust with his hammer, while roasting me alive with a streak of lightning.
        Odin probably had a dungeon for folks like me. A rack to rip me in half, thumb screws, and hot shears for my blasphemous tongue.
        The uncle would probably be efficient. Grant me a swift beheading and then perch it on a nice rusty pike.
        But what would the god of mischief do?
        Well, he laughed. Hidden behind his hand, Loki stifled his amusement. Like someone fighting back the urge to laugh when they're being tickled, but the sweet satiny sound poured out like a fountain of joy, despite his best efforts. I would've laughed with him, but there was a knot of fear in my throat.
        "I never thought of it like that," he sighed with a smile. A real smile. His eyes simmered on me long enough to make me squirm. Bumps ran up my arms and a chill tumbled down my spine. Suddenly, my dress was two sizes too small, like each thread was out to strangle me, yet somehow big enough to swallow me whole. 
        "Breathe, girl," he said with regal tone, all the while maintaining a loose grin. I exhaled; fully aware I was holding my breath until my head ached. It was like I couldn't breathe unless he told me too out of fear he'd have me hanged. "It was a good joke. Be proud." And as if he dug his fingers into the depths of my stomach, he plucked out a beam of pride he'd demanded of me. I couldn't stop the smile from creeping over my face.
        He sighed. His shoulders slacked and he put his full weight into his palm, grinning from ear-to-ear. 
        "You'll find I have better humor than the whole Asgardian court combined. I won't tear your head off."
        The plummeting weigh fell into a void until all that remained was a small quiver of unease.
        "Not yet anyway." Loki smiled with a wink. 
        A laugh burst from my lips. Whether it was anxiety, madness, or genuine joy, I couldn't say, but it came from that hollow inside my core, and for that short break in the day, when my family was off throwing dirt on my mother's corpse, and I was eating Taco Bell in a parking lot with some trickster god, I actually felt okay.

It was hard to say what would kill me now. I had so many swords dangling over me, it was anyone's guess.
        I drove back to the lake house with a belly full of questionable choices, but happier than I expected. My phone remained off throughout the drive. I was terrified to turn it back on. I could already hear the countless texts and missed calls from every family member. The non-stop buzz the moment it turned on.
        Our talk was sobering. Though my eyes were still bleary and my limbs leaden, the wine's soothing warm was spent. As was the sun's.
        A crest of orange submerged in a verdant horizon, the sky was giving way to night. A beautiful gradient of purples, indigo, and pinks with wispy strokes of burning red clouds. As I approached the lake house, all I could think about was the view from Shady Shores. How badly I wanted to lay on one of the lawn chairs, cradled in a blanket, and watch the sun disappear behind the calm waters.
        The dream came crashing down when I pulled into the driveway. My burnt orange Sonic treading over gravel like a teen sneaking into the house after-dark. Slowly, I maneuvered around the scattered pack of cars. I counted five and recognized three. Joey, the aunts, and Uncle Freddie's ilk.
        "Fuck," I groaned, planting my head firmly on the stirring wheel.
        "They look like they're having fun," said Loki. 
        Every light was on. Every person I didn't want to see was sitting in the living room with plastic plates on their laps, drinks in their hands, and smiles on their faces. 
        "I should go home," I thought out loud. The engine was hot. Whatever I left inside wasn't valuable. If I turned tail now, it would be a clean break. The bridges were burned. I had every right to leave the ashes in the dust. What was the point of walking over embers?
        But I was tired. Drinking was a full body sport. Loading up on cheese, carbs, and seasoned meats didn't quite put a pep in my step. And I hadn't said more than a handful of words to my brother. The only bridge I had left. The only one I really wanted.
        Loki studied me, as if he could hear my thoughts. "Why?" he asked.
        "I can't show my face after what I said."
        Shame, the familiar heat rose to my cheeks and burned my ears. I was always a difficult child. Everyone said so. Pouty and prone to mischief. Whenever I was in trouble, Mom would talk me through it. She would dig deep into the dry trenches of her sisters' hearts and find those rare slivers of forgiveness for me.
        Mom, I'm in trouble. Again.
        I put my chin on the steering wheel and looked through the bay window. The curtains were spread open. Like they wanted me to watch. They were laughing and sharing stories about Mom. I could tell. Fuck. I wanted to be there.
        "Why?" Loki repeated, deepening his voice. A commanding tone. It reminded me of my therapist.
        I sighed heavily. If I pushed all the air out of my lungs, maybe my chest wouldn't feel so tight. Maybe I could delay the coming ache. 
        "Why would I?" I huffed, "I did what I set out to do. I burned every bridge in that room. I'll be walking into a firestorm. I can't."
        "Why?" he demanded for a third time.
        "Loki," I groaned. 
        But his look was an unyielding one. One that could only come from a man whose lived hundreds of years. Patience was nothing. Bickering with me was Childs play.
        "Tell me, truly, what you're scared of?"
        I rolled my eyes and lowered my grumbling. "I already told you-"
        "No, you gave excuses. Bad ones at that. I want a real true answer. Not cowering. You're better than that."
        I couldn't tell if he was praising me or insulting me, but some strange fire stirred inside all the same. Watching them all laugh and share stories by the fire, filled my mouth with a bitter-sweet film. Like flat diet-coke. 
        I swallowed it down. I gave into my baser instincts once already. That should be enough. Two broad middle fingers and a good "fuck you, I'm out" song, fueled by box-wine and despair. What more could I ask for?
        "It'll be a mess," I answered after a long aching pause.
        "Excuses, excuses," muttered the prince.
        "It's not an excuse. I caused enough trouble," I huffed. Slinking back into my seat, I slid, hoping to melt into my dress and disappear.
        "Fuck it!" Loki shouted, "Cause more trouble. Raise Hel!"
        I flinched. I thought he was angry. He tried to keep his expression cool, composed, but there was no hiding the shimmer of delight twinkling in his eyes like stars reflecting off a calm blue ocean. 
        "It'll be chaos."
        "And what’s so bad about that?" He purred with a smirk.
        I wanted to be afraid. Every logical sector of my brain was screaming to be afraid. To run. Drive fair away from the lake house, toss the ring on the side of the road, and be done. Move on. However, much it'll hurt me to break these bonds, at least it'll be clean. 
        But Loki wore a smile that could turn a saint to a sinner. 
        "What is chaos in the grand scheme of things? Is it the hurricane that levels a city? No. That demands precision. An orderly sequence of temperature, moisture, and pressure."
        I groaned, "Get on with it."
        "Chaos is energy, unbowed to the demands of structure. Unbothered. It’s the river that gives life. Thrash against the currents and you'll drown. It's blood beneath the skin. It's galaxy colliding. Its seeds thrown to wind, sown, and thriving to replenish unseen lands. It’s a sore that festers and burns as it knits and sews to newer, more tender flesh."
        His voice was silk, caressing me in luxury and comfort. I found myself easing with each word. My fingers unfurling from the steering wheel as a heat inside me rippled over my bones, soothing me from my core.
        "Change. It's change, Alexandria. Chaos begets change and change welcomes healing. The chaos you're so afraid of is truly your fear of getting better."
        "That doesn't make sense," I snapped.
        It was a lie.
        A sandstone wall I put up as my last line of defense against the truth. How long could I sit in my sandcastle before the tide pulled me out to sea? The truth would drown me.
        "It hurts. To face what breaks us, to run headstrong at the hand that holds the knife but running away does more harm than good. You'll be giving them what they want. You'll be giving them a bullheaded fool turned coward when faced with the path they paved."
        Aunt Theresa pulled a tall glass of white wine to her lips as Aunt Eve muttered something that made Theresa laugh so hard it all sputtered out. I could only imagine it was about me. As if they caught me wallowing in my car, repeating the very words I feared were true. That was a bitch, a drunk who ruins everything, and then hides and cries. 
        "Fuck," I exhaled. My brain felt numb, but heart drummed on. Fierce and strong. Pounding away at its cage. 
        He was a creature on my shoulder. Whispering in my ear with a voice like an angel's harp. The devil's smirk on his lips. "Be the chaos," Loki urged, "be change and heal."
        The tide licked the shore in warning. Within seconds a wave crashed over me, stripping away my sandcastle, and leaving me bare against the bitter-sweet air and churning stars. 
        "Fuck it." I switched off the car. "I think you just want an encore," I declared.
        "Perhaps I just don't want to sleep in a disgusting vehicle." The tug of his lips told me all I needed to know.
        The door was unlocked. I walked right in. My fears vanished and with Loki at my side, I felt invincible.
        The room went quiet as we appeared. I put on a smile and waved as the aunts dropped their jaws. Cousins all went wide-eyed and glared at one another. A few made the wise decision to make themselves busy in the kitchen or prepare a bedroom for whoever was staying at the house that night. Even a few of the younger ones took note as the joy went dry. There was a bonfire in the back. They quickly left through the sunroom and continued laughing as they danced like pagans around the fire under the supervision of the older cousins.
        That left the aunts, Uncle Freddie, my brother, me, Loki, and a handful of cousins in the quiet den. Logs popped in the fireplace like tiny eruptions in the uncomfortable silence. Joey was the first to speak. Greeting me with both arms.
        "I thought you never make it!" he cheered, pulling me off my feet in a bear hug.
        Joey was many things. A criminal, a thief, a liar, and a con-artist. Most of his tattoos were either done in jail or inspired by his time there. Bold tribal thorns latched on his left shoulder and looped around his arm, down to the ditch. It was patchy. Never healed properly and wasn't done with quality ink. One of his amateur artist friends look the liberty of filling in the empty spots with stars, teardrops, a cross, and one simple daffodil with a yellow blob in the center. My birth flower.
        He had three dog-tags wrapped in barbed-wire chains around his forearm. Each tag bore the name of our dad, mom, and me with our birthdays. He got Dad's year wrong the first, but lucky, he picked it as it healed, and was able to get it redone. He also had his initials on his neck in blocky Old English lettering. J. A. S. Joseph Andre Ségolène. But the J sort of looked like an I.
        Aunt Lorraine hated that one in particular. A reminder that Mom had a child before she married Dad. Mema demanded she changed Joey's name to Ramsey, but ultimately, it was Joey's choice. As he got older, he decided to keep it. His tiniest act of defiance.
        His rap sheet wasn't long, but colorful. Breaking and entering, he was sixteen and drunk, walked into the wrong house, and passed out on Mrs. Crawford's couch. She was a bitter old bitch and had him arrested, insisted he stole her jewelry, and threatened her. The worst he did to her was miss the toilet when he took a piss that morning.
        Later in life he was charged with possession, assault for fighting an ex-boyfriend of his former girlfriend, reckless driving, assault again, stealing a car, and a few other lighter crimes. He got "Hell Sent" etched into his knuckles with a black-eyed devil on his hand when Dad kicked him out after the third time he was arrested.
        I hated that one.
        It was a subtle jab at me. Mom always called me "the angel child" growing up. Joey and I were seven years a part. I wasn't old enough to cause that much trouble yet, but she didn't know. I was just her sweet little girl. Joey was the problem child. They made sure he felt like one.
        Despite his history, Joey was my rock. I told him all my secrets. The first time I made out with a boy, the first time I made out with a girl, the first time I hurt myself on purpose. He never judged me. I never judged him. Whenever I ran away from home, his door was always open, bed made, with a bowl of cereal waiting.
        I wrapped my arms around my brother and let my weight fell into him. "You okay, kid?" he asked softly in my ear.
        "Yeah, I'm good," I replied.
        I couldn't let this bridge burn.
        He let me down and greeted Loki with a stern handshake. "Good to see you, man." Joey smiled. As if he knew Loki all his life. It didn't matter. Loki was with me, so he greeted him with the same open heart. A stark contrast from Loki's brother.
        "You as well," Loki replied just as warmly.
        Seeing the two together, I wondered if they could teach each other some tricks. They were both schemers at heart.
        Theresa slurped her wine obnoxiously. I turned to face them. All three sat on the brown leather couch, hip-to-hip. Lorraine at the center.
        "Well don't you look...sober," she spat. Her grim smirk creased her eyes and cheeks, turning her pasty leathery face into a mask of folds and lines.
        "Stop-" Eve began.
        "Seriously, stop," I snapped, before she could manage one of her backhanded remarks.
        I used to think Aunt Evelyn was the best of the trio. She always babysat me whenever my parents needed a night off. Baked me cookies, let me stay up late, and gave me root beer even when Mom and Dad said no. I didn't realize that she was doing it so I would tell her all the bitter secrets of my parents' marriage.
        How often they fought, what about, and how messy the fallout. Joey's grades, why he was grounded that month, and what I thought of his current girlfriends.
        She was the worst. Always there to smile and then hit you with your worst insecurity.
        "Excuse you, Alexandria," Lorraine hissed with surprise.
        "No, excuse you," I bit back, "we don't have to like each other, but we do have to deal with each other. At least for tonight, so let’s just skip the unpleasantry and bullshit."
        They eyed each other nervously. I could feel Loki's delight flaring as the encore began.
        "I gained weight, I lost weight. I'm fat, I'm sick. I'm a drunk, I'm a whore, I'm a disappointment. I'm a liberal and a disgrace to the family, whatever. Most of all I'm done. Dad's dead. Mom's dead. Now I have no reason to show up to Thanksgiving or Christmas. Doesn't that make you happy? No, of course not, because I'm taking one of your favorite playthings off the board. Poor you."
        "We're your family!" Lorraine shrieked as she rose. Her chest heaving in anger.
        "We love you, Alex," Eve cried. 
        "Wow, that was almost convincing," I chuckled. "No, family wouldn't laugh when their niece is sent to the hospital. Family wouldn't gossip about her suicide note and roll their eyes she got help for her mental illness. If you guys loved me, if you loved any of us, you wouldn't treat us like your favorite soup operas when we're suffering."
        The fire inside me was wild. Whipping at my core and sending my blood boiling through my fervent veins. Heat rose to my cheek and pricked my ears. I was worried I was about to cry, rendering my whole speech useless, but I blinked them back. Swallowed the lump that knotted in my throat. They couldn't have this moment. It was mine.
        Eve was weeping. She could on command. Mom warned me when they were kids, Eve just had to bat eyelashes, shed a single tear, and got whatever she wanted. Grandpa and Mema were powerless. She was the darling.
        Freddie put a bejeweled hand on her shoulder. "Are you proud of yourself?" he grumbled.
        "Not particularly, no, but I do feel pretty good."
        "That's enough!" Theresa thundered. For once she didn't slur. She put down her glass. "You feel 'good'? Good. Feel good because pretty soon that's all going to come crashing down. You're going to wake up tomorrow and realize every choice you made was a mistake. You're going to wake up sad and alone, and you'll have no one to blame but yourself, Alexandria. When you look in the mirror you'll hate the person you become. What have you become?"
        There was a pause.
        Then I shrugged and muttered, "An orphan?"
        Loki barked out a laugh.
        Lorraine, flustered, her face the color of a tomato, turned and ushered Eve out of the den. "I can't listen to her anymore." Theresa and Freddie were quick to follow.
        They took the east hallway to the master bedroom. The door slammed shut and the remaining cousins all drank in the sight, the aunts' defeat, before scattering.
        To no one in particular, and anyone who cared to hear, I hollered, "I'm sleeping in the loft!"
        Cold hands clasped my shoulders and Loki pulled me into his chest. My back melding into his hard body. His soft lips pressed into my ears, commanding a chill down my spine. "That was perfect," he whispered gently. I shuddered and smiled.
        I won.

Chapter Text

Thor

Out of the two princes, no one would ever accuse Thor of being the intelligent one. 
        Powerful, yes. Magnificently savage? Of course. In many regards, Thor was like Mjolnir. A formidable tool, beautiful, lethal, and simple. No one presumed to know of the confines beneath his beautiful golden locks. Thor's expression rarely hinted of what was there. 
        He was a simple creature. Like a boar, he based most decisions on instinct and temperament, or so many of his people believed. 
        As prince of Asgard, heir to the gilded throne, protector of the Aesir and the Nine Realms, defender Yggdrasil, Thor had many things on his mind. Succession, his wavering feelings that would follow his father's death, and how he would rule when the time came. What kind of king would he be? What sort of legacy would he leave for his sons? For that matter, what kind of sons would he have?
        He wanted many children. Six sons and four daughters at the least. Each of them strong, noble, wise, and loyal to the realm. He pictured boys with unbreakable bones and skin as strong as steel. Unstoppable in battle. Girls whose voices rolled like thunder. They could take empires with a whisper.
        His children would surpass him in strength. As all children should strive to do.
        Strong.
        Swift.
        Resilient.
        Powerful.
        Jormungandr was none of these things.
        Thor trained with him every morning, but the boy could barely lift his wooden sword. When he did, it wasn't for long, and his arms would tremble like autumn leaves ready to fall on a breeze's command. He had the reflexes of a tortoise and the attention span of a frightened hare. His strange slitted eyes bounced from one distraction to another. He was mesmerized by simple things. Birds and all their different colors. Trees, flourishing in the balmy spring air.
        Every flower he passed, Jormungandr would stop, and gaze at it. He had to touch their petals and rub the pollen between his fingers. Smell each one. Norns forgive him if he found a bug crawling up their stem. The young lad was fascinated by them. 
        Thor once lost his ward during a ran through the woods.
        The boy went off the trail, captivated by an oak with crimson leaves. He'd never seen wood so dark and leaves so red. But it was the ants, marching in uniform, carrying bits of organic salvage and decay, that truly caught the boy's attention.
        He perched himself on a thick root and counted the tiny army, taking note of their bounty. A dead fly. They carried off its wings, and legs, and bits of exoskeleton back to their colony.
        Jormungandr just watched, occasionally saying, "Wow," to himself with true amazement.
        Thor watched him for a while. Arms crossed as he leaned against a tree, blonde brows furrowed in frustration. Why would the boy waste his time counting ants when he could spare with Asgard's greatest hero?
        It didn't take him long to notice the resemblance. The icy vignette of memories to crept around the edge of his vision and suddenly, he was looking at Loki. Small, pale, and hidden beneath the shade with a book he snuck from the library, a scroll written in a dead language, or some strange mystic instrument he nicked from Norn's knew where. 
        Jormungandr's reptilian eyes traces every crevasse in the oak's truck. Following every termite and beetle that crawled from its depths. Just as Loki would read and re-read an old dusty tome.
        You look so much like him he wanted to say. Praise him for his curiosity and focus. But Jormungandr only knew his sire was a traitor. To all the realms. He didn't know the observant little bookworm Thor knew in his youth. Just the man who wanted to end all things.
        "What have you got there?" Thor said pleasantly. 
        Jormungandr jumped. He was a skittish boy and his uncle's voice was a powerful burst, even in his lightest tones. 
        The boy leapt to his feet. He frantically brushed the dirt of his pants. They were brand new. His entire wardrobe was new. Tyr had his closet stocked with every garment a young lad should need. Light summer linens, loose sleeved shirts, leather jerkins, and fine doublets, extra padded for the colder months. 
        He didn't know shirts came in other colors. He hadn't worn anything that wasn't made from hide or scratchy thread. His rough spun shirt and patched pants were quickly burned. He didn't protest. But since then, he'd been keen on keeping his clothes clean, pressed, and tucked away nicely when they weren't worn. 
        The boy bowed at the waist. His face pointing to the ground. "I'm sorry, sir. I got distracted, sir. I'm so sorry, sir." He fumbled over his words as they sputtered from his tight thin lips. 
        He couldn't see his face, but Thor knew the boy was sweating and scared. It was his perpetual state. At least he wasn't shaking.
        "At ease, son. You're not in any trouble," Thor said. He waved a hand casually at his nephew, his ward, and made sure to keep his own body loose. 
        Jormungandr skittered to his uncle at once, standing beside him with his arms rigid at his sides. He gripped his loose brown trousers. His boney fingers clutching the fine cotton in a strangle hold of anxiety. 
        He barely came up to Thor's thigh and was half the width, despite all the food he had access too, and mandatory exercise, Jormungandr hadn't gained a sliver of body mass. Though, he had only been four days, Thor expected more. When he was a boy, he grew like a weed. A muscular, brawny, and golden skinned weed. 
        The boy chewed his bottom lips. Though there wasn't much to chew on. "I'm sorry, sir. I thought I heard something in the trees. My feet moved on their own," he muttered softly. 
        "No, they didn't," replied Thor. He dropped his hand on the boy's shoulder and patted him softly. He bristled. "You were curious and wanted to explore. There's nothing wrong with that." 
        The boy's shoulders visibly slacked. His chest lowered as he let out a heavy sigh, yet he remained a noticeably stiff, on alert, like a rabbit ready to bolt at any given noise. Despite his reptilian appearance, Jormungandr was as skittish as a mouse. 
        "What caught your eye this day?" Thor asked. He squatted down to inspect the bugs trailing up the bark. Walking in single file, each black dot was as unimpressive as the next. He didn't understand, but a part of him wanted to.
        The boy pointed a bony finger to the verdant canopy. A cluster of small birds took flight, circling the patchy space between leaves, settling on a high branch before repeating the process, and disappearing into the clear blue sky, taking their lively song with them. 
        "I was listening to them talk. It’s interesting. They speak through songs," muttered the boy as he finger trailed down the branches and to the trunk of the tree, "but these creatures-"
        "Ants," Thor interjected.
        "-the ants, they speak in silence, yet they're organized. Uniform. Like an army. They each seem to have their own job and they perform perfectly. They picked apart a larger insect and now they carry their salvage, distributing the weight equally, in a perfect straight line, never breaking formation, without a single noise."
        Utterly bored, Thor shrugged. "Yes, that’s what they do. Birds sing and ants’ march."
        "It’s amazing," Jormungandr whispered with astonishment. He raised a hesitant hand to the red oak leaves. Hovering the pad of his fingers over a low hanging leaf. He turned to his uncle. "Is it poisonous?"
        Thor shook his head. 
        He rubbed the leaf like a child would a cat. Delicately petting planes, he checked three more to make sure they were the same. Matte on top but waxy underneath. 
        "Is this tree sick?"
        "No."
        "It’s red," he said plainly. 
        Thor sighed, "Its a red oak, lad. The leaves are red." The burden of knowledge never weighed on him before. Being the smartest person in the room was exhausting. He wasn't sure how Loki managed. 
        "Why are the rest green?" the curious child prattled on.
        "They just are."
        Jormungandr flinched. The annoyance in his uncle's voice may as well have been a whip across his knuckles. He recoiled his fingers and pressed his hands tight at his side. "I'm sorry, sir," he muttered. His reptilian eyes studying the ground.
        Thor let another sigh loose. "You're fine, boy." But his laxed nature didn't echo in his reptilian ward. "Come. I'm getting hungry."
        It was a simple rustic cabin made of red wood. Once vibrant and crimson, centuries of rain, hail, sleet, and lightning have worn Thor's hidden home to an unremarkable grey with deep red scars. Its three roofs were stiff peaks of hand carved wood, once sharp enough to cut the sky. Now they weathered to dull bird perches.
        The dense Asgardian woods swallowed it. Trees cradled above like verdant shrouds, letting just enough space between their arms for slivers of sun to peak through. The lake brushed against the seawall to the west in drowsy laps. He sucked in the fresh air and pine. He preferred it this way.
        Thor could run the six-mile trail around his lake house before the sun rose. Even with his most challenging weights on, it never took him more than forty-five minutes. But Jormungandr was more than just weight. By the time they reached the quaint log cabin, the sun soared past the horizon and hung over them like a bright eye, judging Thor and his first failure of the day. His ward dragging behind him like his legs were made of jelly. Not noticing, or caring, that he had put them hours behind schedule.
        Smoke puffed from the chimney. As Thor reached for the doorknob, he cursed at himself. I didn't put out the damned hearth again. Palace life made him too reliant on servants. One of these days he'd come home to nothing but ash. 
        Low, barely audible behind the thick oak panels, a growl rumbled. He paused. Just for a moment as Mjolnir sank into his palm. With one decisive motion, Thor threw the door open. It hit the wall with a bang. Just as the prince brandished his hammer, a blur of black and russet pounced from the right, crashing into him like a meteor. Thor stumbled back, just a step, but for such a small thing to move such a man was like a breeze pushing a mountain. 
        Latched around Thor's massive frame, heels spurred into his sides, with long gnashing teeth, and ferocious eyes was a child. Both human and wolf. 
        "Fenrir!" Thor bellowed with excitement and anger. "You almost had your brains bashed in, boy!"
        "If he had a brain to bash," grumbled Tyr from the dining table. 
        "Did I scare you?" the wolf boy growled. He grinned with all his teeth. Feral and wide. 
        "Yes. Off."
        Fenrir dropped and stood proud. He'd been begging to spar with Thor since their first meeting. The lust for battle was relentless in him. 
        "Have you grown?" asked Thor. He held a hand above Fenrir's head, measuring it to his own waist. He could've sworn brushed his elbow the day prior. Now he was nearing Thor's ribcage.
        "Like a weed," Tyr answered. He swallowed a heavy gulp of ale, slamming his flagon down with an exhausted breath. Beneath Tyr's hooded eyes were the dark trenches of fatigue. "Grows like a weed, eats like a starved wraith, and sleeps about as well as an insomniac bear."
        Thor cracked a smile. Tyr had the gull to humiliate Odin on Fenrir's behalf. Demanded his safety and sanctuary, but he was proving to be nothing more than a nuisance. Not even the decorated war hero could stand the mongrel.
        "Surely it’s all good fun." He felt a like Loki. A spark of mischief blinked into existence. Though he had a great deal of love and respect for his uncle, a piece of Thor did enjoy watching the righteous Tyr squirm.
        Tyr studied his cup for a breath as Fenrir sat beside him. A platter of breakfast foods sat before. They both watched the boy smash ham, eggs, and sausage between two syrup-soaked waffles before fisting it into his maw. His lips shined with sticky syrup and grease. Naturally, he cleaned himself with his lovely linen sleeve, much to Tyr's disgust.
        "Want to trade?" Thor mused. Jormungandr dragged himself through the door a moment later. The brothers, two-thirds of a triplet, couldn't be less identical. "Gandr, boy, get yourself a plate."
        "I'm not hungry, sir," the pale boy muttered. 
        Thor rolled his eyes as he piled bacon on top of sausage links and covered them with eggs. Tyr always made enough to feed an army. "Don't waste food, boy," Thor rumbled a breath below a roar. 
        Jormungandr went rigid. 
        "He doesn't like my cooking," Tyr jeered. His casual shrug did little to put the boy at ease.
        "Doesn't care much for mine either," Thor added. 
        Through a mouthful of food, Fenrir chimed in, "He don't eat much. Just his way." He gave his brother a quick glance before shoveling in more meat. "Sit, Jor. You're being weird."
        Obedient and quiet, he sat across from Fenrir, his eyes locked on his empty plate.
        Shallow waves inched against the lake's rocky shore. Radiant day reflected off the ripples with stark white highlights as Fenrir called out, "Thor! Watch!" in a childish tone. It didn't fit the strapping lad that hoisted a bolder onto his shoulder the launched it into the lake with one hand. 
        It sank with a loud thunk seven yards from shore. 
        "Well done!" Thor cheered. He sat with his back against the trunk of a shady tree, resting besides Tyr as they watched the boy’s play. "He's strong."
        "Aye," Tyr nodded. 
        "Quick?"
        "Aye."
        "A bit tall for his age...what is his age exactly?" Number weren't Thor's strong suit. It didn't help that no one could place their time of birth. The only ones who would know were exiled or dead.
        He placed Jormungandr somewhere between eight and ten. Hela could've been the same, or some ancient evil taking a child's form. The thought of her wicked eye as the portal sealed around her gave Thor chills. It was better not to think of her at all.
        The day Thor met Fenrir; he could've easily been ten. He was lean with an agile frame, but still had the awkward limbs of a boy crossing the threshold of childhood. 
        "He went to bed a boy and woke up a man," Tyr exclaimed. "I'll have to teach him to shave by the end of the week."
        Fenrir had more than a head on Jormungandr. Muscle where he was bone. Just four days ago they were the same height. Same gaunt faces and hollow bellies. Now Fenrir looked like an older distant cousin rather than his twin. 
        "Is it the blue in them?" Thor asked.
        Fenrir jogged up the shore and into the thicket to look for heavier rocks, leaving Jormungandr alone, skipping small stones over the quiet water. His gangling arm snapped like a whip as he threw them. One skipped eight times before sinking. His personal best.
        "Damned if I know. Let's just hope your father doesn't take note. He doesn't need another reason to validate his prejudice."
        Thor shrugged. "I grew fast too. I don't think he'll notice."
        Jormungandr let a rock loose. It skirted over the lake six, seven, eight, nine times when a boulder came hurdling from the tree line, plunging into the dark waters with it.
        "Let’s hope he doesn't, because that boy will grow, and your father is as paranoid as they come. He'll won't see a little Thor, swinging a hammer, protecting the lovely ladies of Asgard. He'll see-"
        "-a monster. I know, Uncle," Thor sighed. Political strategy wasn't his strong suit either. He could show a boy how to use a sword but raising these kids had him using parts of his brain he didn't know existed. 
        Fenrir emerged from the trees cheering his impressive toss. He called down to his brother, asking if he saw that splash. Jormungandr wasn't amused. 
        "A Jotun," Tyr whispered with a harsh breath. He locked Thor in a hard gaze. "Not just any old blue either. A Jotun with god-blood."
        A familiar chill crept up his neck, like tiny fingers cold as death skittered over his skin.
        For most--if not all--Asgardians, Jotuns were worse than monsters. Jotuns ate monsters. They had to if they wanted to survive. Their world was a frozen wasteland. The earth didn't bore fruit, the sun never shined, and water could only be found beneath layers of ice so thick they were like plains of white steel. So, they never bothered. Jotuns drank blood instead. It was convenient and warm. "That's why their eyes are red," Loki once said. He loved telling Thor terrifying tales before bed. Their mother reassured him it was a myth, but Loki read it in a book, so it had to be true.
        Mjolnir pulsed at his side. It was a slow calming buzz that rolled over his bones like static loosening his nerves. He gripped the grass beneath his hand, running his fingers through soft blades, and past the shade. He needed to feel the sun. Light soaked his golden skin and like a shadow, the cold fingers of fear vanished.
        Thor sighed, "Gandr's the smallest giant I've ever seen." He cracked a small smile watching his ward show Fenrir how to skip stones. Each time, Jormungandr's stones flew against the waves while Fenrir darted straight into the water. Jormungandr took his brother's hand, adjusted his fingers, and showed him how to plant his feet, but he just couldn't get the angle right. There was too much force to his throw. No finesse. Finally, he gave up, and took to launching a handful of pebbles into the air. They fell like hail into the lake.
        "Aye, he's the runt," Tyr said with a nod. "He's a good boy." Tyr smiled.
        In many ways, Jormungandr was the perfect child. Quiet, respectful, clean, and obedient. He didn't take up much room.         He didn't make messes. He rarely spoke, and when he did he was always direct. As if he had a limited amount of words. 
        Despite this, Thor found the boy irksome. 
        He mumbled his displeasure, "He's weak." Though that was only the first in his long list of complaints. Tyr chuckled softly. He raked his fingers through his wiry crimson beard thoughtfully. 
        "Is he now?" He said with a smile. Thor didn't like the way the old man's voice rattled with amusement. He hated when people were coy. He preferred direct conversation. Anything else made him feel stupid. 
        "Yes," Thor snapped. 
        Tyr chuckled again. It was a stone grinding against his patience. "Did I tell a joke? Spit it out, old man." Mjolnir hummed with shared annoyance.
        The infuriating moment lingered. Tyr's smirk plastered beneath his unkept beard, muffling his laughed beneath a hand, covered in burns and battle scars. 
        "Do you remember your training days?" Tyr sighed. Finally quelling his humor.
        "No," Thor replied flatly.
        "Of course not, it was centuries ago." Tyr waved his hand casually as if to fan away Thor's temper. It didn't help. "I had Loki spar with you, naturally, I had to observe where you boys were at strength wise. You," he planted a firm grip on Thor's shoulder, "were a natural. Ruthless, determined to a fault, and so eager to cut down and bludgeon every straw dummy in the yard. It didn't take long before you were on to moving targets. Then you were fighting men. Real soldiers. Beating and bruising my troop, taking them down left and right."
        Thor let himself smile. He couldn't help himself. The bright shimmer of praise, especially when it came to his particular craft, lightened whatever dour mood he found himself in. 
        "I was a handful," he chuckled.
        "Aye," Tyr said with lively laughter, "a pain in my ass if there ever was one."
        As the smile crept up Thor's lips, memories of childhood came into focus like waking from a blurry dream. A boy of only ten, but a beast of brawn with a golden mane and eyes cold, blue, and as unforgiving as a raging sea.
        "But Loki..." his uncle trailed as he shook his head, "do you remember what you said about him?"
        On the shoreline, Jormungandr was struggling to lift a rock that Fenrir handled one-handed. He saw little Loki in him. In his lanky pale arms and messy black locks. His curiosity and determination. "I said he was weak."
        Tyr breathed a heavy sigh. "Aye, my boy, you did. And he was, but he didn't stay weak did he?"
        "He's not Loki," Thor sniped.
        "I ain't saying he is. I'm saying-"
        "I don't care. You say too much."
        Mjolnir hummed a familiar tone. Steel and anger droning at Thor's side, reverberating the same ire that broiled his blood.
        Tyr fell quiet, quelling the air for a still moment, but only a moment. "Nephew," the old soldier muttered. Thor grunted in irritation. He closed his eyes and steeled himself for one of the old man's long-winded lectures. "I'm trying to say...Jormungandr is weak now, but he's observant, Hel-bent on absorbing all the knowledge our realm has to offer. He's quiet, inquisitive, and gentle. Could he be a warrior? Maybe. With time, sure. He could be a scholar, a mage, a crucial member of the small counsel. The possibilities are endless."
        Usually, Tyr's words passed through Thor's ear like air through a cavernous hall, but these words stuck. He saw it on his nephew’s face. The crease in his bushy brow. Thor pursed his lips. "Endless possibilities..." the prince mumbled thoughtfully.
        They watched their wards toss more stones. Fenrir helping his brother raise a boulder over his head, launching it into the deep murky waters half a field away. They cheered for each other. Smiles creased their eyes and sunshine shimmered against their pale sweat-coated skin, kissing their cheeks with warm lips. Today they were children. Tomorrow...they could be anything.

        The thought passed through Thor's mind like a relentless cycling fog. Drifting out of view only creep back and engulf him in the thick uneasy cloud of grey. Laying in bed, moonlight piercing the darkness of his quiet room, he tossed and turn, with his eyes shut tight. He tried counting sheep. He filled his heavy lungs with the crisp air dozens of times, but his muscles would not ease. The thoughts wouldn't let him rest.
        Monster.
        Mongrel.
        Children.
        Scholar.
        Warrior.
        Jotnar.
        Prince.
        God.
        He saw glimpses of them all. The boy resting in the other room had limitless paths etched before him. Forking and swerving like lightning carved into his future that could take him on endless adventures, lead him to impossible heights, or drag him down to unfathomable depths.
        Mjolnir droned in delicate pulses, sweet hums to lull its wielder to sleep. It was useless. It turned to white noise in the back of Thor's mind as he waded through the dense clouds. The deeper he journeyed, the further he melted into his sweat-soaked sheets. Mjolnir's hypnotic drone the only thing tethering him to sanity.
        Visions passed like flashes of lightning in the darkening storm. Jormungandr, older, broader, with a sword in hand, a shield in the other. A real sword. Slick with blood. His shield dented from battle. He is strong and proud, roaring the hardened call of a man whose heart only beats for battle, as he pressed his heel into the still-bleeding chest of a fresh kill.
        As the cloud dims, another light crackles like a heartbeat in a swirling mess of grey. Jormungandr is young, though older than he is now. He's thin, but healthy, and dressed in mages' robes. Swaddled in emerald velvet, the young man sits at a fine oak desk, surrounded by tomes and scrolls of ancient yellow parchment. Flakes of gold spark from his palm. His seidr crackles and flairs like fireworks before shifting into a flickering golden flame.
        The vision dims once more, ghosting into the void, just for another to take its place. He see Jormungandr sit in a counsel. Thor's counsel. He speaks with wisdom far exceeding his age.
        He sees the boy, still young and lanky, ran across a bleak white plain. He's scared. Tears freezing on his face before they can fall. His skin turns blue, and his eyes fill with red.
        He sees the boy speared through the chest by Odin's spear. His limp body sprawled along the throne room floor. His Jotnar blood seeps into the golden cracks, filling them with void-like essence.
        Then Jormungandr isn't there at all. There's a limbless dragon. Bigger than anything Thor had ever seen. He drinks the lake to a barren crater and wraps his body around a mountain. He's lets out a cry that shakes the forest, as if his voice commands the winds to change.
        Static echo in the recesses of his mind. A funny little noise, like a honeybee floating behind him. He can't peel his eyes away from the monster. It coils up the mountain, towering above the clouds as its fangs pierce the sky. He watches in awe as the highest peak in Asgard cracks and crumbles to dust at the sheer power of this creature.
        A magnetic force latches onto Thor, ripping him from the vision. His mind fills with static. It's a series of fanciful hums and low thrumming that rattles over his bones, electrifying the mold between muscle and flesh.
        Thor lurched out of bed in a cold sweat. He wasn't sure if he even dreamed. He couldn't remember falling asleep. He was sure he didn't rest. Every muscle was taut and ached like his body was on alert. His stomach writhed in knots that nearly made him spill his dinner on the floor. Perched on the side of the bed, Thor pulled breath after breath in his chest. Heaving and gasping for relief from the tight pain that lingered there.
        Mjolnir trilled from its hook, as if to quell him. As if to say, it was only a dream, but Thor wasn't certain. He raked his fingers through his hair. He could still feel the wind on his face from the dragon's cry. He could the smell the bile and venom of its terrible maw.
        Sleep wouldn't come for him that night. He sat by the lake and watched the sun rise above the highest peak on Asgard, lighting the path that arched before him.

Chapter Text

She'll be fine, Loki thought to himself. She's a big girl. He licked his thumb and flipped pages carelessly as he skimmed over a brief history Midgard. Particularly, the year 1973. The lake house's loft had several stout bookshelves packed with literature, almanacs, instructional manuals, and encyclopedias, as well as a computer, but he wasn't about to touch that. Not yet.
        Instead, Loki decided it would be best to take these rare moments of peace to brush up on the last few decades. He wanted to know what he missed. A war ended in one country, only for a new to begin somewhere else. People rose to topple their monarchy without the forethought of what to put in place of it. There were typhoons, plane crashes, and Elton John released Goodbye Yellow Brick Road--whatever the hell that is.
        While he shifted through mortal history, the little earth girl resigned herself to the lake, taking nothing but a bottle of dark liquor. "I'll be back," she said. That was two hours ago. The final wisps of day light had vanished. A starless night conquered the sky.
        He lounged on an uncomfortable leather office chair, staring out a blurry window. As he pressed his cheek to the glass, he was surprised by the icy sting.

It's getting cold out there.

She's a big girl. He reminds himself. If she gets cold, she can get a blanket. 
        There was a stack of folded quilts in the corner of the loft. He found himself glancing at them after sprinting past a few pages of sports data he didn't particularly care about. His brows furrowed. He tried to recall what Alex was wearing when she left.
She has a hoodie, she'll be fine.

Did she? She was wearing that top. The one with the thin straps? Those pants weren't very thick either.

She changed after she blew up the air mattress. She tossed her dress into her bag careless and fished out pajamas. Loki was certain she took her hoodie with her, but he peered over his book, he found it draped over the computer chair. She left it. Of course, she did. 
        That's her own fault. She'll come back for it. 

What if she doesn't? The bottle won't keep her warm for long.

She's not going to die from a little chill.

Humans aren't very resilient though.

I don't care. Mortals make stupid decisions; they face their own stupid consequences.

        That other side of his brain went quiet. It had nothing more to say, which was more infuriating than arguing with himself. It was getting cold. The window he set his head upon was fogging with evidence of the cold's grasp in the air. If he could see her, maybe he would feel better. All he could do was torture himself with images of this stupid little earth girl, shivering in the biting air, trying to drown her discomfort in liquor and woe.

Stupid earth girl. Loki cursed in his mind. He felt his other side smirk.

     Alex sat in a flimsy lounge chair made of rusted metal and loose plastic straps for support. Her knees were pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs, pressing them as close as she could. Between the chattering of crickets and the whistling wind, Loki could hear her teeth chattering. She was visibly shaking. Her unyielding stare locked to the quiet lake, lapping rippled reflections of the high and bright moon.
        Loki dropped a blanket over her. Wrapping it carelessly over her shoulders like a heavy shroud. "You'll catch your death out here," he snapped. He took the chair next to her. It was uncomfortable. The plastic straps felt like they might snap if he wasn't careful, but he was still graceful, and laid back lazily, shifting his weight to find a spot where the metal frame didn't dig into his back.
        "I'm f-f-fine..." Alex trembled. Her body betrayed her. She snatched the blanket and wrapped it tightly around her, nearly swallowed by the dark green wool. "G-go b-b-back to b-bed."
        He shifted a glance her way. She looked pathetic. Empty. All that flourishing chaos receded back into the shadows, leaving behind a tired and bitter husk. "I could use the fresh air," Loki sighed.
        "You'll c-catch your d-d-death..." she muttered bitterly. She reached for the deep amber bottle, but Loki was faster, snatching it away with a graceful swing. Alex wanted to snap at him, but her voice was too busy shivering to death in her throat.
        He twisted the cap and flicked it off before taking a sip. It tasted like fire. Like a mouthful of hot coals and cider smoke. There could've been notes of something sweet. Honey? Vanilla? Maybe cinnamon? But it was overpowered by the taste of scorched earth. His nose curled in disgust. Was there anything pleasant on this realm?
        "The cold doesn't bother me," Loki admitted.
        The wind brought in a bite of cold that made Alex cling to her blanket. Loki just breathed it in. The crisp claws caressing his chest. He always enjoyed this type of weather.
        He swallowed another sip, lips curling as it clawed down his throat. He examined the once-full bottle. Alex had choked down nearly half by herself. Her eyes casted in lamented gloss, her lids getting heavy as the whiskey settled in her veins. "Is that a god thing or just a pompous space-man thing?" she sneered.
        "Aren't they one-in-the-same?" Loki snickered, offering her a smile, but she wouldn't look at him. Her eyes transfixed on the water. Or something beyond it. The prince sighed, swirling the bottle before forcing back another sip. "It's a Jotnar thing," he admitted. The liquor warming his stomach as it pooled.
        "The fuck is a Jotnar?" Alex sniped. She lost her light and spunky tone. Something was weighing down her words.
        "My mother. She's a giantess-a Jotunn, specifically a frost giant. From Jotunheim."
        "I registered, like, three of those words," Alex sighed. She huffed a breath into her clasped hands and rubbed them together.
        "She's a big scary woman from a cold, dark, frozen world full of more big scary people. Her and my father...copulated...resulting in me." Loki held out a hand to the stars, using his last sliver of hope, that he could make something appear. "The cold doesn't get to me. That's all." He dropped his hand with a shrug and passed the bottle back to Alex.
        "So is your mom queen of Asgard?" she asked, snatching the bottle from Loki. She drank it like water. Taking three long gulps. It dripped from the corner of her mouth, beading down her pale slender neck like a thread of liquid fire. She wiped her mouth-and neck-clean with the back of her hand, licking it off, not sparing a single drop.
        Loki caught himself staring. He'd never seen a creature so desperate for comfort, they'd burn themselves so eagerly. He'd never seen a face so soft and fierce and utterly devoid of joy. She was tragic...yet...he couldn't turn away.
        He blinked and caught his breath. "No. That would be Frigga. Odin's wife." He wanted that bottle now. He reached out and Alex placed it in his palm.
        "I'm confused. Your mom isn't Odin's wife? Or she was? Now she's not? Your mom is a giant and not a god? Or are giants gods? What's your brother then?"
        The whiskey was more palatable after the fifth sip. It was still dreadful and burned going down, but Loki was beginning to understand the appeal. The way it invigorated his veins and warmed his blood. "Thor is his own monster entirely. He's the trueborn son of Odin and Frigga. Heir to the throne, prince of something-or-other...titles, titles," Loki uttered sullenly with a lazy wave. "My mother was a general in the Jotun army during one of Odin's great wars with the giants. The last war, actually. Odin had decimated their realm for their rebellion. She offered herself to stop any further destruction, offering Odin a child as truce, linking the realms through blood."
        "That's fucking gross," Alex blurted. 
        "It's all politics."
        "So you would take advantage of a desperate woman trying to save her people, because politics?" the earth girl finally looked at him. Her empty eyes filling with torrent ocean tides. Her somber slurring grinding like rocks against the surf. "Is that what the gods do?"
        Loki placed the bottle to his lips. He could feel her warmth on the brim. Taste the tears that had trickled down her cheeks and over her quivering lips. She'd been out here crying. Probably the whole time. Quietly sobbing to herself and he hadn't noticed until she faced him. The moonlight turning her smeared mascara into trails over silver and black down her face. He drank the liquor and the salt from her tears, swallowing a mouthful, letting it burn his throat, and fill his head with blurring colors.
        "I would never-"
        Her brow furrowed at the center. Her jaw ticked with growing rage. Something sparked in Loki's cold clenched chest. He wanted to see her be anything but empty, even if she was furious with him. He'd rather stoke her anger than watch her be consumed by grief.
        "I hate him. I hate him for what he did to my mother, her people, her realm. What he's done to countless others. I hate his cruelty, his wars, his inflated ego."
        Alex's eyes shifted, studying Loki as best she could in her drunken state. She knew whiskey was a bad choice. Dark liquor made her mean, but she wanted to be mad. She palmed the ring she'd been wearing around her finger. Curling her fists so tight the dull band might fuse into her skin. She wanted to feel the pain. She didn't know Odin, but she hated him too. She never been to Asgard, probably never would, but she wanted to watch it burn. Everything she knew about the gods, she hated.         As she studied Loki's eyes, she found a similar hatred buried in the lapis pools.
       "Your family sucks," she muttered.
        Loki's rigid shoulders eased. He let out a shallow sigh. "Yours' isn't so grand either."
        He pressed the bottle back to his lips when Alex swiped it, taking the taste of him as she drank deeply. The last of the dark amber disappearing from the bottle. "Fuck 'em."
        From her hand, she produced a ring around a dainty chain. She dropped it into the empty bottle and clamored out of the rickety chair. When she stood, she stumbled a little, giggling as she regained her balance. Alex said nothing. She just walked to the shoreline, securing the blanket around her shoulders with one hand, and holding the bottle in the other. The ring clang against the glass as she sauntered to the lake. Banging against the bottle like tiny fists begging to be released.
        Loki felt a pull. Like a thread was tugging him out of his chair and followed behind her from a safe distance.
        "What's that?" Loki asked. Alex dipped the bottle into the lake, filling it to the black label with cold murky water. Just enough to drown the ring.
        "Just another person to bury," she answered with the saddest hint of a smile in her voice. She peered behind her shoulder. "How far can you throw?" She weighed the bottle in her hand. Unsure she could throw it far enough to make it count.
        Loki took the bottle by the neck. He took a step. Without a second though, he hurled it into the night until it disappeared in the void between the stars. Three breaths later, they both heard a distant splash. Loki's keen hearing noted the bottle filling, sinking into the depths of the icy lake. He stood beside Alex and listened to it drown. "Who did we just bury?" 
        Alex all-but collapsed against him. He almost didn't notice her weight sink into his arm as she laid her head against him. She may have muttered a name, but Loki didn't catch it. It was slurred beneath her tired breath.
        He wrapped his arm around her. She sank further, leaning every ounce onto him. The weight of everything finally breaking her.
        Loki took her into his arms, lifting her, cradling her. Even with all that extra weight, she was lighter than a feather to him. She lightly draped her arms around his neck and buried her face into his shoulder. She didn't make a sound, but he could feel her tears soak into his borrowed sweater. She shivered, even when he carried her inside. Her breath racking her chest as she held in her sobs.
        He carried her up the stairs to the loft, letting her silently cry into his shoulder, before laying her down on the air mattress, and tucking her into bed. The blanket swallowed her. Dreams took her not long after. He didn't think he could fall asleep. The mattress was lumpy yet airy. If he shifted his weight at all, it rippled through the bed. Yet all the burden he'd been holding pushed him deeper into dreams.

        Frigga loved to tell her children stories. She'd seen more than anyone else in the palace and had many tales to spin. She was a warrior, a witch, a mother, a Vanir princess, and queen of all Aesir. As Odin's wife, she loved to tell them tales of Odin's victories. The legends behind each trophy in his vault.
        Loki hated this dream.
        Frigga took Thor and Loki into the vault. They were older, teenagers, and already seasoned in battle. That didn't stop their mother from telling them her stories. They passed the Warlock's Eye, now encased in glass, and enchanted after a rogue guard tried to take it for himself. Red ether circled the case. Odin used the guard's blood in his spell.
        The scent of iron curled Loki's nose. The sour stench wafted as they strode by. Frigga went on, unfazed, about Odin's victories. His mercies, and why he deserved such coveted prizes.
        Loki had always hated the vault. It was a cacophony of wails and hissing from scattered objects. Stolen relics on display to stoke Odin's already inflated ego. There were so many things that harbored disaster if they fell into the wrong hands. As if Odin's weren't wrong enough.
        The Eternal Flame, sat beside Surtur's crown, could decimate Asgard in seconds. The Tuning Fork was an accident away from summoning the Lurking Unknown and casting the realms into a ceaseless void. But Odin loved his little trophies.
        Frigga was telling the boys about some jewel encrusted sword, taken from the death grip of a fallen warlord. It was always the same. "When all hope was lost and the day grew darkest, the heavens broke apart, and your father rode his silver steed with Mjolnir at his side," Frigga said. That always made Thor beam. He knew he was destined for the hammer. As soon as it fell into his hands, he would act like every one of Odin's victories became his. All that strength and power in the hands of one naïve child. "With one mighty swing, Odin cleared the battlefield, leading the charge that would soon end the bloodthirsty reign of-"
        Loki never listened to the whole story. Never heard the name of that bloodthirsty dead man, because his eyes and mind always wandered past the swords, armor, and shields, to the bare space no one ever acknowledged. A crevasse big enough for a helmet.

Or a head...

        Loki hated this dream. Watching his younger self make the same mistake over, and over, and over. Reliving this stupid memory over, and over. He wants to turn his head away. Pay attention to the gaudy sword and the stupid story. Maybe he'll learn the dead warrior's name. Maybe this story will impress him this time, he could just turn his damn head away, but he can't. Because there are no empty spaces in Odin's vault. He packs his every treasure into every display. If something is missing, there's a reason. And Loki was curious child.
        "What's that?" he asked, interrupting Frigga's tale.
        She doesn't even glance behind. Her eyes are transfixed on the sword. "It's nothing, my love. Come, we need to wash up for dinner." She tried to coral the children towards the main hall, but a guard came by, and asked her for a moment. She's hesitant but allowed herself to be dragged away. It was only supposed to be a moment. "Don't touch anything, I'll be right back," she said sternly.
        The moment she was out of view, Thor grabbed the sword, and swung it wildly at invisible foes. Loki didn't know if he was pretending to be Odin or the warlord, but at that moment, he didn't care. He couldn't take his eyes off the empty space. The smeared plaque beneath the alcove. Loki's feet moved on their own.
        The plaque had been scoured. The gold finish completely worn to black and scratched beyond recognition. He passed his fingers over the smooth etching. He could feel two letters, M and R. Everything else was a series of deep scratches and random lines. But it was enough.

Mimir

        He could've left it at that. The mystery was solved. Something of Mimir's once sat on this shelf, soon something else would take his place. He could go back to pestering Thor while they waited for Frigga. Go back to ignore the howls and the wails of Odin's stolen relics. But then he heard a whisper. 

...Boy...

        Any other child, even ones as brave as Thor, would've ran. Not Loki. Not curious and stupid Loki. No, he turned down the empty winding hall to his left and waited.

...Please, boy...

        Loki looked back only once. Thor stabbed the air, making all the sounds of battle, and cheers of victory as his invisible foe let out their last breath. Frigga was still occupied with the guard. No one would notice if he were gone for a moment. Yes, just a moment.
        The whisper was ragged and tired. It guided him through the labyrinth of corridors and trophy cases. Just a single word whenever Loki didn't know where to turn. "Boy..." like the darkest wind was calling for him.
        He had never been this deep into the vault before. He passed by scrolls, tomes, tapestries, weapons, and fragments of castles he'd never seen before. Tales Frigga hadn't told him yet. Maybe one day he would lead her back here and he would actually listen.
        At some point, the smooth marble walls turned to roughhewn stone. The floor became stairs, winding down, further than he ever imagined the palace could go. Maybe he was going to the dungeon. Maybe he was following the voice of some poor soul Odin had captured and forgotten.
        Loki reached a room where the cold bit through his leather jacket, sinking deep into his bones. For the first time in his life, he shivered. It was dark here. The flickering yellow lights did nothing to illuminate the black walls. It was like walking through a solid void.
        How can Odin find anything here?

That may be the point, boy.

        The voice came from every direction. Fear gripped him like a snare of thorns. His feet rooted to the floor. 
        "Who are you!" Loki cried out.

What a dull question. Try again.

        "Don't toy with me, spirit," Loki growled. His eyes darting through the darkness. There was nothing. Even the stairs behind him were devoured by the pitch-black walls. "Do you know who I am?" the boy prince seethed.

Ah ah ah...yes, I know who you are. Loki Odinson. But is that the real question?

        Fire and fear licked Loki's veins as he curled his fingers into his palms. "Show yourself," he demanded as only a young prince could. The voice simply laughed. "I said show yourself!"

                You won't like what you see.

        With a tight knitted brow, through clinched teeth, Loki demanded once more, "Show yourself, spirit." The laughing ceased.

As my prince commands.

        A light appeared in the center of the darkness, like a ray of sunshine piercing through the night. A threadbare rope dangled from the height-less ceiling, and at its end, a severed head, wrapped and bound a dozen times, suspended motionlessly. The face was wrinkled, its grey skin as thin as paper, yet heavy like it was one breeze away from sliding off its skull. Its mouth was wired shut. Its eyes carved out; sockets stuffed with wet herbs. Its shaven head was ruthlessly carved with runes and sigils, Loki didn't yet understand, hadn't studied. Some looked inflamed. Infected. Others were raised pink scars and dry red scabs.
        Loki didn't flinch. That's what he wanted. He wouldn't give it to him.
        "Mimir," Loki grumbled, hiding his delight, "so this is where you've been all these years."

Centuries, my boy. All these centuries.

        Mimir's head didn't move, but his old, exhausted voice rang throughout the abyss they shared. Loki loved the tale of Mimir. The man who tricked Odin, the wisest. In his mind, Mimir was smarter than all the Aesir. Odin was just crueler.
        "Is it true you can answer any question? Predict the future?"
        If the head had eyes to roll, it would've. Instead, the voice groaned in exasperation. 

        My reputation precedes me, it seems. Even after all this time. Let me guess, little prince, you wish to know when you'll climb the golden steps and seat your pampered arse on Odin's throne? If you need to slay your father, your brother, or both? Is that it?

        Loki's mouth felt sewn shut. His impatience the thread that burrowed through his lip as he pursed them together. The questions crossed his mind. They were the first on his tongue, but he swallowed them hard as Mimir chided on.

        Don't look at me in that tone. All your royal types are the same. Ever since you had your first taste of power; of what you fools claim is power, you want more. Odin probably let you sit on his throne once, maybe twice, as a joke. It was cute. To see his son, sit in that big ugly chair, struggling to hold his scepter, your head consumed by his crown. But you couldn't help but note how it all seemed to fit your brother a bit better, yes? Even as it hung lopsided on his pretty blond head, it wasn't quite as awkward as if felt on you. It’s only natural, I suppose. It’s the curse of the second born.

        "Stop it," Loki snapped.

        As you command, little prince. Your father didn't care much for my counsel either.

Mimir chuckled darkly. Silence passed over the dark cold room for a breath.

I suppose you'll be wanting to go now.

Behind the boy, stairs unfurled from nowhere. A twisted stony tower leading to seemingly nothing. Just a dark and endless sky. Loki watched it be built before him.
            Go. Leave. Loki would tell himself if he could. If his dreams were under his control. But that's now the story played.
        "No," he growled like a cub he was. Only ferocious in his own head. He balled his fist and put on his bravest face as he turned back to the suspended head. "I know I'm destined for something more than this. I'm not just the second born."

Aye.

        "Thor is a fool. He's stupid and brazen. He'd lead Asgard to ruin out of boredom. Treat the people like pawns in a game. Watch them burn like ants under a microscope."

Aye, yes. Perhaps.

        "I should rule." 

But?

Mimir sensed his hesitation. Could hear the words he couldn't bear to speak as the boy's cruel blue eyes scattered to the floor, looking for anything other than the truth.

        "But..." Loki muttered. He could feel the awkward weight on his head. The way the crown leaned to one side and made his shoulders ache. "It won't fit me. The crown. It will never sit right, will it?"

Mimir let the words settle before he sighed.

No, my boy. I'm afraid not.

        The pain still stung. After so many years, Loki could still feel the keen grip in his chest when the truth splintered inside him, like a hundred cold fingers plucking at his heart strings. 
        He dropped to the floor, hoping the darkness would open, and eat him whole. If he couldn't have the throne, he didn't want anything. 

What if...

Mimir began, his ethereal voice so low and dark it sounds like gravel rolling over itself,

I told you there was another crown? One that not only fit, but was made for you, little prince?

        Call him a liar, Loki thought. Scream, yell, throw one of your infamous tantrums. Just make him shut up. Get out of there, you stupid child!
        Little Loki, with his eyes as cruel and unforgiving as a stormy sea, as bright and blazing as the heart of a dying star, stared right into Mimir's hollowed eyes. "Tell me everything."