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Loki had always been a sickly child. As a babe, he had been pale and perpetually underweight. He was frequently in and out of the healers’ quarters; for many years, Frigga and Eir worked together, using their combined wisdom and magical prowess in order to try to improve his health through a combination of dietary changes, daily routines, potions and spells. 

No one had ever been able to pinpoint what exactly his ailments were; it was generally agreed upon that he was prone to severe headaches and overheating, but beyond that he was simply described as having a weak constitution. His relatively small stature and quiet demeanor did nothing to contradict these statements, and over time it became a generally known fact about Loki. Not that anyone would dare saying as much to his face, however– the Aesir might not generally have a favorable view of magic, especially when practiced by a man (and a prince at that), but all except the most foolish were aware of the dangers of angering a powerful Seidmadr. 

One of the earliest– and most serious– incidents of Loki’s life was when he was a young child, barely past the toddler stage. He and Thor had been roaming about outside all day, a boisterous older sibling shadowed by a quieter, yet more mischievous younger brother. Thor might be the one to suggest stealing pastries from the palace kitchens, but it was always Loki who figured out some way to actually accomplish this. 

This particular day was very hot. It was late spring, but heat was rolling across Asgard’s plains with the strength of midsummer and the leaves on the trees, not yet fully mature, didn’t offer much shade to combat it. Thor and Loki had strayed further afield than usual; Thor had gotten the idea in his head to find a secret treasure he claimed to have heard some older children speaking of. 

“What is this treasure they spoke of, Brother?” Loki asked for the third time as they clambered up a stony bank. 

“I told you already, they did not specify,” Thor called out from a few paces ahead. “But what does it matter? Any treasure is worth pursuing as a warrior of Asgard.” 

Loki wasn’t quite convinced– what if neither of them had any use for this particular treasure? What if it was protected by a beast or a curse?

He decided to try another line of questioning in hope to gain more information. “Who was it that informed you of this?”

“I heard it in passing, but they were the sons of Einherjar warriors on their way to their squires’ training.” Thor paused and turned to face him, face beaming with excitement. “They are already training to be warriors, Loki! Surely they know of what they speak.” 

“You did not recognize any of them?” 

“No, no, I heard it in passing,” Thor turned again and resumed his enthusiastic ascent, not caring when he stumbled slightly on the rough terrain.

Thor’s optimism seemed endless: Loki privately thought he might end up disappointed with the so-called treasure (if there really was one at all), but knew there was no dissuading his brother when he was in such high spirits. And besides, where was the harm? He always enjoyed exploring more of the land, anyway, storing locations in the back of his mind as potential haunts, hiding places, and spots to read a book in peace. 

However, Loki did not remain indifferent for long. He usually had no trouble keeping up with Thor: his legs were shorter, but he was naturally quick and had a good eye which enabled him to find easy routes across treacherous terrain. 

But he heard a shout: “Loki! What are you doing back there? Why do you tarry?”

He looked up, squinting against the afternoon light, and realized that suddenly Thor was far ahead of him. When had this happened? He hadn’t noticed himself falling behind; he had only looked down for a moment, watching for rocks and hidden holes in the earth. But it seemed as though in that instance, Thor had gained minutes’ worth of walking on him. 

“I do not tarry!” Loki called back, but his voice felt thin and weak. He swallowed, and became aware of an uncomfortable ache in his throat. He wished he could have a drink of water. 

“What was that?” Thor had stopped walking, and reluctantly began to take slow steps back towards Loki.

“It is very hot, and I am thirsty,” Loki said. 

“Come now,” Thor said, “I know you do not love the heat, but there will surely be water ahead. Keep walking with me, and do not slow. The faster you walk, the quicker you will be able to drink.” 

Loki nodded and resumed walking, putting all of his concentration into making sure he didn’t fall behind.

But as Thor continued to forge ahead and there was still no sign of water, or even shade, Loki began to falter again. 

“Should we not perhaps find the treasure another day?” he suggested. 

Thor kept his eyes fixed on the horizon. “We’re almost there,” he said.

“Are we really?” Loki said under his breath, abruptly regretting it as his whisper caught in his throat, causing a sharp pain. 

Thor noticed his quiet wheeze, and finally glanced over to him. “Come on, Loki, it will only get warmer come summertime. And a warrior must be prepared for all circumstances.” 

“But Brother,” Loki began, “I–” 

“Come, Loki,” Thor, “Let us at least reach the top of this slope. We will be able to see the plain from there. There may even be a river.”

Realizing he didn’t have much choice in the matter, and that walking to water would be preferable to resting by none, Loki continued on. 

The heat was becoming unbearable; ;he did not know how Thor could stand it. He could feel sweat gathering in his hair, moistening the back of his neck. His shirt stuck to his back and his tunic felt too tight, as though it was restricting the movement of his lungs. He almost felt tempted to take it off, except then he would have to carry it and he would risk more of Thor’s impatience as well. Inside his boots, his feet felt as though they were drowning in sweat, and he wondered vaguely if the leather would warp from the moisture. 

He tried to see how much further there was to go, but the bright light overhead and sheer height of the hillside stretching above made him feel dizzy and he quickly looked back down. The abrupt movement of his head only made matters worse, though, because the moment he did so he misstepped and fell forward, landing hard on his hands and knees and scraping them on sharp stones. 

“Loki,” Thor began to chide, but his tone softened when he noticed his younger brother on the ground. “Are you hurt?” 

“I– I don’t think so,” Loki managed. 

“Good,” Thor sounded relieved. “As long as you can still walk, we can continue on.” 

Loki didn’t know how to explain that he wasn’t hurt, at least not other than his stinging hands and knees, but he also didn’t feel good enough to walk. Something inside him felt wrong; his stomach felt like a kettle on the verge of boiling over. It felt like the time he had caught the Ravensfever, but he knew he wasn’t sick. 

“It’s too hot, Thor, I don’t feel good,” he tried to explain, but his brother didn’t understand, 

“Don’t be such a baby, Loki. We cannot stay children forever.” Thor’s face was exasperated as he held out his hand.

Loki grabbed it, but the world didn’t right itself as he was pulled upwards. Instead, he lolled to one side, his vision swirled, and in the midst of his disorientation he thought for a moment that he was about to fall all the way down the hill.

“Loki?” Thor asked, sounding confused. “Your hand feels like it’s burning. And your skin is red… Are you ill?” 

“I– I don’t know,” Loki managed. “I think so.”

“You should have told me!” Thor cried. “Don’t worry, Loki, I will call for help.” 

Internally, Loki protested that he already had tried to tell Thor, but arguing was the last thing on his mind right now as he tried to combat the terrible feelings in his body. He closed his eyes. “I want to go home, Brother” he said shakily. 

“We will,” Thor promised. “I will signal for help; surely someone will see us from up here.” 

Loki huddled miserably on the ground. Now that he was no longer focused on walking, his sickness was all the more difficult to ignore. He covered his face with his sleeve and tried to hide from every wrong feeling inside him. 

He must have drifted off for a moment, because the next thing he remembered were three riders on horseback approaching them rapidly. He heard Thor explain the situation to them; he himself was far too weak to even try. And then he was hoisted upwards, slung across a saddle, and borne back home. 

He was rushed to a bed in the infirmary, stripped of his clothing, and draped with cool towels. Even their relief was negligible at this point; every inch of his flesh felt as though it had been pressed into a bed of hot coals. Eir summoned Frigga to his bedside, and her presence was a cooling balm from the moment she entered.

“Loki, my son, what happened?” 

“Thor and I went out,” Loki whispered, “And I got too hot.” 

Frigga stroked his hair, getting it out of his face. “I know you do not take kindly to high temperatures.” She turned, and when Loki followed her gaze he noticed Thor was in the room too. “Thor, be more careful with Loki next time. He is your younger brother, and it is your duty to protect him.”

“I’m sorry!” Thor blurted out. “I didn’t know it would bother him! I didn’t even know you could get sick from being too hot… I thought illness arrives with the cold.” 

“Heat can be dangerous, too,” Frigga said. 

“I felt fine,” Thor grumbled.

Frigga shushed him, but Loki understood Thor’s confusion. It didn’t make sense. Why was Thor fine, and he was not? He remembered his brother’s words about a warrior’s ability to continue on under any circumstances. Was he not a good warrior because of this? Would he ever be able to withstand heat with the same ease everyone else did? What if he was too sensitive, like Thor sometimes said he was? 

A lump formed in his throat, something other than the lingering sick feeling, and he realized he was trying very hard not to cry. If he cried right here, that would only make him seem like even less of a warrior. He did not want Thor to see him first falling ill and then shedding useless tears over it. 

As he fought back his emotions, the door opened and Eir entered, followed by Odin himself. Thor bowed to the King, and Loki attempted to scramble upright to do the same but was held back by Frigga. 

“Here he is, Odin-King,” Eir said. “Heatstroke, as described.”  

Odin stared at him with his single eye, and Loki struggled to meet his gaze. He could still feel tears pricking at the corners his eyes. For a moment he could hardly breathe, terrified one would leak out in plain sight of his father.

“I was called here with news of your illness, Loki,” Odin said. “Remember, a king does not lightly leave his throne in the hour of duty. How did this happen?” 

“Thor and I were walking outside,” Loki said with a quavering voice, “And I got too hot.” He wished he had a better way to describe it, as though he had been bested or defeated by an enemy, not just weakened by a force of nature everyone else seemed able to resist.

“I see,” was all Odin said. “Did you have water or shade?” 

“No,” he whispered. 

“It is not wise for a warrior to journey unprepared,” Odin said. “Have you learned nothing from your studies? Water is the most important item to carry, whether you be commoner or prince, Seidmadr or Einherjar.”

“Forgive me, Father,” Thor said. “I forgot as well.” 

“But this expedition was Loki’s idea, was it not? I know your tendency to wander unbidden. If you do so, you would be wise to remember to prepare.” 

Loki had no idea how to respond. He still thought that if he spoke up he might cry, and that had to be avoided at all costs. But why would his father assume the expedition was his idea? He didn’t understand.

“Actually I–,” Thor began, but Odin silenced him. 

“I see Loki will recover, and I must return to my throne.” He turned to Eir. “See to it that he remains as cool as possible.” 

Eir bowed to him, and then Odin was gone. As his steps receded down the hall, Thor spoke up: “It was my idea.” 

“Was it?” Frigga asked. 

“Yes. I made Loki follow me, because we were going to find a treasure. But I didn’t know he was sick! He didn’t tell me!” 

“I will inform your father of this later,” Frigga said. “I am sorry you were falsely accused, Loki. Thor, thank you for telling the truth.” 

Again, Loki wondered how he could have possibly made it more clear that he was sick to Thor. He wondered whether Thor would have believed him, or only accused him of not being strong enough to keep up. 

This thought sent a fresh sheen of moisture to his eyes, and this time he couldn’t help but let a few tears fall. They ran down the side of his face, dripping onto the pillow underneath. Frigga noticed his silent distress, and leaned forward to take his face between her hands. 

“What is wrong, my son? Does it hurt?” 

“Yes,” Loki whispered as more tears fell, even though the pain of his illness wasn’t the reason he was crying. But he didn’t know how to explain what was actually upsetting him, so he allowed his mother to draw her own conclusions. 

“Don’t cry, Loki,” Thor pleaded as he slid onto Loki’s bed, near his feet. “Next time we go on a quest, I will make sure we are prepared. This will not happen again, I promise.” 

For some reason, Loki felt like no manner of preparation could have stopped what had happened today. But he just nodded as he sniffled, and hoped Thor was somehow right after all.

Loki’s skin was tender and his limbs weak for a week after this incident. To his family as well as the healers, it was proof that he was sensitive to heat, and after this he was always sent out with an ample supply of water as well as long-sleeved clothes and a wide-brimmed hat to shield him from the sun. However, Loki rarely made use of these precautions, especially as he got older. He had no desire to stand out from his peers, who were content to run around in the burning heat all day. Instead, he nearly always found some sort of excuse to stay inside on the hottest and brightest days. Thor and his friends didn’t understand this behavior either, but spending time alone was preferable to parading visible weakness in front of others. 

***

As Loki grew older, his natural strengths and weaknesses grew more apparent. He had shown an interest in magic since he could walk and talk, and Frigga had taught him basic methods of tapping into the natural Seidr within him. At first, this was merely out of curiosity: a simple matter of a mother sharing knowledge with her son.

But as Loki’s height increased, Thor’s increased more. The same went for his muscle mass and even his appetite. As a result, it became more difficult for Loki to hold his own against Thor in a sparring match. When he was feeling well he was the quicker one on his feet, and he had strategic instincts which reminded his trainers of Odin, whereas Thor relied more on pure strength in battle. But brawn still prevailed most of the time, and even the finest mind took many centuries to fully develop.

So as Thor and his friends grew stronger and Loki was more and more often beaten by them, he turned to the study of magic in earnest. Magic required a lot of reading, which Loki happened to enjoy very much, and a lot of patience, which he sometimes struggled with– especially when it came to following instructions. 

The one who taught him the most was his mother. Occasionally he would pick up a spell from another Seidmadr as well, but most of them were very busy, and they did not always take him seriously since he was so young.

His mother was a kind teacher, but she was firm as well. She was adamant that he learn spellcasting the traditional Asgardian way, perhaps in an attempt to help him gain the approval of elderly Seidmadr and young warriors alike who disapproved of a young prince spending so much time practicing the magical arts.

And it wasn’t that he didn’t want to make his mother happy, or that he didn’t care about his reputation– at this young age, he actually cared quite a lot. It was just that sometimes, her methods made him uncomfortable. 

In the beginning there were no issues, when he was just learning to stir the power inside of him and call it forth in the form of floating balls of light or gusts of wind. His mother would give him a conduit to hold as he attempted to coax his Seidr into manifesting these forces, and he would dutifully grasp it. 

It wasn’t long, though, before it became evident that he wasn’t actually using the conduit: he was directly manifesting energy outside of his body rather than channeling and focusing it through anything first. Frigga offered him many different objects: wands, staves, crystals, and books, but he had no natural affinity for any of them.

“You must learn to focus, Loki,” Frigga reprimanded. “Feel the energy within the object; it has lived here as an extension of Asgard herself for centuries. It is there waiting for you; all you need to do is reach out.” 

Loki understood the principle, but it wasn’t his experience. He wasn’t in tune with any of the ancient objects Frigga offered him, no matter how powerful or unobtrusive. They felt infused with their own histories, padded with foreign energies which clashed with his own Seidr and diverted it to places he did not want it to go. He could cast spells with them, yes, but it didn’t come naturally. He felt perpetually impeded when using one, and more than once he wondered aloud if he was not simply inclined against conduits as a whole, but his mother and every other Seidmadr he encountered remained convinced that he was simply not disciplined. 

Loki believed them wholeheartedly at first– were they not far older and more experienced than he? But as his skill and knowledge grew and his affinity for conduits of any kind did not improve, he began to privately believe that it was he who was right, and that everyone else (even his dear mother) was simply blinded by tradition.

This fundamental disagreement between himself and his instructors encouraged him to practice Seidr by himself much of the time, without their knowledge or supervision. But because he had no one to tell him when to stop, he would often strain his reserves of Seidr.

The first time this happened, he did not recognize what was happening, and he hurried to his mother’s quarters fighting the urge to clutch at his forehead and squeeze until the pain vanished. He knocked at her door using his shoulder instead of forcing himself to curl his painful fingers, and padded into the study where his mother was writing a letter. “There is a strange stiffness in my fingers,” he said, silently cursing himself for sounding so desperate.

His mother laid down her pain and turned to look at him, evidently startled by the plaintive note in his voice. “Have you been practicing Seidr?” she asked. Realizing the answer already, she added: “How long?”

“That spell to freeze objects in midair, since you taught it to me this morning,” Loki replied, absently looking at the window as he did so. It was late afternoon now. 

“Loki!” Frigga stood up and hurried towards him before wrapping her arm around his shoulders and guiding him to sit on a nearby divan. “I thought you were reading all this time. Have I not instructed you to limit use of your Seidr, especially when learning a spell for the first time? Any new use of the energy inside you takes time; think of it as if you are exerting your muscles in an entirely novel way. As a young spellcaster, every new incantation is like learning to walk or speak.”

“But I have been studying for so long now, and this spell is related to the telekinesis I am already able to perform, so I thought–” He instinctively gestured with his hands as he spoke, only to wince as he was forced to uncurl his fingers again. 

“You are yet a child, Loki, a child working with an ancient power even the oldest and wisest Seidmadr know to respect and control. You must always be careful, and remember that even though Seidr is a part of you, it is still dangerous and you cannot force it to comply.” She sighed. “Were you practicing with the staff, as I instructed?” 

Loki’s gaze dropped to the floor, and the locked joints of his fingers told the truth Frigga already knew.

“Why do you insist on throwing away the conduits you are offered?” 

“I don’t like any of them,” Loki frowned. “I don’t understand how they are supposed to help. They make the magic feel… further, somehow.” 

“You’re resisting it, my son. I’ve told you before, you need to allow the energy to flow towards the conduit, without trying to control its flow yourself.” She rested her hand on top of Loki’s head as she spoke, and began to guide her own magic gently through him, easing the pain. 

“You don’t use a conduit,” Loki grumbled, more to himself than to her. 

“That is because I have been using Seidr for thousands more years than you have,” Frigga admonished him, though her tone was not unkind. “I would still use a conduit when performing more complex spells. Besides, I was raised by witches who did not use magic the same way most Asgardian sorcerers do.”

“Is that so?” Loki looked up at her, curious. “There are different ways to perform spells?” 

Frigga nodded slowly as she continued to stroke the crown of Loki’s head. “Asgard is more imbued with Seidr than most of the Nine Realms; the very air is so thick with energies that Seidmadr frequently struggle to isolate a single one of them. This is where a conduit is helpful; instead of forcing your body to process all of these different energies, you can allow your artifact to channel the desired force.

“Your father’s scepter Gungnir is not merely a symbol of his status, you see. It also guides his Seidr. There are also verbal incantations– you have seen Eir banish a curse before, yes? She uses her words to contend with the malevolent force. You will learn spoken incantations as well one day. Their sacred words have been the same since any Aesir can remember, and Asgard herself remembers these oaths.” 

Loki was so enraptured by what she was telling him that he was barely aware of his pain anymore. The more he learned about Seidr, the more he wanted to learn. Still, doubt lingered in his mind. His mother seemed convinced that a conduit would help him and that his current pain was due to his refusal to do so, but the time he had spend practicing on his own had taught him that he was actually able to learn more quickly and capture the essence of a spell more accurately when he did not use a conduit. This current pain was simply due to him overexerting himself; he was sure of it. 

As Loki continued to learn more spells and strain himself to do so, he began to suffer chronic headaches which made it feel like any stimulus could crack open his skull, and joint pain from conducting intense levels of raw energy through his fingers all day, which was so intense he could barely wrap his hand around a glass of water at times. Frigga and other instructors grew more strict in response, as as he got older he stopped going to them for lessons at all in order to avoid their judgements. He relied on Asgard’s libraries to teach him new spells rather than any of the Seidmadr, and he would only practice in front of his mother once he had already practically mastered the spell. He was never content working within his limits, and always sought to push them instead. 

Of course, it wasn’t as though anyone noticed his hard work. Thor did not think very highly of magic: even though Loki was often able to impress him with flashy illusions and telekinetic bursts in the beginning, Thor saw it more as entertainment rather than a genuine force to be reckoned with. So as Loki drove himself to agony in attempts to master more and more powerful spells at an extremely young age, Thor only noticed his headaches and frequent withdrawals to his room rather than his battle prowess. 

Even once Loki was able to match Thor’s strength on the battlefield using his own methods, his brother’s views did not change. To him and many of his peers, magic was fundamentally second to fists and heavy weaponry. The fact that Loki chose to supplement his magic with lighter weapons, such as daggers and throwing darts, did not please Thor either. He frequently complained when Loki bested him in combat using these methods. 

It felt like the more Loki exhausted himself, the less respect he received. 

***

By the time he was halfway between childhood and young adulthood, Loki was tired of his reputation as a weak prince who was always in and out of Eir’s infirmary. He was powerful enough by now that none save Thor and a few of his boldest friends dare disrespect him to his face, but that did not save him from being the target of rumors, snide barbs, and other forms of disrespect. Loki was adept at blending into the shadows; and the more he hid, the more he realized bitterly just how adept Aesir were at gossip and lies, despite their constant talk of honor and loyalty.

They were hypocrites, the lot of them, and Loki was tired of giving them any excuses. 

He was naturally predisposed to illusion magic and the manipulation of space, such as teleportation and telekinesis; he did not have an innate ability to heal wounds as Frigga did. However, he was able to apply some of his abilities in creative ways, such as manipulations of space to stop bleeding or applications of magical pressure to ease headaches. In addition, he became fairly adept at brewing potions, though this was a skill he chose to keep entirely to himself as he knew the other Seidmadr, especially Eir, would disapprove of his technique. 

He never did choose a conduit for his Seidr, much to the disapproval of everyone, and he usually preferred to scribe his own spells rather than using the Asgardian incantations Frigga had taught him. And the words he wrote did not follow any known rules of Aesir magic. They were improvisational, often involving several repetitions he would chant to himself as he worked, Seidr building with every word that fell from his lips. He had never encountered anyone else who powered incantations in such a way, and had no doubt his methods would be considered shocking, perhaps even blasphemous, by anyone who watched him work. 

Between an unorthodox application of spells and the brewing of potions, Loki learned to treat his own ailments over time. His Seidr-induced strain had actually become less of an issue since his childhood: he was working harder than ever, but had found that his own methods of spellcasting helped him to retain his energy, and for that he privately scoffed at the so-called Seidmadr who were limiting themselves through their archaic methods. 

Still, there were times when he had to restrict himself to approved ways of spellcasting, such as when he was in the company of his mother, and these instances took a toll on him. He truly did not understand how everyone else was able to handle the discomfort of handling a conduit or speaking simple incantations with no variation, and privately loathed himself for how exhausted he became whenever he used magic the ‘correct’ way. 

***

Loki never outgrew his intolerance of heat. Usually he was able to avoid any damage by simply staying inside on hot days, but even indoors the air itself felt unpleasant in his lungs. And he was a prince of Asgard: there were times when he was simply required to show himself, no matter how hot or sunny it was. 

One of these times was the Midsummer Banquet when he was nearing his fourth century. It was held outside, from noon until late in the evening. Asgardian summers barely had any hours of darkness at all, and so Loki had been forced to sit boiling in the season’s cruel radiance all day. 

But he had played his part to perfection as always, refusing to allow any weakness to show. He stayed in his seat, never flinching when the light crept underneath the awning which was supposed to offer shade, and forcing himself not to squint when bright light reflected off of Asgard’s golden towers. He wore long-sleeved clothes and resisted the urge to hide his hands inside his pockets no matter how hot he felt them becoming. He’d smiled his best liar’s grin, and surreptitiously teleported frozen talismans from his pocket dimension into his clothing when the heat became too much to bear. 

Now he was returning to his quarters, hurrying through the palace’s least crowded corridors and refusing to make eye contact with anyone. At least those he encountered had enough respect for him to bow their heads before his steely gaze and not attempt to speak to him. 

He flung open the door to his chambers and immediately turned the great iron key to lock it. Then, with a gasp, he tore the illusion from his skin. Sweat stains immediately sullied his ceremonial garb, and his pale hands turned an angry red, the same shade he knew would be burned onto his neck and face. 

It was a relief to release the spell which had been slowly yet surely costing him Seidr all day, but now that he no longer had to concentrate he was all the more aware of the agony he was in. He rushed towards his laboratory, uncorked a bottle with his teeth and blinked back tears as he choked down a potion to ease the burn. 

He knew what awaited him now: he would be forced to sit still for hours, waiting for the pain to recede enough for him to fall asleep and cursing his frail body for having a weakness not one other Aesir seemed to share. 

But he didn’t care how much pain he was, because nobody else was seeing it. He had managed to somewhat reverse his childhood reputation thanks to his learned abilities: instead of being a sickly child he was now someone who was never ill or hurt. Of course this did not please everyone either, as Thor frequently suffered wounds in battle which were seen as brave, but Loki far preferred being seen as untouchable to weak, no matter how dishonorable it made him. 

***

Loki awoke in the middle of the night. He recognized he must have drifted off, and immediately wished he could have stayed asleep. The pain had not improved even after taking the potion: if anything, he felt worse. 

His skin was so hot it felt freezing cold, and aching shivers raced down his limbs with every intake of breath. The place where his neck met his pillow felt rubbed raw, and when he shifted in an attempt to lessen the pressure a small, pained sound left his lips. 

All of a sudden, he knew something was very wrong. He was used to dealing with a lot of pain, but this felt different. This was heatstroke, and worse than he had ever experienced it. 

At the exact moment he had this realization, he heard a knock at his door. 

“Loki?” It was his mother. 

His eyes widened. If it were anyone else, he might stand a chance of hiding his true state. Even Odin, though he would no doubt notice there was something wrong, would not push to find out the truth if Loki was reluctant to give it– likely because he believed his son should be able to fend for himself. 

But his mother would never let him get away with this. Loki’s mind flew to everything else he was hiding: the discarded cooling talismans on the mantle he still had to re-enchant, the several bottles of self-brewed pain-numbing potions on his laboratory counter, the disgustingly sweat-stained clothing, his own liar’s skin exposed for her to see. 

If his mother saw how sick he was now, she would be sure to discover his other secrets as well. His frequent bouts of illness and chronic pain; his choice to treat his ailments himself rather than going to the healers; his wrong way of using magic. She would see him for what he was: a weak Aesir, and a fraudulent Seidmadr.

He lashed out with his magic, scrambling to throw up wards which would prevent anyone from entering the room or hearing anything from outside. But he couldn’t focus properly through the pain, and his clumsy attempt at magic did nothing but call more attention to himself. Loki could practically see Frigga’s eyes narrow with suspicion through the door. 

“Loki, I know you’re in there. I would speak with you.” 

He swallowed, willing his voice to sound normal. “I am quite tired after today’s affairs, and will soon go to sleep. We can speak tomorrow.” 

“It will take no more than a moment. And is a mother not permitted to bid her son goodnight?” 

Loki gritted his teeth. “I am not a child. There is no longer any need for that.” 

He was so much better at lying about other people than about himself. If he tried, he could convince most people of nearly anything: what they wanted, how they felt, what was happening around them. But if someone asked him a direct question, especially one he felt strongly about, he found all too often that some of his sentiment would betray him. 

And unfortunately for him, Frigga knew the nature of his sentiment better than anyone. So when he said there was no need for her to enter his chambers and offer her care to him, she knew there was a part of him which desperately hoped she would come in and help him feel better. 

Especially since his agony was growing by the second, and he didn’t know why. 

The door handle began to turn, and Loki realized then that Frigga was coming in no matter what, and the more he denied her the more suspicious she would grow. 

So he forced a smile into his voice, the last vestiges of the liar’s charm he had been exhausting all day long, and called out: “Just one moment, mother. I apologize for my words; I am merely tired.” 

Then he stood up, took a few steps towards the door, and paused. He closed his eyes and reached into his core once more. He allowed Seidr to flow from him, transforming the image of everything in the room around him, including himself. 

The room looked proper now. And he looked fine. 

Maintaining the illusion was already causing an explosive headache to build in his current weakened state, but all he had to do was uphold it until his mother left. Use his silver tongue to reassure her, drop the illusion once she left and then… 

…and then suffer alone for the rest of the night, thrashing in his weakness and crying bitter tears of shame. 

Loki took a deep breath and opened the door. 

“Good evening,” he said. 

Frigga smiled at him before stepping inside. “Good evening, Loki. How are you feeling? Did you enjoy yourself at the banquet?” 

“It was quite nice,” he said, stretching the truth no more than he had to in hopes it would make his lie more believable. Frigga knew he had no love for the long and boisterous feasts favored by most of his countrymen, and there was no use trying to pretend otherwise. “It did tire me, though, which is why I am going to bed early.” 

Frigga sighed. “I know such feasts are not easy for you to sit through, but thank you for continuing to act so strongly. Your diplomacy impresses our guests– I believe especially the Vanir and the Alfr find your intellectual conversations a welcome break from our people’s occasional… rowdiness.” 

There was a twinkle in her eye as she spoke, as though she was sharing a joke meant for only her and Loki. And usually he would have gone along with it, allowing some of his frustration to ebb away through conversing with her, but he could barely focus on what she was saying. He swore he saw his illusion flicker behind her, and renewed his concentration with a subtle clench of his fist. 

“So thank you,” she continued, “For continuing to see to your princely duties. Your father appreciates it as well.” 

Loki had never heard Odin say such a thing. This was a strange habit of Frigga’s: she would frequently inform him of feelings his father supposedly had towards him, even when Loki was certain Odin did not pay so much attention to what he did. He supposed it made sense for her to lie; it was what he would do, and obviously he had inherited this skill from her. So he did not resent her for not telling the truth, though he did frequently feel confusion at her insistence on this particular falsehood. 

He blinked, and realized he had completely neglected to respond to Frigga’s comment. He bowed, trying to play it off as though he was shy. “Thank you.” 

In the corner of his bedroom, his illusion flickered again: this time it exposed the state of his laboratory counter before he was able to force it back. 

“You seem on edge,” Frigga said suddenly. “Would you look at me?” 

He felt trapped. If he looked at her, his concentration would likely fail further. But if he didn’t look at her, she might begin to question him in earnest. 

He raised his head, but the entire room shivered with energy when he did so. He froze. There was no way she hadn’t– 

“Loki,” his mother said quietly, “Stop hurting yourself.”

He was hurting himself. He was already in so much agony and every single second he maintained this illusion was just adding a new flavor of pain entirely into the mix and between the two conflicting sensations he could barely breathe and he honestly thought that he might be sick. He was hurting himself and his mother was asking him to stop, and how could he possibly continue now? 

With a choked cry, he finally let the illusion fall. Then he stared at the ground, awaiting judgment. Awaiting disgust, at his weakness and his failure. Awaiting derision at his inability to handle what everyone else could, including his mother. 

His mother’s hand suddenly flew out to touch him. It looked as though she was about to grasp his aching shoulders, and he flinched back instinctively. 

“Don’t touch me,” he said through ragged breaths. 

The hand reached forward again– he tried to move but he was already backed against the corner of his bed– and alighted on his chest. Loki’s chest seized with a panicked breath, but then he felt his mother’s healing Seidr begin to pour through him. 

“Don’t touch me,” he repeated again, barely even managing a whisper. 

“Why won’t you let me?” Frigga asked softly. “I am helping you, don’t you see?”

“I don’t need help,” Loki bit out, “This is my fault and if I wasn’t like this– If I wasn’t so pathetic, then–” He swallowed, feeling tears of simultaneous agony and relief pricking at his eyes. 

Don’t touch me, because I can deal with this myself. Don’t touch me, because I shouldn’t even be in pain in the first place. Don’t touch me, because there is something wrong with me, I struggle with things no one else does, and I am afraid it may be contagious. 

“Just please don’t touch me,” he said, beginning to weep. 

Out of the corner of his blurry vision, he could see Frigga hold herself back from enveloping him in an embrace, and part of him was spitefully pleased that she could not hold him without causing him pain. She had no choice now but to allow him to push her away and leave him to his misery. 

He pushed past her and strode back across the room to his laboratory, where he began to prepare another potion even as his shoulders shook with quiet yet continuous sobs. He was completely overwhelmed by pain, but he wanted to show her that even at his weakest, he could fend for himself. It didn’t matter how hard he cried, he was still capable. 

But then, suddenly, he could no longer move. 

His immediate fear was that his condition had caused a more serious symptom: overexposure to heat had caused him to lose consciousness on multiple occasions in the past, and he had heard seizures were a possible outcome as well. 

But this idea was banished as quickly as it came, because he realized that he was in less pain than he had been in seconds before. Besides, around his body there was an unmistakable feeling: something cooling like a spring from a mossy bank, fresh like morning dew on flower petals, and grounding like the scent of fir trees drifting on the wind. 

It was his mother’s Seidr, enveloping him and holding him in place. His one hand reached futilely for a bottle in front of him; the fingers of his other hand were wrapped around his wrist– had he been about to dig his nails into his flesh? He did tend to prefer a sharp pain to a dull ache. 

Frigga took his violent hand in her gentle one, and led him towards the couch by the window. She had already released him from her spell, but he no longer had the strength to keep on fighting. Her spell had shocked him so much that he had stopped crying, though his face was still wet with tears. 

Loki sat down, and his mother beside him. She continued to pour her magic into it, and he closed his eyes as he latched onto this feeling, something so much more relieving than the potions and spells he had been subsisting on. His potions numbed him, made him able to focus on something besides the pain; her magic was drawing the heat out of his very bones and every itching, burning, peeling feeling which accompanied it. 

Neither of them spoke for several moments, Loki collecting himself and Frigga concentrating on her spell.

In the end, it was her who broke the silence. “Why did you not go to the infirmary? You are extremely sick.” 

Loki’s mouth twisted into a rueful half-smile. His mother thought this was the first time he had suffered heat stroke since childhood– no one had any idea of what he had been going through all these years. Part of him was heartbroken that his lies were good enough to deflect even Frigga’s knowledge of him, but he knew he shouldn’t have expected anything else. 

“Did you feel ashamed?” she continued when he didn’t respond. “Please do not allow yourself to suffer for the sake of pride. And if you didn’t want anyone to know, Eir would not betray your trust.” 

But she would know. And the other healers in the infirmary would know. And his parents would know, too. And Thor would also realize it. 

“There is no shame in visiting the infirmary. Do you not see how often Thor is carried off there?” There was mirth in his mother’s voice, tinged with a bit of worry for her other son.

Something twisted deep inside Loki. That was different, and his mother knew it. “No other Aesir has such a low tolerance for heat,” he said. Speaking made his burning skin feel like it was cracking open, but he continued. “Do not try to tell me that Thor’s battle wounds and my… impotence are the same.” 

Frigga sighed. “You are not weak, my son. The fact that you are able to be so poised while hiding this pain, and able to treat yourself with magic afterwards… It almost makes me wish you were less strong, so that you might allow yourself to seek the help you deserve.” 

“I don’t need it,” he denied. 

“Needing and deserving are two different things,” she replied. “I am pouring my Seidr into your wounds right now because you are my son, and you deserve not to suffer.” 

“Do I not?” Loki asked quietly. That accursed lump was back in his throat. “If I have such grievous weakness, should I not be forced to overcome it no matter how painful it is?” 

“This isn’t weakness,” Frigga insisted. “It is just your body’s reaction, you cannot help it.” 

“Nobody else suffers the way I do,” Loki argued. “There is something wrong with me.”

“There is nothing,” Frigga said. 

The phrase was simple, but Loki heard something odd in her voice as she said it. When he looked up and met her eyes, there was something shining in their depths: something he recognized all too well. 

A lie. 

There was something she wasn’t telling him– about his magic, or his health, or more fundamental still. He wasn’t sure. He wanted to ask, but he had no idea where to start. 

Another flash of pain grounded him again, and he winced. “That is all I can do for now,” his mother said apologetically. “Come, and I will draw you a cool bath.” 

Loki wanted to protest that they weren’t done speaking– wasn’t she going to call him out for his lies? Wasn’t she going to ask about the potions and the evidence of all his other faulty spellwork? Wasn’t she going to march him down to the infirmary and force him to confront Eir? 

Wasn’t there still something he wanted to ask her? About himself, his differences, his weakness? 

But his mother had a quiet power when she was helping him, and he was as utterly cowed in the face of it as he had been in childhood. There was no questioning or resisting her when she was this determined to help him. 

So he allowed her to take his hand and lead him to his bath in which she conjured frozen water,  ice crystals floating on its surface and arctic plants with healing properties blooming in its depths. He allowed her to continue to reassure him, telling him there was nothing wrong. 

He allowed her to continue to lie, because she was his mother. Because he loved her.