Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Thor tells his Midgardian shield brothers his heart is set against Loki. That he will regard him as brother only once he has ceased his destruction. But when Odin sends Munin to watch Thor, he sees his son laugh at something on their picture screen or chuckle at a comrade’s slip and when he does, Thor turns quickly to his side, looking to share his laugh with his brother. When only empty space greets him, both their hearts break. And break again and again, with every battle or imagined slight that pours from Loki’s lips.

These slights must be imagined. He loved Thor and Loki equally. Always showed them love equally.

Still, Odin plans a feast. His son may be out of his reach now but a feast could help. He will throw a feast in Loki’s honor. Celebrating his strengths, his virtues. Perhaps word will reach Loki and he will finally see all of his imagined slights for the absurdity that they are. Loki is loved and valued. Loki was always loved and valued.

This feast will be ornate and magnificent, beautiful and overflowing with scholars and mages and poets from all over the Nine Realms.

(It will make up for the warriors’ feast thrown after Thor’s return. Frigga locked in her chambers, inconsolable and refusing to speak to either of them, Thor forcing a smile and a choked laugh until he stepped outside where Thunder racked the castle for weeks. Odin hearing a table of his finest warriors mock his youngest son. Realizing this was not a feast for one prince’s return, but a celebration of another prince’s departure. Months later, “There will never be a better father than you” echoes horribly in his mind)

This feast…Odin will get right.

He sits at his desk, alone in his study except for a lone royal guard, Balder. Odin tries not to look at him too often; he used to guard Loki’s room. Still, he must tell someone of his good plan.

“Balder!”

Balder runs to him, eyes vaguely dreamy.

“Tell the cooks and planners I am throwing a feast in my youngest son’s honor. Send letters to all of the mages and premier scholars in the realms. And inform the kingdom’s scribes as well. Act quick, we shall throw the feast on my son’s name day.”

He turns back to his desk, jotting down various ideas and trying to remember which epic tales were Loki’s favorites. He shifts to shout one more order to Balder as he leaves the room…and realized he has not moved at all.

“For what do you remain? Do you await an invitation? By all means, mail yourself one as you send off the others. I care not.”

“Sire.”

“What?”

“Sire, the cooks ask that we wait to inform them of upcoming feasts until they are only one moon’s turning away. Otherwise, the back log will—“

“And what, dare I interrupt, does that have to do with our current situation?”

“I thought you wanted the feast to be on Prince Loki’s name day, sire?”

“Which is why you must act quickly, you fool! Loki must know the feast is for him, we have very little time—oh, here, I’ll show you.”

Odin reaches into his desk and pulls out the official calendar.

“See, here is my brother Ve’s name day this next half moon turn, and here, coming up very soon, is…”

A cabinet meeting. He flips the next page, but sees only the same scratched-in memos.

“Why, that’s not possible. I have every member of the royal family’s name day carefully inscribed every time the seventh sun rotates, so that I will not…”

Balder licks his lips, and looks nervously from side-to-side.

“Leave me, guard.”

It must be a mistake. Every name day, Odin invites his son into his private chambers and speaks with him privately.

He remembered Thor’s name day five moon turn’s ago. He’d taken Thor aside early in the morning, before the celebration. They’d sat for hours, reminiscing on old hunts and battles. He’d told Thor how proud he was to have such a fine warrior for a son and future king and—

He does not love Thor more. He does not. There has to be some mistake.

He flips back in his calendar, convinced this was ludicrous. Convinced he’d find nothing at all.

But three moon turns ago, there it was. Loki’s name day. Just a handful of days after Odin announced Thor’s upcoming coronation date and of course that was very important and everyone was so swept up in the preparations and the excitement and…

Had anyone remembered?

---

 

They will go on a trip, Odin thinks, as his two most trusted advisors gather around him that afternoon, foisting papers and treaties onto his desk. Just him and Loki. He would take him to the enchanted forest not three days travel from the palace. The grass beneath the waterfall was so soft they wouldn’t even need mats.

It would be a surprise. He’d come into into Loki’s quarters just before dawn and tell him “Ready your provisions. You and I will depart from the palace in a quarter hour’s time.”

Loki, of course, would already be up, practicing his spellwork at his desk by the window. (Was it still by the window? When was the last time Odin set foot in his younger son’s chambers?) Such an early riser, his son. Or maybe he wouldn’t be up yet. Maybe Loki stayed up late the night before, trying to perfect his latest trick. Maybe his son would still be asleep and Odin would rouse him, waiting patiently while Loki emerged from his slumber, sleep-mussed and vulnerable like he used to be when he slept wedged between his mother and father as a child. Then Odin would tell him gently “Come. I have a surprise for you; follow me.”

And Loki would trust him.

They would arrive at the stables and prepare their own horses. Odin would leave Sleipnir. He wanted his son and he to be at an equal advantage and so they would both take standard steeds. Finally, Loki would burst forth with all the questions he’d been dying to ask.

“Where are we going?”

“How long are we staying?’

“When is Thor coming?”

And this part, this part Odin could not wait to divulge. “Thor is not coming. You and I are going ahead for a trip of our own. Just the two of us. I want to talk to just you for a little while.”

And at that, Loki would fall silent. His mouth would run dry and he’d gaze up at his father with a face full of adoration and love (like he used to).

Once they arrived, Odin would show Loki all the splendor of that magnificent forest. Probably, Odin now realized, Loki already ventured into the forest dozens of times before, but Odin could show him new marvels. The wild orchids at the top of the falls. Or the honeysuckles that attract the most exotic, colorful birds. He’d even show Loki which ponds are shelter to the musk-stink toad Loki so desperately needs to develop that impenetrable stink potion he thinks no one knows about.

There are griffins that nest not two leagues west from where they will make camp. Hunting them is great sport; to bring home a few griffins heads together would earn the admiration of all Asgard…Except, Odin reminds himself, Loki is not overly fond of hunting. And he thought the griffins majestic. No, this trip there would be no hunt, no quest for glory. This trip would be all about what Loki wanted, what Loki liked.

And later that night, they would lie in the warm light of the fire a few yards from the falls. Odin would tell stories of wit and cunning like Loki enjoys. The ones Thor used to call “boring”.

Then after a few of Odin’s stories, Loki would start in with a few of his own. Tales of his adventures with magic, or tales of when his mischief making slipped from his control, resulting in catastrophes even Odin would laugh at.

It would be a perfect day, Odin decided. Followed by another perfect day. And another. Until on the last night of their trip they will lay by the fire once more and this time Odin would ask Loki if anything was the matter, back home. If he had any problems he wished to discuss or advice he needed.

And Loki would tell him. Tell him of his troubles with Thor and Thor’s friends. Tell him how he sometimes felt like people thought less of him than they thought of Thor. Tell Odin how he thought Thor was not ready for the throne.

And this time, Odin would listen. Hear his problems and offer advice. Really take all of his warnings about Thor under consideration, this time. And tell Loki that he did not think less of Loki than he thought of Thor. That he loved both his sons equally. That he need his youngest’s cunning to help run the kingdom. That he loved Loki, loved his magic and clever tricks, loved his smile and laugh and presence. And he would tell Loki this over and over, until Loki believed him.

Then, he would lay a gentle hand at the back of Loki’s neck and tell him the most important story. The story of a battle-weary old man finding an abandoned baby in a temple wracked with war. A child whose beautiful smile restored his sense of purpose and gave him new reason to rise in the morning. Not for war, but for peace,.

And, this time, he would hold Loki close as his son shook with the revelation. No matter how hard his son pushed, Odin would hold him through his tears and—this time—Loki would reach out for him, too.

His advisors were becoming impatient now, vying for his full attention like two children. He couldn’t bring himself to give it. Couldn’t bring himself to choose between any two people, any more.

A trip, he thought. That’s what we’ll do. A real father-son trip.

Their first father-son trip.

 

------

 

That night, Odin stands like a ghost on top of a shattered bridge, watching himself.. ‘How many times’ he thinks ‘must I live out this Hel until my slumbering mind finds other ways to torment me..

He stands next to himself, looking briefly at the millenniums-old armor he’d first worn when they’d declared him Odin the All-wise, Odin the All-seeing. His fragmented heart splinters at the memory.

Below, his sons hang over the abyss. Loki is shouting at him, voice and eyes and expression begging him to hear, to listen. But his other self, he knows, is looking away, looking at the destruction Loki wrought. The Bifrost will take decades to fix and relations with Jotunheim even longer. Thor looks battle-torn, anguished by the chaos around him.

If Thor is anguished than Loki is devastated. If the Bifrost is broken than Loki is shattered. His whole being is an open, bleeding wound as he struggles to grasp some last shred of hope. Of love.

Odin can see what’s coming, now, when it’s too late. He’s tried. Every night he tries. He yells and begs and thrusts Gungnir out to Loki because what would Loki think if he knew his father stood by and watched him fall over and over again? He’s failed Loki before; he refuses to fail him again.

‘Pull them up!’ Odin screams ‘Now! While there’s still a chance!’

But other-Odin does not listen to his son, not well enough to see how close to the edge he really is. Not well enough to even consider the effect of his next words.

“No, Loki.”

 

Odin the All-seeing does not realize Loki’s grip is loosening until it is too late.

Odin the grieving, heart-broken old man can’t bring himself to watch this again. Can’t bring himself to watch his baby boy drift off into an abyss with only the shattered shards of their family for company. His heart simply cannot take it.
So, with one last roar, Odin flings himself from the bridge.
-------

He starts awake to the still-darkened Aesir sky. His breathing is labored and he turns to his wife, hoping for comfort. But the other side of the bed is cold. Frigga, Odin remembers, now chooses to reside in other chambers.

He can’t remain in these halls any longer. Each room and wall and corner is a reminder of what he’s lost. He’ll set out alone in the morning. He’s given Thor enough time.

Even if he has to drag him, Odin is bringing his son home.

Chapter Text

Odin wandered down a Manhattan Avenue. Locating Loki’s dwelling had not been an effortless task, but teleportation tended to leave behind a slight residue. With great focus he tracked the area that contained the largest amount of Loki’s magical signature to an alley on this street. Figuring out which building was Loki’s was turning out to be much more difficult.

If he wasn’t currently wearing an illusion that made him appear an average, nondescript Midgardian, Odin would be frustrated with his son’s paranoia. His own precaution, of course, was necessary. Loki may have surveillance spells placed around the area and he needed to find Loki discreetly. Confronting him on a battlefield—and crash down like some judgmental storm—would be a waste of time. Doing that over and over again and expecting different results was just—well, he really needed to talk with Thor.

(Honestly, how “Retrieve your brother and the Tesseract” translated into “Throw your brother from a Midgardian aircraft and then try and beat him into coming home” was one of Asgard’s greatest mysteries)

Granted, Odin wasn’t entirely certain what he going to say to Loki either, but soon he’d find Loki and all of his paternal instincts would just kick in, of that he was definite. He’d think of all the right things to say to make Loki talk to him again and then they’d sort out this whole mess. Just because Odin couldn’t think of those right things right now didn’t mean he wouldn’t when the time came. Really there was nothing to over worry about—

Oomph!

Except apparently falling down on his stomach, having tripped over one of this road’s innumerable decorations. A long shadow loomed around him; Odin blearily blinked his eyes.

“Are you dead?”

Why did that voice sound so familiar?

He looked up and—

There was Loki. Staring down at him.

This was not how he’d planned to greet his son. He’d meant to find Loki’s dwelling and then wait patiently for Loki to open the door. This, this was all wrong. Loki would think that Odin was just planning to barge in unannounced and grab his errant son by the scruff of his neck. Loki was going to think he’d learned nothing.

“Well? Answer so I may depart. Don’t know why I’ve even waited this long; it’s not like your lives are long enough for it to matter anyway.”

Odin looked to the side, where an enormous apartment building stood. Then he looked back at his son, who—Odin now realized—truly didn’t recognize him.

Speechless, Odin held out a hand to Loki.

Loki looked mildly surprised, eyes shifting. Hesitantly, he grasped Odin’s hand and helped him up.

Odin was prepared for some difficulty on his quest to retrieve Loki. Braced for some emotional confrontations and spiteful words. He was not, however, prepared for the sheer blinding pain he felt merely from viewing Loki’s face up close.

He could use a haircut. His hair was starting to look a little scruffy around the edges where it grazed his shoulders and Odin remembered his son liked to keep his appearance neat. The rest of him certainly was. Finely tailored clothes like the kind Midgard’s various kings and politicians now wore. His face bore more stress lines than Odin remembered, a few more marks and creases. But his son’s eyes were exactly the same. That same brilliant shade of green and if Odin just ignored that brittle, cracked edge to them he could see his little boy again in those eyes, holding his hand as they walked down the hall. “Tell me of your quest for Gungnir again, Father?”

He was staring.

“What?”

Odin should tell him now. Unveil himself to Loki and get on with his original plan. It wouldn’t take much; just the slightest nudge of his magic and suddenly Loki would see his father standing before him and the confused look on his face would go away and be replaced with one of recognition. Recognition and anger and pain and hurt and rage and horrible, bitter words tumbling from his little boy’s mouth like venom, poisoning both of them from the inside-out like molten gold from those damned dwarves’ mines and every trace of that child in his memories would be replaced with hate, hate, hate and—

“Are you deaf as well as simple?”

“I…I was merely considering the good fortune it was to meet a fellow tenant. I’ve just arrived, you see. I was looking forward to meeting people.”

“If that’s the case you really are new to the city. What floor?”

“I…um.” Eloquent. Truly, Odin, your strength in speech and foresight alone merits you the throne. “I do not know yet. They had informed me, but I’ve…forgotten it seems.”

Loki already looked disinterested. “Hm. You’ll have to check in with the front desk, then.”

“Yes, yes, of course. After you, I suppose.”

Loki walked up the steps of the silver building while Odin followed, wondering if this was all a trick, if Loki really did know him and was just pretending so he could pull the wool over Odin’s eyes.

But if pretending kept Loki from looking at him like he had that terrible, soul-crushing day in the vault, like Odin was everything in the world that made him hurt, then Odin would play the fool for as long as he was allowed.

He should wait a few minutes for Loki to return to his dwelling then transform back into himself and continue on with his original plan before all of this got any more twisted.

Except, really, he knew that there wasn’t any plan. Odin didn’t have a plan and he didn’t have the right words and he didn’t have the slightest idea of how to rebuild his connection with his son (did they ever even have one?). And he couldn’t just watch in silence while his son turned away from him again.

“Excuse me, young man. What is your name?”

Loki stopped in the lobby; his hand paused above the button labeled 10.

“Lucas.”

“Thank you for helping me up today, Lucas.”

“…You’re welcome. And your name?”

“Oscar. Oscar Lundt.”

A nod and then Loki disappeared into the elevator.

And if his son’s eyes still looked shattered, if he looked surprised at being acknowledged beyond the initial greeting, if he hesitated just a little too long before saying you’re welcome (as if he couldn’t remember what to say to a thank you, as if thank you was a rare and foreign phrase), then it was no matter.

Odin had failed; maybe this time Oscar would succeed.

Upstairs, a couple on the 10th floor turned and realized just how much they suddenly wanted to move.

Chapter Text

Once, Odin cracked his way through the dark elves’ gilded vault doors, crashing into the fabled treasure that waited there in a feat of strength no one had seen the likes of before and no one had replicated since. The scribes still wrote tales of the day, adding in new verses every year as the story grew and grew to the impossible heights of legend in the people’s eyes. Once, Odin took great amusement in seeing everyone’s continued pleasure at the heroic deed.

Now, Odin perversely wished they could all see him here, staring at two inches of flimsy wood like it housed all of his worst nightmares behind its thin veneer. Maybe then they would finally stop singing all those grating praises.

Now, Odin preferred to remember a different day. A day no scribe or poet had ever written down; one held sacred and beloved for the warmth it gave him on Asgard’s suddenly harsh nights. Now, he thought of the day he’d shown Loki his new rooms: his own rooms, separate from Thor. Loki had been so nervous.

“Father, father are you sure Thor and I have to be put in different rooms?”

“Your brother Thor is approaching the day of his first lone hunt, Loki. The time has come for him to be a man. He needs more space, more room to spread out and find his preferences.”

Loki turned this over in his mind. “Well…well then maybe he and I could have separate rooms in the day, but then still stay together at night? That way he could have all day to have space. He’s only just sleeping at night, it wouldn’t matter if I was there with him.”

Odin suppressed a smile; Loki would understand in enough time and it wouldn’t due for his son to think he was laughing at him. They stopped in front of the doors to Loki’s new room and Odin crouched down beside his son. Loki was so still so small for his age; up close he looked even frailer than usual. His hair had fallen into his eyes. Frigga always gushed about her son’s emerald eyes, showing them off to everyone when he was a baby and even now calling them “The Most Beautiful Gems in Asgard”.

They were so breath-taking that when Odin first brought Loki home, he’d considered enchanting them blue. Green eyes were rare in Asgard, and certainly no one in the royal family had them. Odin had worried someone would start to wonder. But then Loki would gaze up and smile while his parents held him and his eyes would twinkle so endearingly that Odin couldn’t begin to imagine a life where Loki’s eyes looked any different. Not even when Loki became too big to be cradled. Odin reached out a hand and brushed his son’s hair away from his face, smoothing it back down to its usual, slicked-back position.

“You need your own space as well, Loki. You’re growing, too, and soon you will have your own preferences.” Loki looked up at him, doubtful.

“And…” Odin paused until he had his son’s full attention “just because Thor is going on his first hunt does not mean Thor is the only one who gets presents.”

Loki’s eyes widened. In what Odin was sure Loki thought was a subtle way, he started looking about him. He even carefully leaned out as far as he could to the side to try and see around his father’s impressive stature.

“Wh-where is it?”

“I suppose you will simply have to go inside and search!” With that, Odin spread open the doors to Loki’s new room.

Everything was done in greens and golds, mirroring the reds and golds in Thor’s room. Thick emerald curtains adorned the windows, with a large, impressive desk pushed up against the pair that didn’t exit to the balcony, so that Loki may gaze out across the castle grounds as he studied. The bed was practically a room unto itself, easily able to withstand eight or nine people at a time (not, Odin would see to it, that any son of his would ever be entertaining eight or nine people at a time) and covered in rich blankets and furs from across the nine realms. The furniture was the deepest, richest wood he could find, the kind that Loki once told Frigga he preferred. It contrasted Thor’s own brass furnishings. The carpet sank invitingly beneath their feet and all around the room shelves adorned every wall, pausing only to make room for a future tapestry or painting Loki could choose.

His son stood stock still in the middle of the room, gazing about himself with wonder.

“This…this is all for me?”

Odin reached into a cupboard and plucked out a finely engraved box. “And these, Loki.”

Loki took the box from his father hesitantly, then gently slid back the covering of the box to reveal a set of shining silver throwing knives, each one engraved with a swirling design. Odin had noticed Loki staring at his own set of throwing knives that Odin had stashed against some old magic tomes the week prior; he’d been overjoyed Loki was finally showing more interest in weapons, and had custom ordered this set for him immediately. When he’d given Thor his first hand-crafted weapon—a iron axe with a soft, leather handle—Thor had run around the room at once, whooping and hollering at imaginary foes and frost giants until they’d had to physically drag him in for supper.

Loki stayed exactly where he was, holding the knife case firmly in his hands and looking down at the knives with an enraptured expression.

“You made these just for me?”

“Of course, Loki.” And here Odin reached down and ruffled the hair he’d so recently smoothed into place. “Every boy needs his own weapons to become a man. Soon, my son, these empty shelves will house all of the treasures and trinkets you will earn from your own prowess in hunts and battles.”

Loki gazed solemnly around the room, his pleased expression dwindling.

“Those…those are quite a few shelves for me to fill, Father.”

“Yes, my son. And you will fill them all to bursting.”

Loki gazed up at his father. Like a shot, his arms suddenly wrapped around him like a vice, squeezing his father’s middle as tightly as his frail arms could allow and ramming his face into his chest. Odin reached down and wrapped an arm around his son.

And if Loki clinging was a little too tight—if his touch had a feel of desperation in it—then Odin supposed that was just his excitement over the knives.

They’d expected those rooms to be the only ones Loki would possess until he grew much, much older and formed a family of his own, when he would then take a dwelling a short distance away from the palace. Perhaps even in the palace, if that was what his sons wished. And now every time he watched the building or the hall his son now resided in inside this strange city literal worlds away from his home that memory kept coming up more and more.

At least that one brought him comfort; Odin tried to hold it in his mind as he steeled himself once more to knock on his son’s (no longer elaborate, no longer regal) doors. Taking a deep breath, he knocked three times.

“Yes?”

Half a face stared out at him from behind a door. The cheap wood obscured the rest of his son’s body. Odin wanted to crane his head and see inside his son’s dwelling but a thin, gold chain blocked his direct view. He could figure no way to duck around it without looking like a fool.

Odin schooled his expression into that of a harmless, friendly old man. He hadn’t come this far to be deterred by a mere blocked vantage point.

“Lucas! What good fortune it is you I stumble upon first!”

“…What?”

“I am making my rounds through the floor, introducing myself to all of my lovely new neighbors. I had hoped I would be placed near to you, and here we are.”

Loki gaze did not warm. If anything, his eye seemed to narrow even further.

“You can’t be my neighbor. All of the rooms on this floor are occupied. There’s no space for you.”

This…was not the conversation Odin had expected to have from the son every diplomat had lauded as so polite when he was a boy.

“I…the people in the room across the hall moved out yesterday, just as I arrived. I was to be given a lower floor, but moved up to the tenth for the chance of a better view.”

“Of course. I am sorry,” Odin doubted it “it is just I am supposed to informed when someone comes and goes from this floor, the above one, and the other below. I requested it specifically, and if they have deigned not to inform me of a move across the hall, then perhaps they have not informed me of any other moves, and at this very moment I am surrounded by—“ Loki cut himself off, seeming to forcibly swallow the words back down his throat. “It is just that I do not appreciate surprise. That’s all.”

Odin looked back at his son with the same inane smile plastered to his lips, as if Loki’s outburst had not fazed him in the least.

“Ah. That is understandable. I do hope I can make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you.”

Odin waited for a few beats for a word from Loki that might aid his transition into the crux of his plan, a no it’s no inconvenience at all, really or a thank you for understanding. Odin looked his son up and down. Perhaps a simple okay would suffice.

Loki stared at Odin. He seemed to be delivering his most deadpan look. Odin could have to carry on the conversation by himself.

“Say, how about this? I will bring by dinner on Friday, and you might consider forgiving me my transgression.”

Odin could see the wonder of why? forming in his son’s eyes as he shifted back and forth on his feet.

Loki tended to give away a lot of emotion through his eyes, if he thought that no one important was looking. Or perhaps, Odin thought as his own smile began to feel painted on as well, Loki the Liesmith tended to give away a lot of emotion through his eyes when anyone bothered to look closely at all.

“I am busy on Friday.”

“Saturday then.”

“I…am busy Saturday as well. I am quite busy all weekend.”

“Ah. Of course.” Odin paused. “In that case, I shall greet you here on Monday at seven, my new friend. I’m afraid I must find a way to thank the helpful young man who assisted me yesterday.” Odin hoped Loki retained at least a scrap of what had been pounded into him in civility lessons back in Asgard; at least enough to remember that refusing such a persistent individual was unspeakably rude, not to mention incredibly awkward when one was sure to run into them often. And, oh, Odin was definitely going to assure they stumbled upon each other quite often indeed.

“…All right. That is…acceptable.”

Odin beamed and reached up to shake his son’s hand, hoping that in opening the door he could sneak a glance inside the apartment. But Loki stared at the hand with an unimpressed look and did not make to raise his own. The gold chain separating them went untouched. With as much grace as he could manage, Odin let his hand fall.

“Well. I shall see on Monday, friend! I do so look forward to it!”

Loki nodded once, and quietly closed the door.

And if, Odin thought as he walked back into his own, empty dwelling (just in case Loki was still looking through his tiny Midgardian porthole), Loki considered his new neighbor to be overly friendly and rather incredibly dense, that was all right. He had gotten what he seeked, after all. And people so rarely tended to suspect idiots.

This would work. It would. He was definite.

Chapter Text

Asgard, 1283

The sun set and cast an orange glow throughout Loki’s rooms as a little flame flickered in his palm. It was tiny, barely bigger than the thinnest wisp of straw, but it was Loki’s. There was so much possibility inside of that flicker. It wasn’t like Loki’s other spells. Those little things like making sounds appear from nowhere and lights shower in the air. Thor and his friends were right when they’d teased him in the family sitting room; those were spineless, tricky little things, not at all suited for a prince of Asgard. This flame was a spell for a warrior.

Soon, he’d be able to make it bigger and smaller at will. Just one whispered thought and it would be as big as the field. Then Thor and his friends would all gasp and gather around him in awe and say “Thor, Thor, can you please bring your brother along on our adventure?” and then Thor would go and fetch him immediately and then Loki would know all about the newest adventure right at the same time that everybody else did and then he wouldn’t be a tagalong then he’d be invited and they’d all go out together and this time Loki would understand all of their jokes and no one would snicker at him just because he couldn’t lift an axe. He’d amaze all of them with his magic and later, after a few quests, he’d say “Just wait until you see what else I can do.” And he’d show them the illusions he’d been working on, the ones that looked and acted just like him and the ones that were different than the other illusions, the ones that were better, and this time they wouldn’t tell him that magic was for babies or that tricks were cowardly; this time they’d all see how phenomenal everything was.

The rapture was just starting to form on their faces when the flame died in his hand. Loki looked down and let out a frustrated growl. He crumpled into his chair. All work lost. Three hours he’d worked to get that flame and now it was all gone. He’d have to work through supper to get it right. Father was leaving for Muspelheim in the morning and Loki needed to show him before he left and got caught up for three weeks in treaties and dealings.

If he could show Father the spell before all the representatives departed Asgard, then Father would have something amazing to remember Loki by while he was gone. Maybe he’d even brag to the Muspelheim diplomat about how bright and advanced Loki was. “Everyone is so proud of him,” he’d say.

Loki would make this spell perfect. He just needed to master his concentration. He stood up once more and took a deep breath. Everything would work out all right.

The little flame faded from his palm five more times that night while he worked by candlelight; it flickered out of existence as the proud, loving look on Allfather’s face floated in and out of Loki’s mind.

He didn’t mind. This was his missing key. Maybe soon they’d even change his name to God of Fire.

 

2013

A blast of flame erupted from a frying pan and all of the assistant cooks rushed to put it out. All around Odin, Asgard’s finest chefs bustled to and fro, throwing ingredients from one dish into the next with a fluid efficiency. Albrikt, the head chef, stood in the center of the crowd and barked orders at every passerby. A roasted boar was sat on the table next to him. Its honey glaze made it shimmer in the light and little fresh-picked fruits were draped around its base, artfully arranged into the shapes of flowers on vines. Everyone must have toiled over those fruit for hours—if not days—from the pickers to the sorters to the preparation assistants all the way to Albrikt, known throughout all the realms for his displays.

Odin almost wanted to tell them all not to bother. The meal was only for a small diplomacy gathering with Vanaheim. They were meeting to look over this year’s trade agreements. They’d sit, say greetings, agree to keep everything the same as last year and the year before and the year before that, and then eat. The feast would be fourteen times as long as the meeting. Such an extraordinary fuss seemed not only excessive, but also redundant. Possibly even so redundant it was…boring. Predictable.

But then, Odin had been finding Asgard more and more boring and predictable as of late.

He cleared his throat and Albrikt turned to him. His eyes widened in surprise. The royal family very rarely stepped inside the castle kitchens. More often they sent a messenger and even then the messenger rarely carried good tidings or praise.

“Allfather.” His bellowing voice lowered into a hush as the noise of the kitchens died out around them. “Forgive me. I…I was not expecting you. Which would your majesty like a seat or a review of the menu for tonight? Do you have a special request of the kitchens?”

“I do have a request, in fact. But not for tonight.”

“Whatever my king requires…”

“I was wondering if you could compose a list of the most common foods requested by my son and his friends after they returned home from a quest.” He was careful not to mention Loki. He didn’t need anyone gossiping about how he was asking around after his lost son. Though maybe they wouldn’t gossip. Ever since the fall, everyone in Asgard seemed careful not to mention Loki. Odin couldn’t decide how he felt about that.

“…Of course, sire. Might I enquire…”

“Thor wishes to introduce his friends on Midgard to a smattering of Asgardian cuisine, so that they may better experience our culture. It would have to be simple, of course, so as not to overwhelm anyone.” Or raise a particular someone’s suspicions.

“Of course, sire. I shall assemble a feast immediately and then have the washing boys deliver it to Heimdall henceforth. It will be ready in no ti—“

“That is unnecessary, Albrikt. I need only a list for now. I will choose which items from the list I desire and inform you from there. There is no need for you to overwhelm yourself.”

“It is no trouble at all, your Highness. Please, I will—“

“Just a list, Albrikt. That is all I desire.” Odin turned and walked out of the kitchens.

He did so dislike speaking down to the chefs, but they were just another form of servant, after all. And servants sometimes needed reminding of their place. They were useful, yes, but they belonged in the shadows, silently helping Asgard run smoothly. They could step into the limelight while needed, but once their task was completed, they should return to the dark.

 

The writing on the list was heavy and dark, each stroke obviously written with the care and determination of a man who spent most of his life working with his hands and very little of it practicing his scribe. The scroll was furling up in the corners from its length. At least fifty different foods were written. Odin hadn’t moved from his seat in well over an hour and from the corner of his eye he saw Balder shuffle back and forth from his position near the study’s door. Odin adjusted his body away from Balder and narrowed his eyes at the sheet with a fresh intensity, as if he could somehow intimidate the scroll into revealing which foods were Loki’s favorites.

Thor’s favorite foods, a little voice taunted him in the back of his mind, are roasted boar, fresh melon, salted fish, and honeyed mead.

‘Yes’, Odin answered the voice impatiently. ‘And Loki’s favorite foods are…’

If Odin were given to fancy, he would have sworn that the little voice was laughing at him.

‘This is hopeless. How am I supposed to pick his favorites from this? He wasn’t as loud as Thor, it’s not my fault…those feasts were always so loud and distracting.’ He leaned back in his chair.

He only had one more day until he met with Loki for dinner. The dish he picked had to be simple enough that Loki wouldn’t be suspicious, but still delicious enough to make it an enjoyable evening. He remember his son used to enjoy candied apples as a child, but he needed another dish he could transport as some sort of innocuous stew…

He wished he could ask Frigga. The study still held the faintest scent of her perfume; he could tell she’d been inside not too long ago. But even if she was still there he didn’t know what he would say to make everything up to her.

He’d snapped at her, early on after Loki first faded into the void. Told her that the ice of her glares was cutting into him so sharply he was amazed he wasn’t covered in frostbite. “Truly,” he’d spat, “that is a remarkable talent. Did you learn it from the Frost Giants? Not only do I have a missing or dead Frost Giant son; mayhap now I have a silent, sulking Frost Giant wife as well.”

He’d tried to apologize later. He’d been hurt, his soul was still raw from losing Loki; he hadn’t meant anything he said. But she’d turned away from him and now insisted on spending almost all of her time in her private gardens.

“Mayhap”, she’d told him, “that will thaw the ice in my silent, sulking eyes.”

That was the last conversation they’d had.

On a whim, he wrote ‘Loki’s Favorite Foods?’ at the top of the list. It was a stupid risk, but it felt good to write his son’s name. It warmed him. Maybe soon he could work his way up to speaking it.

 

The next day he stumbled into his study in a hurry. He’d decided late last night to just pick a dish at random and have done with it. He was tired of agonizing and he needed to place his order with Albrikt. He strode over to his desk and shuffled over the few pages he’d arranged on top of the list. When he picked up the page, he noticed black lines carefully underlining two dishes.

Boiled Potatoes

Roasted Lamb

There were no other notes. Just two simple, black lines underlining two particular foods. But it had to have been Frigga. Who else could have known such a thing?

Wordlessly, he sent out Munnin to find her. Perhaps she was still nearby. Maybe if he hurried he could catch her, let her know what he was planning, maybe she would offer advice.

He sat anxiously in his chair and awaited a vision from Munnin to let him know how to proceed.

Three agonizing minutes went by without any word. Odin started toward the door to search her out himself when suddenly his vision fogged over with an image of Frigga sitting in her private gardens on the other side of the palace grounds. She’d pulled up a chair next to her. A simple white one identical to her own; she stared at it while her body pointed away at an odd angle: half-turned to the chair and yet painstakingly arranged to appear as if she was not spending her morning staring into the seat’s emptiness.

He knew what she was doing. He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t worth it. That trying to imagine their baby boy back in the places where he belonged was torturous. Her concentration would soon slip and the grief would return ten times as strong to gnaw at all the places her loss had ripped out of her.

He let the vision fade. Before he exited the study’s door he lifted his head upward and pretended he could still smell her perfume in the air.

 

Nervously, he paced his Manhattan apartment. At first, he’d thought to just keep the place empty, but after some consideration he’d decided to place a few pieces of furniture here and there. Just in case Loki walked him to his door and got a chance to look inside. (Did people do that? Did they walk you four feet across the hall to your door? He had no idea; he’d always had servants to escort his guests to the outer gates of the palace)

He wished the apartment were a tad bigger. He could barely walk fifteen steps from the door before he had to turn around again. His sons’ nursery had been bigger than this.

Maybe that was the way to lure his son back to Asgard. He’d just get Thor to project pictures of his old quarters into the sky.

He tried to clear his head. Such methods were underhanded. He was here, he was going into Loki’s new rooms in two minutes, and he was going to get his son to come home because of his family and no other reason.

(What if the evening didn’t go well? What if it did? Where would he take his son after this? He didn’t want to ruin everything just because he didn’t know enough interesting things to do in Midgard. He’d passed some interesting museums while he was wondering the city looking for Loki: would he like any of those? Maybe they could take a trip to Asgard without Loki realizing it was Asgard…)

Odin took a deep breath. He’d fought atrocities the likes of which most of the Nine Realms could never dare to dream. He could do this. Exiting the room, he gathered up the dishes Albrikt had sent him with, took the two required steps across the hallway and knocked on his son’s door.

If Loki was upset that Oscar arrived places a tad early, he was just going to have to deal with it.

“Yes?”

Odin cleared his throat. “It’s your new neighbor. I come bearing dinner.”

Nothing for fifteen seconds. Then the door opened and he got his first unobstructed view of Loki in nearly a week and a half.

He wore a dark blazer over a white shirt and dark pants. Odin looked down at his own garments. He’d borrowed the style of Thor’s usual human clothes, but looking at Loki, Odin felt unpardonably underdressed.

“Ah. There you are, Luke. I was afraid you might have forgotten.”

“Not forgotten. Merely…lost track of the time I suppose.” He rocked back and forth as he said it, eyes poised away from Odin in an almost pointed look of nonchalance.

“Yes, well. Happens to the best of us.”

“You were early.”

“Was I to leave supper to cool?” Silence. “Might I come in?”

“Well, seeing as it is now eight, yes. Do.” Loki went back inside his apartment, not bothering to hold open the door.

Try as he might, Odin was positive he was obnoxiously staring. He wanted to memorize every inch of Loki’s dwelling. Wanted to pause time and explore every nook and cranny until he was as familiar with it as he was with his own throne room.

It was nothing like Asgard. There were no furs. The coffee table in the middle of the living room was pure glass, holding a sleek-looking computer and placed in front of a large, flat television. The floors, instead of being stone or metal, were hard wood. What little he could see of the kitchen seemed to be made up entirely of chrome.

Every wall had a bookshelf near crammed to bursting. Plants seemed to be a theme. The coffee table had a large display of bamboo in the middle. An overgrown cactus plant was placed under the windows in the dining area. Right above the sink, what appeared to be a miniature tree sat on the windowsill. Next to the door, a small statue of a lion sat like a sentinel, a black umbrella held between its teeth.

Loki’s side of the building had balconies, he remembered. That would be a pleasant place to sit in the morning. He was eager to see every part of his son’s new life, even a two-feet piece of suspended concrete.

The balcony doors, however, were slammed securely shut. A curtain was fastened over them with a bit of rope. As Odin walked by them to the dining area, he saw small tacks keeping the drapes posed so that not even the slightest crack of the night sky could shine through.

“What are you staring at?”

Odin started. “Merely admiring your apartment, friend.”

“Well. There. You’ve seen it.”

“Indeed I have. Now, where would you like me to set down my dishes?”

“The counter is fine.”

“Splendid. I do hope you enjoy what I have brought. I wasn’t entirely sure what you’d prefer, you see, so I brought a small sampling.”

He took off the lids of his containers, carefully watching his son for a reaction. When all of the foods had been revealed, Loki’s eyebrows lifted.

“What deli did you order this from?”

Odin swallowed. “None. Unless a deli has opened up inside of my own kitchen I am unaware of.” He hadn’t bothered to glance down at the meal before leaving Asgard. Looking at everything now, he understood Loki’s skepticism. The candied apples were coated with a light dusting of powdered sugar. The boiled potatoes were placed on top of a pillow of soft greens and surrounded by carrot shavings. A few of the carrots were cut out to resemble flowers. The lamb stew, which Odin had specifically requested to be especially simple, was a perfect blend of vegetables and meats lightly—almost daintily—bouncing off of each other.

The level of preparation and care Albrikt put into this single, ordinary meal was breathtaking. How must Albrikt have felt, Odin suddenly wondered, watching Thor’s coronation feast get thrown down onto the floor?

He’d never before considered it.

Loki handed him a dish. They each filled their own plate and then sat down at the table, Loki at the head and Odin on his right. A heavy silence descended while Odin struggled to come up with conversation topics. Surely they must’ve eaten privately as a family before. What had they spoken of? It couldn’t have been too long ago…in the last century at least…

“How do you like it?”

“It’s good.”

“Ah…good.” Perhaps there was something inside the rooms that could serve for conversation.

Now that his mind was adjusted to the near-overwhelming lack of Asgard clouding up the apartment, he could start to see more of the little elements that gave the quarters more personality. A birdcage was stuffed into one corner of the living room, though instead of a bird a large slug was inching its way up a branch.

Throughout the apartment were framed pictures of—well Odin might have called them art only they were entirely unlike any art he’d ever seen. Art was supposed to be of something. A person or a hunt or even a bit of fruit. These frames contained mostly shapes, set on top of or jammed in together. They gave off an impressive sense of chaos, for shapes. That could serve as a conversation piece…except, then again, maybe the art was merely purchased at random. There were other examples that were more traditional. A painting of strawberries was hung above the stove. And all over he could see patterns of flowers. The throw pillows on the couch depicted a field of wildflowers. The rugs near the coffee table, the main door, the sink and refrigerator, and also (he stopped to check) the dining table rug all had similar etching of wildflowers.

Odin was beginning to feel desperate. There had to be something around him that could spark a conversation. He’d started such discussions with plenty of diplomats. His eyes locked upon a book resting on the coffee table.

“Ah! So you enjoy reading, my friend?”

Loki slowly turned his head to look at each of his five separate bookshelves. He raised an eyebrow, not bothering to respond. Odin plowed on without him.

“What sort of book are you enjoying lately? Have you finished it?”

“Finished what?”

“The book sitting there on your coffee table. I noticed it as I came in. What is it called—“ Odin leant over toward it, “Ah, yes. The Catcher in the Rye. Have you read it?”

Loki seemed to debate with himself before answering. “Yes. Obviously.”

“What did you think of it? I’m afraid I’m rather new to English. I find myself looking for new literature to read without much of an idea what to look for.”

“Quite. It was—“ His eyes narrowed. “Where did you say you were from, exactly?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said you were new to English. I can’t quite place the inflection on your voice. It sound vaguely British, yet not any dialect I am familiar with. You said you just came to New York, for as yet unknown reasons. So where, I dare repeat myself, did you say you were from?”

“I never mentioned where I was from?”

“No. You didn’t. Do you think you’d be ever oh so kind as to inform me? Seeing as I am your new…friend.” Pause. “Or is it some sort of secret?”

“I came from Iceland.” Odin refused to let his slight smile droop from his lips. He must not seem perturbed.

“You don’t have an Icelandic accent.”

“No, no, I’m afraid I worked quite hard indeed to cover all traces of my original accent. Allows one to advance more quickly in his or her chosen field. You understand. Though evidently I have not worked hard enough if my voice still sounds odd.”

“And what is your ‘chosen field’?”

“You may find it quite boring.”

“I’ll risk it.”

“I…” Odin thought desperately for an occupation. What did people in Midgard do? “I work for the museums.”

For the first time, Loki’s eyes sparked with interest. He sat up slightly in his chair.

“Really? Which one? Doing what?”

Which ones had he passed? He couldn’t remember. “Nearly all of them. I’m a… consultant. I dabble.”

The interest faded from his son’s eyes. He wanted it back. There had to be something he could say… “I handle and research any odd or unusual artifacts that come in to the museums’ possession. Anything…extraordinary.”

He hoped that didn’t sound overly theatrical. Then again, he thought as he looked at Loki (now fully upright in his chair and staring at Odin as if he were an new and wonderful thing), his son entered a room by magically appearing in swirl of flaming green smoke, didn’t he?

“How intriguing.

“Tell me, friend, has anything interesting found its way inside your museums’ impressive doors since you’ve arrived? And don’t worry; you have hardly any trace of an accent. Your hard work paid off quite well.” Loki smiled. To any other person, it might have seemed sincere.

“Oh nothing interesting to a young person. Please, tell me of yourself.”

“Me? Oh no, no, no, I want to hear all about you. How do—“

“No, no, I insist. What’s a young man like you doing out here in New York all by himself?”

Loki stopped smiling. The gears turning inside of his mind were almost visible. He wanted to turn the conversation back to the museums, and yet…if he befriended this man, then he would have a personal contact inside, he could see all of the powerful artifacts before anyone—even Stark—heard they were in the city…

“I suppose you could say I landed into opportunity.”

“Doing what?”

He shrugged. “This and that. I came to New York a few years ago and just…fell into step.”

“That must have been quite the journey.”

Loki twitched. “Nothing so harrowing as young Mr. Caulfield’s journey, I assure you. That is…if you’re still interested in hearing of The Catcher in the Rye?”

“Of course; I would love to hear it. Go on. Maybe I’ll even tell my colleagues of it.”

“It’s a coming-of-age story. Holden starts out at a prestigious boarding school, leaves, and goes through several misadventures over the course of three days.”

“So it’s an adventure story.” He could work with this. He knew adventure stories; he could even recommend some of his own in turn. They were not so different, he and Loki.

“Hardly. Holden is alone in a world full of posturing, counterfeit people. Phonies. He’s trying to find meaning. You understand. He can’t go home; he won’t be welcome. He spends three days trying to convince himself he’s fine.” Loki swallowed. “But he isn’t. He isn’t fine and he doesn’t know where the ducks go in winter and all he wants to do is catch the children and, honestly, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. Who’s to say the children in the rye don’t need someone to catch them, really. Who gets to decide that? It’s preposterous, it’s—“

Loki cut himself off, biting down on his words just like he did in the hallway. He looked down at his now empty plate and took a breath.

“It is, ultimately, the story of one young man’s mental breakdown.” They both sat quietly and looked away from each other. Loki took another deep breath and then turned to him, his large grin once again plastered firmly into place.

“Why don’t you go look at it in the living room for a few minutes? I’ll clean up here.” The legs of his chair scraped against the wood as he got out of the chair and headed for the kitchen while Odin walked slowly over to the living room and sat on the couch. He didn’t know what else to do.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Loki stack his leftover containers. He gathered all of their plates in one arm and strode over to the sink. At the last second, instead of placing the dishes inside of the sink, he flipped the plate in his hand and it vanished from sight. Odin couldn’t stop himself from sucking in a breath. He could still salvage this.

“Why, that was fantastic! How did you do such a thing?”

“I’m sorry?” Loki crossed over to the living room as Odin stood. He handed him his containers.

Odin tried to sound both supportive and amazed. “Those plates! They looked almost as if they vanished into clean air! How is it possible?”

“It’s nothing. Just a sleight of hand. A magic trick.” Loki started to push him towards the door. “You may borrow the book if you wish.”

“Yes, well. I insist on meeting you again for dinner next week. I must find out how you did such a thing.” Loki said nothing. “After all, my work with unusual and powerful artifacts still leaves me with a wild sense of curiosity. You understand.”

“Fine. Of course. Yes. I would love nothing more than to discuss your work with you next week. Knock at my door and we’ll set up a time.”

“What’s wrong with setting one now?”

“I’m afraid I have somewhere I need to be. It was a pleasure speaking with you.”

They were at the door. Suddenly, Odin could not resist prompting disaster.

“Your parents must be very proud.”

The laugh that tore from Loki’s throat was a bitter, broken thing. “Yes. Because all parents dream of a magician for a son.”

And he slammed the door in his father’s face. Odin stood staring at the frame, trying to protect himself against the memories.

They came regardless until Odin thought he would die with the pain of it.

He remembered when Loki was a little boy; he lay on his stomach in the family’s sitting room and practiced all of his spells. Little things at first. He would make lights appear in the air above Thor’s head. Usually plain white lights like stars. But sometimes he would make sparkles shoot out instead and follow Thor around, because he knew it drove his older brother mad.

He’d enchant flowers to bloom before their time and present them to Frigga. She’d laugh and laugh and kiss the top of his head in delight. For a time, every vase in their private quarters was filled to bursting no matter the season. Once, he enchanted a paper crane to flap its wings and flutter above his mother’s head, chirping happily around her hair.

But long before he premiered any of these tricks to Thor or Frigga—long before he showed any spells to anyone—Loki would run up to his father and tell him all in a rush about the new spell and how wonderful it was and do you think they’ll like it, Father and please, please, please, Father can I show it you? And Odin would laugh and say of course.

For a small span of time he’d worried that Loki was spending too much time indoors, but he needn’t have; Loki joined the other children more as he got older.

He couldn’t, however, remember when Loki stopped practicing his spells in the sitting room. Just that after a while, he began practicing alone in his rooms. After that, all of Frigga’s vases were nearly empty.

And what seemed like just a short while after that, he stopped asking his father to see his newest trick. He stopped asking everyone. Occasionally he would premier a trick while amusing children or showing off for Thor, but those times dwindled. Eventually the only time anyone saw a new spell was when it was absolutely perfected, out on the training grounds or battlefield or on a hunt.

He didn’t care, now, whether or not Loki could hit a bilgesnipe with a knife; Odin would give his only eye just to hear his son run up and ask him “Do you want to see a new spell, Father. I’ve been working on this one for some time! Don’t you want to see?” And this time Odin would laugh and say “Of course” and when Loki was done he’d wrap him up in a hug and spin him around and tell him how very proud he was…

Odin turned to go back inside his apartment before the dust in the hallway could irritate his worthless eyes any further.

 

Asgard, 1283

“Father? Father! I have something to show you!” Loki raced inside the throne room. Father was still there, he hadn’t left yet, Loki was tired but he could stay awake just a little longer. Just long enough for Father to see his new spell. He’d been working all night but that was all right. This spell was by far the best. Father would be so proud of him: his eyes would light up and he’d say splendid, Loki and smile and…and—Loki felt himself begin to hope—maybe he’d even set his hand down on Loki’s shoulder and give it a light squeeze like he sometimes used to. It hadn’t happened for a long time, but maybe this time…

“Father! I have something to show you!”

Odin shuffled some papers around in front of him. “Hmm? Oh, yes, Loki. Good morning.”

Loki waited.

“Was there anything you need?”

“I have something to show you, Father.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a new spell.” Loki tried to shuffle around to his father’s main line of vision, but Odin kept glancing down at his papers. I think you’ll really enjoy it, Father.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, yes.” Odin waved his hand in Loki’s direction.

Taking a deep breath, Loki willed himself to be calm and took two large steps back from the throne. He held out his hand just like he practiced and—there it was. There it was, sitting perfectly in his palm and Loki had been nervous, he’d been so worried that he’d try and nothing would happen and he’d have to try and convince Father that it was there, really honest it was, like the time he’d tried to show Thor and his friends the spell that makes things float but that wasn’t happening at all right now because there it was. He looked up at Father, expecting him to be amazed, but Father was still looking down.

‘Maybe’, he thought, ‘maybe I didn’t speak quite loud enough…’

“Father,” he started to say but then a loud crash sounded through the throne room. Thor bounded up to Odin.

“Father!” Thor shouted. “Father, what good fortune you are still here! It would be quite a travesty for this news to reach you three weeks too late.”

Odin looked up from his papers. “What are you doing up so early, Thor? Your tutors tell me it is quite unlike you.” He smiled slightly at his son as he spoke.

“I have magnificent news, Father. It simply couldn’t wait.”

‘It could wait two minutes.’ Loki thought ‘Father will ask him to wait for two minutes. I was here first. I got here even earlier.’

“Well, come, come, son. Tell me. Don’t build drama.”

Thor looked at his Father, took a deep breath, and then paused.

“Thor—“

He laughed, “I have just returned from the training grounds, Father. I have beaten my teacher Bork at swordplay.”

“That is marvelous news! Well done, my son! Well done, indeed!” Odin laid a hand down on Thor’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. Loki’s eyes widened.

‘You beat a teacher at axe-fighting last week!’ he thought ‘And Bork is not even the most revered teacher! It is not as if you mastered swordplay itself!’ He bit down on his tongue to keep the words from spilling out where they could hear him. Thor had worked hard for this. He should be happy for Thor.

“It pleases me hear that before I depart, Thor. Speaking of which, I am—blast it—I am late for that departure as we speak.” He stood up. “I shall see you in three weeks, boys.”

“But Father—“

“Hmm? Oh, yes, Loki?”

“Father, I—“ I have something to show you, he wanted to say, don’t you remember? But Father was late and busy and Loki didn’t want get compared to Thor. “I hope you have a fruitful journey, Father.”

“Thank you, Loki. I shall try. While I’m gone, I want the two of you to be fruitful as well. Thor, work to best your next teacher. Loki, why don’t you head out to the training grounds as well? You spend so much time indoors. You should spend more time with your brother. I am sure he has much to teach you.” With that, Odin turned and walked out of the room, Thor following after him.

Loki stayed behind in the shadow of the throne. He watched them go. His little light went out as he stood and rubbed quietly at the dust in his eyes.

Chapter Text

Two goblets of mead clashed together over Loki's head, sloshing liquid all over his plate. In the corner of the feast hall, two warriors shook their entire table, trying to see who could pin the other's arm down the longest. A table of young men just barely past their warrior training chanted numbers as a young ginger boy tossed and caught bits of meat with his mouth.

Loki felt the same degree of belonging and companionship he always did. Quietly, he poked at his now soggy bread.

Servants dashed back and forth, desperately trying to keep every goblet and table surface full. Aside from two young servant maids who were too busy arranging their bodies in ridiculous contortions, trying to catch Fandral's eye. Loki wondered how their faces came to be stuck in those truly unfortunate fishlike pouts. Surely if they could make another expression—any other expression—they would have done so.

On his left, Thor regaled their table with the tale of his formidable victory against a group of rogue trolls two months ago. Disregarding that most everyone at their particular table had each actually been present when it happened. In fact, Loki glanced around the feast hall, he was near one hundred percent sure that everyone at this post-battle feast was present for that post-battle feast as well.

Nonetheless, the usual crowd gathered around Thor, entranced at his every word.

Across from him, Volstagg mercilessly ripped apart an enormous hen. Each hand held a leg. He took turns wrenching out a huge chunk of meat from each. Loki almost wanted to watch longer and see if soon Volstagg's appetite would literally overtake him, and he would shove himself face-first into the breast of the creature. But with every tale Thor told, Volstagg laughed uproariously and bits of half-chewed spittle flew from his mouth. Loki turned his head to avoid getting hit in the face any more than he already had.

Perhaps that was the reason Volstagg kept such a full beard. After every feast he could pick out the bits of food that previously escaped him and then that way the meal could continue perpetually.

A group of musicians in the corner played every lively, brassy tune they knew. People danced in their seats. Those drunk enough stood up and danced, belting out war ditties. Even Hogun tapped his foot to the beat.

A bit of cooking oil wouldn't be hard to sneak in from the kitchens. He could spread it around a little on the floors…wouldn't that be funny?

He tried not to let his imagination run away with him. There wasn't any time for a prank and he couldn't risk anything getting linked back to him right now. In just a few minutes the music would stop and all of the din would die as Father rose from his throne and began the toasts. That couldn't be interrupted. Not by anything.

This was the moment. He'd bragged all about it to Baldur. The young guard watched the halls outside his chambers while Loki put on his elaborate armor and he hadn't been able to help himself.

The elderly sorceress they always sat him next to at these things (because apparently anyone even remotely interested in magic was good enough to interest Loki and he'd told his mother in no uncertain terms that Amora was a simpering dolt and he refused to hear her prattle on about Thor for one more insipid moment) was blathering about how she had a young great-great-granddaughter who had just started her magic lessons.

He tried to tune her out ("she can already turn needles into matchsticks; really she's an absolute doll, you two are just perfect together; I mean I understand she's a little young now but who really cares about a couple of centuries in the long run?"); Father was shuffling in his seat. Soon.

Soon turned out to be immediately because the band died quicker than the troll in Thor's story the second the Allfather rose from his chair.

"My warriors and noblemen and women of Asgard, I thank you for feasting with us today. As you know, Thor—my first born—was in Nornheim two eves ago, battling against their hordes for the return of one of our most precious possessions." Odin looked out into the crowd. "The perpetuating armor that was stolen from us by Nornheim nearly an age ago. Now it is back in our halls. We have my sons and their friends to thank for that." He smiled fondly in their table's direction. Loki waited eagerly for him to continue.

"And Prince Thor!" Yetrik, an old warrior from the Frost Giant War, yelled out drunkenly. "Who smashed his way straight through a hundred soldiers!"

The halls resounded with the echo of clapping. All the tables shouted out and the floors slickened with the wetness of fifty goblets flung heartily to the ground in delight. Loki waited for his father to continue.

Allfather chuckled quietly at the antics of his feast hall. He smiled briefly at his wife in shared amusement and then sat.

Loki's grip on his handle tightened. He tried to subtly look around the table. Other people saw the battle. Or heard of it. Surely someone else would stand. He need only wait. Surely someone else would speak. In just a moment. Anybody could mention.

In the corner, the music began once again to play.

444444444444444

The little note that Odin found slipped underneath his door was covered in small, cramped writing.

Friday, 7:00 pm

Food is not necessary.

He picked up the card carefully and caressed the inked words. Slowly, he walked into the bedroom with the card still cupped delicately in his hands.

He remembered when he wandered into the library, four days after Loki's fall. That was not surprising. Those days—and many days after that and even now—his feet wandered the palace of their own accord, drifting almost ghostlike without his mind's consent.

Until, of course, he neared any part close to Loki's wing. Then they were like granite.

On that day, the fourth day, he found himself in the library's enchantments section. Surprised again at his own actions, his hand reached up and pulled down a random spellbook. Mindlessly he flipped through the pages until—there it was.

Loki's familiar handwriting, sketched faintly next to an intermediate fire spell. Little notes lined the margins. Pronunciations were written, slashed through, written, slashed through, and written again at least ten times over throughout the page. Tiny drawings of arrows outlined would-be hand motions.

Loki used to write him notes. Tiny things he'd leave carefully on his desk. He'd almost forgotten.

Father! I have a great new spell! I can't wait to show you! - Love, Loki.

Father! Thor and I just returned from a trip to the woods. We caught the most amazing toad! Come and see it! We're down in the kitchens. We gathered a bunch of plants we want the chefs to cook up. Almost definite they're not poisonous. - Love, your son.

They continued for years.

Father, I perfected a new technique with my daggers this morning. Please let me know when you have the chance to watch. -Your son, Loki.

The last one he'd received, if Odin took the time to really think about it, was from around eight months ago.

Father, I didn't get a chance to speak with you privately after Thor and I returned from Nornheim this afternoon. If your schedule permits, may I come and tell you about it? I'll stop by at six if you're not busy. -Loki.

As he'd stood stationary in that library, clutching a spellbook of years long past, he realized that he would never see Loki write anything again. There would be no new scratchings or letters. Everything with the slightest trace of his son's handwriting would be either in the library sitting idly on a shelf or locked up in a room no one could bare to go near. Left to rot.

What had happened to all those old notes? He remembered reading them, remembered setting them aside to put away later, remembered sitting to do what seemed like mountains of paperwork and then…

And then Odin knew he'd never dare to clean his desk again.

How many notes were buried under all those piles of tomes and contracts and treaties that he'd tossed down onto the desk without looking?

How many notes had been cast aside, when they should have been cherished?

How many were left there for years: unread and forgotten?

And now a handwritten note from his son was sitting in his hand. And Odin was so grateful he'd had the foresight to keep one of the ravens always perched inside the apartment, ready to alert him in a second if anybody knocked or entered or altered the dwelling in any way. Because this note—this beautiful, wonderful note! —was new. It was new and the ink was so freshly wet that if he just stretched out his thumb the tiniest bit it would smear.

He wouldn't dare. This note had to be set aside. It needed special care. His hand nearly shook with the fear that he'd somehow crush it in his hand, ruin this like he ruined every precious thing he ever held. He blew onto the ink to dry it before he reached up toward the shelf placed on his right bedroom wall.

Carefully, he placed the note inside one of the middle pages and closed it. A little knight stared up at him from the cover. Man of La Mancha.

Did Loki know it? Perhaps he could bring it up on Friday; a story with knights might bring them back to some sort of middle ground.

He walked out of the bedroom, that vain little hope burning painfully in his heart.

4444444444

On Friday Odin wished he'd examined the note more thoroughly. Did 'food not necessary' mean food not welcome? Maybe it didn't. He should have brought something. Maybe? Was it rude to not bring something when one was not specifically asked not to bring something? Or was it ruder to bring things one was not specifically ordered to bring? What did Midgardians do? Would Loki do what they did? What did Loki do?

He should have left for Midgard early! After last time he'd wanted to be perfectly punctual, neither early nor late, but now there was no time to go back to Asgard and grab something! And nowhere near enough time to locate Midgardian dishes to transport it in so that Loki wouldn't suspect! There would be a fine finish. Found out because Loki wondered what his mother's favorite china was doing in the hands of an elderly mortal! He could chalk it up right next to all of his other recent failures. Maybe one day he could even learn to breath comfortably underneath all their crushing weight.

He turned his head to look down the hallway. Perhaps he could stop by one of the Midgardian food places. There was no worse thing than to be thought stringy and ungenerous. Surely Loki would understand—

"You disgusting mortal!" Loki's voice yelled from the other side of the door. "How dare you! Insignificant worm! I am chaos and flame! I have reveled in ferocity you have never even dreamt of!"

"Yes, Doom knows the legends." Odin didn't recognize this voice. It sounded somehow booming and far away at the same time, covered in some small sort of static. "Loki and the Mighty Thor against the many—"

"Do not bring Thor into this!"

"—striking down hundreds with every blow. Now months have passed since your last crusade against humanity and what does Doom's alliance have to show? Pointless battles with the Avengers, mass panic to no real end—"

"I have given my life to trickery and deceit! You know nothing of my current plans! The Avengers stew in a false sense of security while I—"

"Doom should dispel this alliance while he still can. You would be so much more useful on a lab table—"

"You'll see! Soon! Very soon, I shall have the most dangerous, most deadly, most vicious…" Odin couldn't bear to hear any more of this conversation. He knocked at the door. "…artifacts the world has ever seen! Hundreds! Thousands even! We shall see who is so useless then!" A slam echoed.

A few moments passed and then Loki opened the door, hair a mess and a large, fake smile tacked onto his face.

"Oscar! My most sincere apologies. I seem to have let time run away from me. How long, exactly, were you left out here to wait?"

"Only the merest of seconds, friend. I'm afraid I was running a tad late myself."

Loki's eyes twitched slightly. "Ah. Well. No matter, then. Please, do come inside."

The apartment looked slightly more…rumpled than when he last arrived. There were stacks of documents littering the coffee table and counters. The table was half-obscured with books Odin couldn't make out the titles of and a large paper was scrawled all over with small, cramped writing.

"Sit, sit. The couch is right over there." Loki walked away from him before disappearing into what Odin assumed to be his bedroom. Could he follow? He could ask if there was any way he could assist and then sneak a glance inside when Loki wasn't looking.

Loki closed the door tight behind him. Odin sighed and then made his way over to the couch.

The stacks of paper on the coffee table were even thicker up close. Odin wanted to shuffle some of them around—see exactly what artifacts his son was so preoccupied with—but he didn't want to risk Loki walking out and catching him.

Who was this "Doom" fellow? Thor never mentioned any sort of alliance. At first, he thought the man on the phone was an assistant to Doom; now, the more he thought it over, the more he became convinced that it was, in fact, actually Doom referring to himself in the third person.

The very idea was disconcerting. What sort of madman did such a thing?

Loki reentered the room. "I thought about your quest, before. I believe I may have something quite useful to your search."

"My…search?"

"The one you mentioned last week." Odin was certain his facial expression was doing a fantastic impression of a particularly baffled ape. Loki stared pointedly. "About literature." Silence.

Loki rolled his eyes. He began speaking very slowly, moving his hands around in a wide circle, like he was trying to keep rolling his eyes by rolling his hands instead. "The Catcher in the Rye? You said that you wanted to learn more about literature…?"

"Ah! Yes! My search! Forgive me. This old brain, causes me more trouble than triumph these days."

"Indeed." He took a second to place himself down on the seat, reshuffling papers as he did so. "Regardless, I thought about it after you left. I came up with a few titles I could recommend you. I'm assuming you're still interested?"

"Of course, of course. Continue. Please."

"Well, for starters, have you ever read To Kill A Mockingbird?" Odin shook his head. Loki smirked. "I thought not. It's a book set not too long ago, only about last century. In the nineteen-thirties, I believe. About a small, southern town and a court case. Surprisingly interesting. I thought you might enjoy it. Then I thought, why not enjoy it together? There was, it turns out, a movie made of the book which I had not previously seen before." Odin tried not to look too confused.

"Admittedly, it is in black and white. And the book is far superior. However, it is much more companionable."

"Yes, yes." He coughed. "A wonderful idea! You are so kind to think of me."

Loki got up, walked over to the large, flat screen and pressed a button. A thin tray came forth and he placed a thin disk upon it. He turned his head toward Odin as he sat down on the couch. "It was nothing. Merely one friend helping another. I am positive that you'll do the same thing for me."

The words "To Kill A Mockingbird" appeared on the screen, followed by a bunch of names. Loki turned to him and smiled.

"Tell me, how are things at the museum?"

"Hmm? Oh. Fine, I suppose."

"Has anything new come in for you to examine? I confess I'm very curious; all those strange and fascinating artifacts that find their way into your hands, it all must be very exciting."

Oh. Oh. Realization dawned on Odin. Loki had been speaking to Doom about him. All those hundreds and thousands of artifacts were supposed to come from him; that was the plan.

He didn't have any artifacts to show him. Nor could he ever possibly give them to Loki even if he did. But…the only reason Loki was continuing to speak with him, he could see oh so clearly now, was for the artifacts. If he cut off that plan now, Loki would never bother talking to him again.

He'd be right back to where he started. Back in Asgard again, staring into the void and trying to imagine this was all one of Loki's illusions, the grandest scheme he'd ever dealt. He'd return to the palace and there Loki would be, waiting for him in the throne room.

Loki would laugh and then grin up at him cheekily, like the time when he was a boy and Odin asked him if there was any possible way he knew why Thor's tunics kept turning pink.

"Got you, Father!" he'd say "How did you like the bridge? I'm quite proud of myself; it's one of the best illusions I've ever done." He'd laugh. "But don't worry, Father. Everything's fine now."

And Odin, he'd be so relieved and happy that he'd laugh too. "Loki! I should have known. You had me worried for a while, son."

"I merely realized it had been too long a time since my last prank, Father. I wouldn't want anyone in Asgard to forget about me."

"Oh, Loki." He'd reach out and cup the back of Loki's neck with his hand. "Who could ever possibly forget you?"

He couldn't go back to that. Not again. Especially not now, when he knew once more what it was like to sit down next to his son. It would all hurt so much worse now.

What was another charade, really? When he was already in so deep.

"I'm afraid I don't have the clearance yet to see any of the truly interesting things that come in. I have to pass all sorts of tests and get interviewed by whole hosts of people. Even though they hired me as a consultant. Right now I'm stuck with a bunch of stuffy old documents. Could take weeks before they let me handle anything truly dangerous."

"Really. Weeks?"

Odin licked his lips. "Certainly."

"Well." Loki looked away from him and shuffled about in his seat. He rearranged some of the papers on the coffee table before gathering them all up and slamming them onto the floor. Then he pulled up his feat onto the couch, his hand clenching and unclenching the arms of the sofa. "I suppose that's to be expected."

A little girl up in a tree appeared on the screen. Loki turned away from Odin and focused all of his attention onto her. Odin copied him and looked up at the screen. They watched in silence, Loki carefully observing the story and Odin trying to sort out different ways to get out of the mess he'd created.

Loki, Odin noticed, seemed particularly attached to Atticus. The moment he appeared on the screen, Loki leaned slightly forward, nodding along with almost every word Atticus spoke. He sank back slightly into his chair as Atticus departed and the children amused themselves outside of the Radley home, then sat up straight again when Atticus reappeared in the courthouse.

Odin wondered whether anyone would judge him for being jealous of a fictional father.

Loki pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, resting his chin carefully on top.

And with that one movement, suddenly his little boy was sitting next to him, just like he used to all those years ago, when he would come into Thor and Loki's room right before bed and tell them a story. And Loki would stare up at him just like this, all wide eyes and hugged knees and now Odin was having difficulty believing that any of this was ever real after all.

How could it be, how could hundreds of years have really passed when Loki could still look just exactly like he always used to?

Perhaps everything was an illusion. Perhaps his sons never really grew up at all. He'd turn away, just for a moment, and call Thor into the room. Tell him to stop dallying and come join his brother. And as he did, this whole terrible world would fade away, and when he looked back to Loki all of the weariness and bitterness and pain will have faded from him too. He'd tell them of their ancestors, like the powerful Bor who stormed armies while his long blonde air waved in the wind behind him.

Then he'd reach up and ruffle Thor's hair and say "Perhaps one day your hair will flow into battle after you, my son."

And Loki would look at Thor and tease. "It already does."

They'd all laugh and then Loki would look up to him with huge, imploring eyes and ask "Who's hair do I have, Father?"

And Odin would hesitate. The exact way he always did whenever Loki asked where he got his eyes or nose or hands or anything. And he'd think that maybe now was the time to tell them. Maybe now they were old enough.

But Loki was already so different…

"You got your hair from my great-great-great grandfather Ve, of course."

And Loki would smile and lie back against his pillows, eyes starting to droop from tiredness, while Odin tried to convince himself he'd done the right thing. Thor and Loki were so young still. The people's wounds were still raw from the war with Jotunheim. The people would turn on Loki and how then would Odin stop them from seeing anything other than—

"—you gentlemen would go along with them on the assumption, the evil assumption, that all negroes lie; all negroes are basically immoral beings; all negro men are not to be trusted around our women, an assumption that one associates with minds of their caliber." Odin turned suddenly back to the screen, torn from his day dream by Atticus' impassioned speech. "And which is in itself, gentlemen, a lie—which I do not need to point out to you."

He looked back at his son on the couch, perched so carefully on the cushion's edge while his fingernails dug holes into the edge of the armrest. He was impossibly still, face like stone as his eyes bored dents into the television. His shoulders straightened until Odin thought they might snap.

"In the name of God, do your duty. In the name of God, believe Tom Robinson."

Odin saw Loki's hand curl into a determined fist and then he avidly watched the rest of the film, hoping desperately that Tom would get justice at last. At least for the sake of giving Loki something to be happy about. But the jury ruled against him, driven by nothing but the hearsay of those they deemed more worthy. Atticus fought a losing battle, but he fought it ardently, as if he knew he was destined to lose but knew also that he was not destined to lose by giving up.

And then Tom Robinson was dead, imprisoned and desperate and shot trying to escape. The fire that lit up Loki's eyes during the film died with him. He slumped back in his seat and watched the rest of the film without changing position. His eyebrow quirked slightly when Boo Radley became a hero. That was all.

As the credits rolled, Odin leaned back and tried to think of something to say.

Loki spoke first, his lips barely moving. "They should have helped him escape."

Of anything, Odin did not expect to hear that. "What?"

"Tom Robinson. They should have helped him escape."

Odin licked his lips. "Or…they could have helped him realize there was no need to escape at all. The appeal was coming. They could have saved him yet."

Loki scoffed slightly and looked at him sideways, as if vaguely amused that so naïve a creature could exist. "Tom Robinson was doomed to die. Everyone knew it from the beginning. Even Atticus, though he dared for change so admirably. There could have been hundreds of appeals. Hundreds of courts. It wouldn't have mattered. With people such as the Ewells, words and arguments will only go so far."

He paused briefly. "In the end, escape was his only option. It is unfortunate he was alone in that. With the right people…" Loki gave a short, acidic laugh. "Though, I suppose you could argue that the guards did provide him with a form of escape after all. At least his jailers were useful in the end."

Odin stared at his son.

Loki gave another laugh, this one self-deprecating. "Ah, well. What could have been. Nonetheless, a well-crafted piece of literature I'm sure you'll agree. I do hope I've helped you at least somewhat."

Odin coughed. "Of course. Indeed you have, my friend."

"Splendid." Loki stood up and walked toward the door. Odin followed. "I find myself with a bit more spare time this week than I typically have. So. Why not come back in two days and we'll do this again?" Another false smile was tacked thinly onto his lips.

The brittleness was back in his son's eyes and he thought of his wife, sitting alone in a garden dreaming up children while he sat on a couch in Midgard and dreamt of the past. What a pair they made.

"Of course, my friend. Nothing would please me more."

Loki nodded his head briefly and the gently shut the door. Odin slowly made his way down the corridor.

If he was going to fight a losing battle, Odin decided, then he was going to fight it as hard as his old bones still could.

44444444444444

'We should never have come here.'

All around, Nornheim warriors surrounded them. Sif and the Warriors Three were all standing back to back, poised like tigers, their hands resting on their weapons. Thor stood slightly behind him, Mjolnir gripped in one hand while the other held the case of armor they'd all delved into the lair of Nornheim's fiercest dragon to secure. Loki stood face to face with Nornheim's chief, Rolkstaff.

The situation was not yet compromised. He could repair this. They'd see.

"My lord." He bowed low. Thor bristled behind him. "There seems to be some sort of misunderstanding. We are the Aesir princes, along with Lady Sif and the Warriors Three. There is no need for your army. We regret that we did not inform you of our presence earlier, but I assure you we mean no harm."

"You dare speak such lies while the evidence of your theft stands so clearly behind you?!" Spit flung from the chief's lips as he spoke and smacked Loki lightly in the face.

"We have committed no theft. The replenishing armor is Aesir by right—"

"Nornheim's mages worked to craft that armor at the very beginning of our history. The brief stint of time it rusted away in an Aesir vault after your ancestors wrongfully stole it from us does not merit any right!"

"He lies!" Thor shouted. "Our people commissioned this armor eons ago! Your kind failed to deliver it!"

"How very Aesir. To offer a measly pittance for the most finely crafted shielding in the nine realms and then condemn us when we refuse to debase ourselves with such an offer!"

Loki took another step toward Rolkstaff. "We can all see clearly the difference in our two nations narratives. But those were the words and actions of people long past. Let us compromise." Rolkstaff lowered his shoulders slightly at Loki's words. His head tilted slightly as he listened. "Allow us to return home to Asgard with the armor for a short period. We will study the armor, to see if we might not replicate the enchantments so expertly crafted on it. If we can, we will honor your people and then pay for your assistance. If we cannot, we will consult your people and then pay for your assistance. In either case, the armor will return to you."

Rolkstaff regarded him slowly. "How can we be so sure the Aesir will not retract their promises?"

"We will leave something valuable in return. Then we will have no choice but to bring the armor back and secure—"

"Loki! Do not waste your breath on these mongrels." Thor stepped in front of Loki and glowered down at Rolkstaff. "We are leaving with armor we rightfully seized. You will let us pass. Any qualms you may have can be taken up with our father, the King of the Aesir and Allfather to these nine realms."

Rolkstaff drew himself up to his full height, his hands clenching into fists. "Your father is a blind man on a blood-soaked throne!"

"While you sit dumbly on a decrepit one!"

"You stir violence with your words!"

"I am a warrior!" Thor unsheathed Mjolnir. "And I stir victory!"

He thrust his hammer at Rolkstaff who blocked it with his sword. Nornheim's warriors ran towards them. Sif and the Warriors Three kept their formation, fighting back the hordes. Soon there were too many. Their formation broke off into two pairs, each standing back to back to try and protect themselves.

Loki stood alone, hurling daggers at every warrior who came close. The poisoned tip of the knives fell each opponent the moment it made contact. But the men kept coming. Even with magic, he'd only be able to fight them off for a few more minutes, at most.

Thor and Rolkstaff were lost in their own duel, each thrusting his weapon at the other with as much force as they could muster. Thor ducked low and struck Rolkstaff across the knees, slamming him ten feet away and down deep into the ground. A howl of agony filled the air.

The warriors took their cue to come at Thor wholeheartedly. Dozens of warriors closed in on him. Thor was blind with the rage of battle; he took down each warrior that came at him.

Soon, they abandoned all pretenses and attacked him wildly. Hogun had been separated from Sif and was whirling tightly around in a circle. His mace hit many warriors. But not all.

Sif's sword sliced into three or four warriors at a time. They swarmed a circle around her. Her back was unguarded.

Volstagg's arm was spurting blood from where a warrior cut deep into it. Bone was showing. Fandral collided his sword with every opponent he could hit while still trying to guard his felled comrade.

Over half of Nornheim's army was fallen. Loki wasn't sure they'd live to see the death of the other half.

He spread out his arms and muttered a spell. A thick cloud seared up around them, enveloping everyone in a stiff fog as black as night. Loki muttered one more spell for vision and then ducked away from his attackers.

One by one, he grabbed each of the Aesir and thrust them towards the Bifrost site. Volstagg was first. Loki nearly carried him half of the way until Volstagg recovered enough to stumble slowly away on his own. He grabbed each Fandral and Hogun by the forearm, his fingers spread out in the hold they all used to show each other they meant no harm. He ducked down low to avoid their attackers and jabbed toward the site until Fandral grasped what he was trying to tell him and ducked as well, forcing his way quickly through his warriors. Hogun stayed with him briefly to help him drag Sif away from the battle, cursing at each of them.

Nornheim was fighting in the dark. All they could see was black night. Loki summoned illusions of Sif and the Warriors Three, making them shine just brightly enough that Nornheim would think they were still there. It was a cunning bit of trickery, and he was proud, but resolved not to tell the others of it. They regarded his illusions so very coldly, after all.

He approached Thor slowly, ducking down at his legs and clasping both his hands gently around his knees, a nonthreatening hold they'd used since childhood. Thor glanced quickly down. His eyes lit on Loki and he grinned, pleased to see that the black fog was obviously his brother's doing. He and Loki made their way toward the Bifrost site together. Loki held the armor and Thor struck a blow at Nornheim's warriors at every opportunity.

They gathered at the Bifrost site. Their battle was a black cloud in the distance, the clanging of swords still ringing out.

"We could have defeated them." Thor said.

Loki smirked fondly at his brother. "Perhaps."

Sif called up at Heimdall. As the Bifrost surged around them, Loki smiled. He'd helped secure the magically replenishing armor that had been lost to Asgard for centuries. He'd fought valiantly in a battle against their aggressors. And in the end, when Nornheim threatened to overwhelm them, he alone had assured their escape.

He couldn't wait to tell Father of this.

Chapter Text

The light from Loki’s torch cast long shadows across the training storage room’s weapons. Long axes looked even more menacing cast in darkness. Swords hung on all the walls; their shadows stretched toward him like arms. High above his reach the practice hammers loomed over him.

Loki suppressed a shiver. He couldn’t let himself lose focus now, couldn’t get scared. He was a prince and royalty was never afraid.

‘At least,’ he thought. ‘Not in Asgard.’

Still, the sheer amount of weapons was overwhelming. In the practice yards, the teachers always selected students’ weapons before lessons. He’d never had to pick out his own before, but only a few hours of nightfall remained, and he needed to move quickly.

Squaring his shoulders, he stepped closer to the weapons. The axes, closer up, looked promising. It was a traditional and respectable weapon of a warrior.

Maybe if he learned to wield that, he could stand beside Thor in battle, each of them holding a one-handed weapon, back-to-back. Like two halves to one whole.

But the other children always laughed whenever he tried to wield an axe. He constantly leaned too heavily over to one side. Last lesson he picked up the axe too quickly and collapsed back down into the dirt, with the others all like hyenas around him.

‘Perhaps…’ he thought with one hand still frozen toward the axes, ‘perhaps another day.’ His hand fell back down to his side.

The hammers were too high for him to reach. Thor was always going on about the hammer in the vault—Mjolnir, it might be called, Loki wasn’t too sure—and how one day when he came of age that hammer was going to be his and they’d be the greatest pair in all the land.

‘We could both have hammers.’ A quiet voice whispered in the back of Loki’s mind.

But no, no, that wasn’t right. Hammers were Thor’s weapon. And Loki probably wouldn’t even be very good at it. It’d be too heavy and he would fall over all the time—just like with the axe—and then he’d have to drag it around one-handed on the ground every day and he’d get all lop-sided and bent like a troll. “The Crooked Prince”, they’d call him.

Perhaps it was better to stay away from short, one-handed weapons altogether, for now.

The bows seemed fine, but he’d have to lug out the targets. And he’d have to practice in the field. Someone might see him, out in the open and moving about. He could practice in the woods, but he’d have to do that during the day.

He turned toward the swords and the staffs. The swords seemed fine, with some practice he may get better at wielding one. But if he learned to wield a staff…

The staff was his father’s weapon. In every painting of Odin a staff was there with him, either in his hand or placed carefully to the side; a constant reminder of strength.

If Loki learned how to fight with a staff then he’d be just like Father. They’d ride into battle together, their twin staffs by their sides (and maybe that’s what he’d ask for, years and years from now when he finally came of age; Thor could have a weapon from the vault and Loki could have a perfect replica of Gungnir, straight from the dwarves) and everyone would look at them and say how amazing it was that Loki was so much like his father.

Afterward, Loki and Odin would go back to the palace and sit together and talk of their staffs. Discuss different ways to swing and stab and polish them and about all the other things they’d have in common then, too.

The staffs weren’t too difficult to reach. If he boosted himself up just slightly on one of the pile of mats near where they were hung, he could reach high enough to take one. He stood on the mats and eased one gently off its hook. The sudden weight stumbled him slightly, but he regained his balance and stepped down to the floor.

His teacher taught them proper stances last week. Placing his legs slightly apart, he swung the staff around him. They’d only worked on staffs once or twice in lessons; if he worked out here every night, by the time they came back to staffs, he’d seem advanced.

He swung the staff around him again. It wobbled in his hands. He gripped it tighter.

There was plenty of space around him, enough so that all the bigger warriors could move equipment around freely. Loki picked a patch of air slightly to the left of him and thrust the staff in that direction.

When he and Thor were very little, they used to run around the castle and pretend to vanquish would-be foes. They’d duck behind huge potted plants and throw their practice swords and yell things back and forth to each other, acting like they were vanquishing frost giants. Loki tried to imagine there was a wicked frost giant right in front of him now. It was bright blue with blood-colored eyes (from eating its enemies, everyone said) and stood about two hundred feet tall, leering down at him with razor-sharp fangs.

Loki had to fell this frost giant, right now, so that it couldn’t run out and ruin Asgard.

He jabbed at the space with all of his strength. Then swung the staff left and right, as far as his arms could reach. He leapt up into the air and thrust the staff down against the enemy as he leapt.

The staff still wobbled in his grasp; when he swung, the force carried him a little. A few times when he leapt up he slammed the staff down too early and he fell down.

Remembering every technique his teacher told him was difficult, but Loki tried to practice every one. Sweat dripped from his temples. He swung the staff with as much force as his arms would allow, but his breathing was labored. The sound of the door opening did not reach his ears.

“What are you doing here, Loki?”

The staff clattered onto the floor. Loki’s shoulders tensed. He turned toward the voice, trying to push down the feeling of dread.

“Father. I…I apologize. I didn’t hear you enter.”

Odin ignored his apology. “It is very late, Loki. A servant told me you were not in your bed. I was about to wake your mother.” His mouth set in a severe line. “You would have had the whole castle up and looking for you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…I just wanted to…” He lowered his gaze to the floor. “I just wanted to practice, that’s all.”

Odin’s eyes fell on the staff. His lips eased out of their frown. “You are perfecting your staff work?”

“Yes. I wanted to perfect some stances before—“

“Show me.”

Loki bit his lip. His father’s gaze didn’t waver. Loki wished it would; wished he would look away for just one second so that Loki could find the words to say that he wasn’t ready yet, that he wasn’t perfect yet, find the words to make his father finally listen, but everyone said warriors never doubted. Warriors were always ready.

And…and his father’s gaze was finally on him.

The staff was on the ground just a foot or two away from him. Loki bent down to pick it up. His palms were moist; they slicked the handle and his grip was harder to maintain. He hesitated for a moment and then spread his feet out into an intermediary fighting stance. Odin’s lips turned up slightly at the corners and his hands loosened from their stern place behind his back.

Loki decided to start small. Just slow little moves and steps, trying to keep his father’s gaze on him for as long as possible. He’d been so busy lately…

For a few seconds, he practiced jutting out the staff in small jabs. He tried to add some footwork into it, nothing big. Just small steps.

But, he reminded himself, Thor smashed his practice hammer through three separate dummies two days ago. So what if small steps wasn’t enough? And right now his father was losing interest. He couldn’t let this be boring, just another useless trick, this had to be bigger, had to be better.

Loki gripped the staff as hard as possible and raised it high above his head. He took a few steps backward before running. He ran three feet and jumped, as high as he could, trying to twist his body in the air so he could stab his staff behind him.

With a loud thud, he landed on his back. He’d thrust too far forward in the air too soon, not giving himself enough time to twist. The dirt around him puffed up and covered his clothes where he lay.

Odin’s eye felt heavy on his skin. Loki looked up at his father. The look of disappointment on his face burned Loki like a brand. He turned away from his father to stare at the ground.

They both stayed like that for a moment, Loki covered in dirt and so low next to the king. Unworthy. He wondered how long he would have to wait before Father would leave the training shed the way he came. And how long he would have to wait then before he could follow out after.

A large hand reached down to him, stopping just in front of Loki’s face.

Tentatively, he put his own small, cold hand in his father’s large, warm one and allowed himself to be pulled back up onto his feet. The staff stayed on the ground.

Odin was still staring at him, Loki could feel it, but he refused to look. Instead he watched his hand. It dropped away from Loki the second his feet were back on the ground and wavered in the air. It couldn’t seem to decide where to go. For an instant, it drifted toward his shoulders, as if to swipe away the dirt.

Next toward his head, as if to ruffle his hair. He was sure it was going to settle on his face and cup his cheek in its palm when suddenly it hovered instead near his neck, as if to cup the bone there. It stayed in the air for one long moment, before dropping back down to his father’s side.

Loki yearned for it.

“Well. That was…” Odin breathed out through his nose. “We’ll get you a staff tutor. Don’t fret. First thing in the morning, my son.”

Loki stared up at his father and tried not to mourn too keenly the absence of an embrace he did not truly deserve.

“Come, Loki. It is long past time for bed.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way.

-------------------------

The council room was bustling. All of the lords of each outer province were all gathered to discuss the year’s upcoming taxes. Odin could barely hear himself think. The lord of the farthest eastern province was arguing with the west’s, accusing him for such high tax increases. The scribe in the corner was scribbling desperately.

Odin couldn’t remember last year’s meeting being so busy. Perhaps it wasn’t. Usually the meeting took place every year at the same time, but he’d been relegating everything to advisors recently and needed to postpone.

The extra few weeks apparently gave everyone the time they needed to think about all their many and varied grievances.

(It was seemed so different from his first few meetings after the Fall. Words floating by him like smoke. All of his familiar advisors and councilmen tensed like stone.)

Roftar—his most opinionated councilman—was exclaiming to any that would listen about the storm damage his province was still recovering from, how they needed help to rebuild.

(At the first meeting after the Fall, Roftar sat silently through a meeting for the only time. Over and over he opened his mouth to say something but each time his words seemed to fail him and nothing came out. Odin had wondered if Loki would have known what to say.)

Tulrak yelled back at Roftar, saying that everyone had storm damage; Roftar’s province couldn’t expect special privilege just because his land was closest to Idunn’s trees. If Odin didn’t call the meeting to order soon, nothing would get done, just more postponing and reinstating of old tax rules.

Odin wished, sometimes, that he knew enough about magic to make illusions like Loki did. He should have asked him how years ago—or decades, when had Loki first started to do illusions—then he could have left the fake Odin with the council and gone to spend some time with his son…

(But he needed to be here, now. Needed to be king. The King of the Nine Realms couldn’t be a ghost. His oldest advisor had pulled him aside a month after the Fall, told him the King of the Nine Realms was strong, infallible and firm. Asgard needed a King, not a father…)

“Daddy!”

Odin froze, his fist raised in mid-air, poised to strike the table and order silence. Now silence fell of its own accord. Each councilman turned toward the noise. Nothing was heard for a moment.

“Daddy!”

Tulrak blushed heavily, fidgeting in his seat. A little girl appeared from under the table. She was tiny, barely three feet tall.

“Daddy, up!”

Tulrak turned slightly away from the rest of the counsel and inclined his head toward his daughter.

“Aesa, we talked about this. Daddy is very busy right now; he needs you to stay quiet for a little while, so he can work. Remember?”

Odin cleared his throat. “What is the meaning of this, Tulrak?”

Tulrak winced. “I’m sorry, my liege, truly. My wife is sick. There was no offense meant in this, I swear. Only this meeting had already been postponed twice before and I could not miss it, but there was no one to watch her.”

“Don’t you have a caretaker for her?” One of the younger councilmen spoke; Odin couldn’t remember his name.

Tulrak turned toward his peer, face pinched. “Our only caretaker left us last week, to assist her family with a new baby up north. We haven’t found anyone to replace her yet.”

“Couldn’t you just leave her with a servant here?”

Now Tulrak seemed defensive. “She is very young. To be left alone with strangers frightens her. I do not suppose you have any children of your own.”

“That is enough.” All eyes turned to Odin.

“It does not matter why or how she came to be here, only that she is here now. You…” He took a large breath. What was the protocol on children at meetings?, “…should have informed me at once that your child was with you. To not do so is err on your part.” Tulrak's throat swallowed, but at the same time he raised his chin slightly higher. “Yet, you were clearly not alone in your deception.”

He swept his eye over Tulrak’s side of the table. “Or do all of you mean to tell me no one noticed a child next to their feet.”

“My liege—“

“I have no interest in your reasons. Let us continue our meeting. With less shouting, this time.”

Slowly, the talking resumed. The lords in the east and west worked with each other to sort out a mutually beneficial tax rate. Roftar continued his discussion with Tulrak, trying to work out some sort of protective system that could be implemented to protect Idunn’s apples, at the very least.

All the while Odin kept his gaze on the far half of the table, where the little girl sat on the floor next to her father. Occasionally, she stood up and tugged at her father’s coat. A few times, she crawled over to his feet and tried to pull herself up onto his lap, but each time she was rebuffed. Tulrak placed his hand on her shoulder and nudged her back down onto the floor.

“Do you not allow your daughter to sit with you?”

All eyes turned back to Odin.

“I beg your pardon, my King?”

“She has been trying to sit with you for the last five minutes. Longer, if her behavior earlier is any indicator. Yet you have refused her. Is this a usual policy, in your home?”

Tulrak furrowed his brow. “Of course it isn’t.”

“Then why are you doing so now?”

“This is an official counsel, my King. I did not think it was…appropriate.”

“And why is that, Tulrak?”

“My liege I am sorry if I seem out of turn, but no one has so much as allowed a child inside a counsel room before. To perch her on my lap seemed…” He waved his hands slowly in the air, trying to cast about for the right word. “…insolent.”

Odin opened his mouth to speak, to remind Tulrak that Odin had his own children. He knew how it felt to have one with him during court business. But…he eased his mouth shut again. Tulrak was right. He’d kept Thor and Loki with him sometimes in the throne room as children, but never in the counsel room. There was no precedent.

‘There could have been.’ His mind whispered. ‘If you’d done it. You could have brought a child into the meeting and perched him on your lap and held him the entire time.’

And Loki had loved these meetings. He’d been more fascinated by these boorish old men and crumpled papers than Odin had ever understood. Before some of the meetings, he’d had to peel Loki off of his tunic beforehand, his youngest son’s grip iron-clad as he clung to his father.

Even when he was older, Loki would stand outside the doors to these meetings on occasion. Wide-eyed and staring up at his father, but he didn’t ever ask to join. Odin used to wonder what he was doing there. Probably, Odin realized, he was listening at the door.

He looked around at his advisors. All these old men and women. They’d been with him for centuries. He wondered how many of them knew for years that Loki had wanted to come inside a meeting.

Odin cleared his throat. “She is your child. She wants to be with you. A wise father does not deny his affection.”

------------------------

The meeting stuck with him in the days before his next encounter with Loki. He wondered about it constantly. Sometimes he saw that little girl in his dreams, saw her reaching up and begging for her father. Those nights he woke up and could not sleep again.

He wondered what it would be like now, to hug Loki.

Nervousness pitted in the bottom of his stomach at the thought. How would Loki react? Yes, Odin knew his son was an adult now, knew that he would not be raising up his arms and asking “Up! Up!”ever again, but surely Loki still needed warmth or friendliness?

What road did a father take, when all other paths were shattered?

He looked around the hallway for a distraction.

The light right above his son’s door was flickering. An awful buzzing noise accompanied it, as if a dozen angry bees were stuffed inside.

Surely, there were better buildings in Midgard? Thor dwelled in one that was very large and well furnished. Munin stopped by on occasion: the views were spectacular from there.

Of course, the views may be spectacular from Loki’s apartment as well. One would just never be able to tell. All of his windows faced too closely to the next apartment building. Sunlight still streamed, but looking out all one could see was buildings and no sky.

The view from his balcony may better, but the curtain was always firmly shut. Little tacks still held it in place. They looked rusty; Odin doubted they’d ever been moved.

He doubted even more he’d ever be able to work “Why do you not have a nicer dwelling” into the conversation.

Suddenly, Loki’s door opened and Loki stared out at him, lips set in a severe frown.

“Are you going to balk at my door all night? It’s already seven twelve. Why are you standing out here like a moron?”

Odin started slightly and then righted himself. He smiled up at his son, pretending as always that his words drifted by him like smoke. “Ah! Luke, my friend!”

This was it. This was his chance. He took a deep breath, opened his arms, stepped forward, and hugged his son.

Loki tensed up immediately; Odin could feel every muscle turn to stone beneath his hands. But he didn’t pull away and neither did Odin. He held on to his son.

“It has been so long since we’ve last seen each other!” He tightened his hold on Loki just slightly. If anything, Loki seemed to get only more taut.

“You were here not four days ago.”

“Truly?” He lowered his arms away from Loki slowly. “It feels much longer than that.”

“Indeed.”

Loki paused and straightened himself. He unwrinkled his clothing and cricked his neck back and forth.

“Well. Do come inside.”

Papers were still stacked around the apartment, but less chaotically then previously. Surprisingly, the coffee table’s surface was actually visible, with a large bowl of popped corn placed upon it. The kitchen table, however, seemed to be in much the same state as his last visit.

Perhaps Loki didn’t really eat there and chose instead to use it as a makeshift desk.

This time Odin headed over to the couch without preempting.

“I’ve picked a slightly different story for us this evening.” Loki came around to the other side of the couch and sat down. He seemed to have placed himself as far away from Odin as he possibly could without appearing rude. “It’s not literature per say. Rather the story behind it.”

“What is the story?”

“I’m positive you’ve never heard it. You seem to have no background in English literature.” He gave a long-suffering sigh and shook his head back and forth. “There is a play called ‘Peter Pan’. About a boy who never grows up. And…” he waved his hand in the air. “fairies and pirates and mermaids and the like. Good for children, I suppose. This is the story of the playwright behind the play. ‘Finding Neverland’.”

A story with fairies and pirates and mermaids. For children. Were those, he wondered, the stories Loki would have preferred? He’d always told Thor and Loki old war stories. Loki loved them, he always asked for more…

Reaching out a hand, he clasped his son’s shoulder.

“I’m sure it will be lovely. You make such excellent selections.”

Loki looked at him warily and picked up the remote.

Odin let his hand fall to his side once more.

The movie started. Loki’s shoulder stayed tense for a few minutes, but he stayed where he was on the couch. He didn’t slide any further away.

They both sat in silence. Odin liked watching the interactions of the boys. They reminded him of when Thor and Loki would run around the castle when they were young.

He couldn’t place which one reminded him most of Loki. Imagination ran wild in Loki. That was probably why magic came so easily to him. With magic, the ability to imagine the impossible was half the effort. But he’d been quiet, too. Like Peter. Odin hoped Peter would join his brothers soon in their fun with the dog.

“Did you ever want a dog?”

Loki turned toward him.

“What?”

“When you were a child. Did you ever want a dog?” Odin could see it now. A little dog, running around the castle. Loki running after it, happy.

Shifting in his seat, Loki hesitated before answering. He swallowed. “Not particularly. Perhaps once or twice, when I was very young. But those were only brief fantasies.”

“Why?”

“I do not think I am particularly well-suited toward them.”

“No?”

“No. They are more my brother’s animal. He uses them in hunting. He’s always gotten on with them.”

Words died in Odin’s throat.

“You have a brother?”

Loki pursed his lips and looked away. “Sometimes I thought perhaps a cat would be nice.”

He wanted to bring the conversation back to Thor—back to family—but he worried Loki may stop talking entirely. “Why didn’t you get one?”

“It’s a silly idea. I could never even decide what kind to get.”

“Maybe now—“

“—and besides, I have a slug.” He gestured to the birdcage in the corner and then refocused onto the television.

Odin let the conversation slide. The boys on the screen ran around together in the garden, play fighting.

Against his best efforts, he kept seeing Loki in Peter. He hated it. He didn’t want to think of his son as an outsider.

Maybe if he’d been the sort of Father who ran around with his sons, jumping through hedges and playing pretend…

Maybe if Asgard was the sort of place that tolerated pretending. Maybe if there were playwrights and directors and actors that played out more than old battle tales…

Maybe if Asgard was a place of imagination. Where crocodiles swallowed clocks and children always flew and never Fell.

After all, what was lying, if not pretending?

Away from the boys, the deteriorating marriage of James and Mary tore at him. He thought of Frigga. His reclusiveness. Her frigid silence.

“Look at that. How magnificent. The boy is gone. Somewhere during the last thirty seconds, you’ve become a grown-up.”

“Did you do that?” He asked Loki. “Realize the exact moment you grew up.”

“Must you talk so?” Loki shifted again in his seat. Odin doubted for a long moment that he would respond. “Of course not. I don’t think many people can, truly. Outside of fiction. Rather…one day you simply look up and all of a sudden you’re grown. I don’t know many people who can pinpoint the exact moment.”

Desperately, Odin wanted to tell him that’s how things were for parents, too. That one day you looked away for a second and then when you looked back your child was grown. And you didn’t know what to do. Or where time had gone.

And he wanted to ask Loki if he could pinpoint at least the general moment. If he could go back and think and tell Odin all of the things he’d missed. So that he could take this strange, adult son who seemed so unfamiliar and make things different.

He’d been so sure, when he first found Loki in the temple, that things would be different with another child at home after the war. Better.

“You brought pretending into this family, James. You showed us we can change things by simply believing them to be different.”

“A lot of things, Sophia. Not everything.”

“But the things that matter. We’ve pretended for sometime now that…you’re a part of this family now, haven’t we?”

Odin gripped the edge of the sofa.

“You’ve come to mean so much to us all that, now, it doesn’t matter if it’s true. And even if it isn’t true. Even if that can never be. I need to go on pretending. Until the end. With you.”

Once, he heard someone say that the best lies were the ones you could make yourself believe to be true. The ones you would give anything in the word to make true.

But Loki wasn’t a child now. Not anymore. And there was no such place where children never grew up. Children always grew up; time never came back.

If he could do nothing else, Odin decided as the movie ended and Loki got up to retrieve the disk, then he would at least acknowledge that. If he could never force himself to give up pretending that Loki was his son or pretending that he could rebuild what had broken so completely between them, then he could at least stop pretending Loki was a child and get to know Loki as he was now. Not as he wished him to be.

“Do you enjoy theater?” He asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

The theater may be too risky. He wouldn’t know yet which play to pick. “Or the symphony? Have you ever been to that?”

Loki narrowed his eyes. He seemed suspicious. He always seemed suspicious, Odin was noticing, whenever someone expressed genuine interest.

“I enjoy both of those things, yes.”

Odin licked his lips. “I have yet to see any of New York’s great symphonies. Care to accompany me?”

Loki stared at him. “When?”

“Friday or Saturday evening?”

Loki cocked his head back to look a him slowly. His tension increased, the room was thick with it. He looked at his father as if sensing a trap. “…I suppose Saturday evening is proficient.”

“Wonderful! Then I shall meet you at six and—“

“No.”

Furrowing his brow, Odin looked back at Loki. “No? Why not? Is Saturday no longer agreeable?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you if you show up to my door dressed like you are now. And seeing as you have yet to wear anything more respectable than…” Loki gave a small shudder. “…plaid, then I am therefore forced to accompany you to the nearest store. To purchase some more respectable clothing.”

Odin blinked owlishly at him. Loki smiled in his overly warm way that was always a lie and gestured toward the door.

“I shall see you at three.” He opened the door and grinned wider. “And perhaps next time, my friend, we shall pay a visit to your museum.”

Before stepping outside, Odin reached up and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I look forward to it, my friend.”

Loki still braced himself against Odin’s palm. But slightly less.

There was at least one more good thing, then, to come from all of this pretending.

-------------------

 

The mirror in his quarters was antique, given as dowry from Grandma Bestla’s family, and the patch of floor in front of it was worn thin from where Loki had stood there and stared at himself over the centuries.

Early in the morning, he’d stolen away into the guards’ quarters and borrowed some of the armor. The door to his own quarters was now securely locked and he’d given Baldur firm orders to allow entry to no one. Though he doubted that would be a particularly herculean task.

Baldur was only assigned to his rooms some few years ago. The guard was scarcely older than Loki himself, but he carried out his tasks well enough, if a bit slowly. Baldur seemed to do everything through a sort of gentle fog. Loki hadn’t the slightest idea why he ever decided to be a guard in the first place.

(Baldur the Bright certainly wasn’t dubbed such for his intellect, though Loki didn’t think for a moment he was really stupid. Sometimes—after Loki came back from training with Thor or meeting with his parents or committing another prank—he looked at Loki with such tender sadness that Loki wanted to scream or hit or break just to make that look disappear.)

As long as Baldur was posted outside of his quarters, though, Loki was free to slip the armor from the magical bag he’d contained it in.

He turned away from the mirror while he put on the armor and tried to imagine himself once he was wearing it. Of course, he’d worn armor before in lessons, but this was official armor. Battle-ready armor. Loki would be gifted his own in a few years.

The plates would fill out his shoulders, he was sure. And make his arms seem sturdier, more compact. He’d look like a real warrior, big and strong and tough, ready to take on any foe. Just like Father. Just like Thor.

The laces on certain parts of the armor were difficult. Loki had to lace them up as tightly as possible to prevent them from drooping, but the lace would only tighten so much. His boots were too large, but that was only because they weren’t his exact size. That lacing he did up quickly. The armor had to be back in the guards’ quarters soon, before anyone noticed they were missing. He didn’t want to have to explain this to his parents.

He left the guard’s helmet over to the side by the foot of the mirror. That was probably too large as well and Loki didn’t want to obscure his vision. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d be wearing a guard’s helmet when he marched into battle. He’d be wearing his personal, customized helmet then. The one he’d be given when he came of age.

Every member of Asgard’s Royal Family for ages and ages had been gifted their own helmet. They tended to have an animal theme and a lot of the themes were repeated. Eagles and jaguars and rams and wolves. That sort of thing.

Loki hadn’t dared to think too closely of his own. Sometimes, he caught himself imagining all the different kinds of helmets he could wear, but he quickly cut himself off from that line of thinking. Thinking like that led to plans and hopes and the helmet was to be a gift. He should let himself be pleasantly surprised and happy with whatever he got. That was the way with gifts, he’d learned.

He tightened the laces around his vanguard once more before turning and facing himself in the mirror.

The armor hung on him. It sagged around places it was supposed to grip. His legs looked like they were swimming in fabric and he could barely make out the outline of his arms. They didn’t flex inside the armor like other warriors’ did. The chainmail chafed at his skin.

He closed his eyes.

One day, he would march into battle with his muscles straining, flexing against the armor with every step. The plates of metal would not feel heavy or awkward; he would command them the same way he commanded his mighty staff. He would not wish it felt more comfortable or allowed him to move more quickly. He would feel confident, large and muscular like the rest of his family, and he would stand next to his brother and father and command armies. The people would love him.

When he reopened his eyes, he saw a boy in ill-fitting armor.

And he wondered how much longer he could go on pretending.