Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

/ / /

SENTIMENT.

Loki, King of Asgard, had long since exiled it from the chambers of his heart. It was a weakness, a crack in the armor that let in the brutal, monstrous cold. It made you trust. It made you need. It made you lose.

This was not a lesson Loki earned in a single blow, but in a thousand cuts: each scar catalogued, each betrayal quietly recorded and filed under “foolishness.” The heart, he'd concluded, was a muscle best kept frozen. Anything that threatened to melt it risked fracturing the mask he wore so expertly: King. Schemer. Monster. Survivor.

The shard in his hand burned, searing lines of golden light into his palm as though to remind him it was alive, or something close to it. Chronovium. He could feel the way it pulled, stretching at the fabric of time itself, the air around him vibrating with the faint chime of moments colliding.

He lowered it with his seiðr, letting it catch the fractured glow. Threads of countless futures flared and shattered like glass before his eyes—Asgard in flames, Asgard in ruins, Asgard lost to the void. Each one closing with a crack that echoed inside his skull.

He did not flinch. He did not weep. He only tightened his grip, frost creeping up the shard's edge until the sting dulled. One by one, the visions fell away until only a single thread glimmered unbroken in the dark—and for the briefest instant, it felt as though it watched him back.

When the Timestream Entanglement began—its fractured timelines collapsing into each other as two egomaniacal Dooms battled for dominance—he had taken steps no one else would.

Harnessing the dangerous power of Chronovium—powerful crystals born of the temporal cataclysm—he had looked into what was to come, and had seen it laid out in brutal certainty: countless futures where Asgard burned, shattered, or vanished altogether. Only one thread held. In it, he was king.

And though it should have saddened him, he had made it so—banishing Thor to a distant timeline with Hela's help, forcing the Odinsleep upon Odin, and sowing mischief to cause discord upon the Ten Realms so that none may stand up and question his fealty. Call it survival. Call it inevitability. He called it 'necessity.'

Or so he told himself.

The less he felt, the less he lost.

So naturally, he did not feel.

Not when the boy appeared in his life like an afterthought of fate. A slight little thing—barely into his elementary years—with wild, raven-dark hair and uncertain footing. A child with his face. His jawline. His posture. His legacy. Those eyes of his—

(Familiar. Far too familiar. Too much like his own. Too much).

—stared up at him, imperfect only by the strange flecks of red and blue within them, like blood and lapis on emerald glass. Not exactly pleading, but searching, as though trying to reconcile what he had been told about what stood before him.

“I… I’m Nari,” the boy had said, as if it were a question.

A beat. An uncomfortable fidget under intense scrutiny.

“Sh…Short for Narinder,” he quickly added.

Loki's silence stretched long enough to make Nari wince. The king gave him no answer. Just a flick of his eyes down to the tattered, faded plush wolf in the boy’s arms. Fenrir, Nari had called it.

How unoriginal.

How… SENTIMENTAL.

(Loki felt nothing).

When they stepped onto the Bifrost together and the rainbow bridge carved its violent streak across the cosmos, Nari had screamed. Not a bold scream, not one of fury or war, but a sharp, startled yelp, and upon landing in Asgard, promptly turned, face sickeningly pale, and barfed in a shuddering, dry-heaving arc. It missed Loki's leg by a hair's breadth. Heimdall’s expression didn’t flicker, but Loki’s did, just slightly. A faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not amusement. Certainly not affection. Just…

(Disruption. A crack. A flicker).

No…

He exhaled and buried it.

(He felt NOTHING).

When they walked through the halls of gold and marble and judgmental gazes, Nari noticed. Nari felt it. And without thinking, without asking, the boy inched closer to Loki and half-hid behind the edge of his sweeping green and gold cape, peeking out like a stray cat under a market table. He wasn’t wrong to sense it. Those gazes were sharp with suspicion, and colder still with fear. Asgard had bowed to Loki’s crown, but never to his heart. He knew it. He allowed it. Fear was simpler than trust, and infinitely more reliable.

Loki made no move to shake the boy off. It wasn’t because of SENTIMENT.

(It was because of nothing).

(Nothing).

(Loki continued to feel nothing).

When they reached the quieter halls of the palace, where torchlight flickered soft and the stone floors did not echo so coldly, he gestured to Saella. She stepped forward, old and steady. Her wispy, silver hair sat coiled upon the top of her head like a sigil of better days seen, her eyes calm in ways most people mistook for kindness. She blinked at Nari. Nari blinked up at her, and then looked back to Loki, who did not glance down. “He is in your care.”

Saella nodded once, deeply. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

The boy did not follow her. Not at first. He lingered, not speaking, standing so close his hand brushed against the edge of Loki’s cape as if it was the only thing still tethering him. And for a moment, Loki thought of the threads again: shimmering, frozen, and refusing to break.

Still, he turned and left. No hesitation. No glance back. Just the echo of his own footsteps and Saella’s voice, soft and coaxing in the quiet.

(Nothing).

(Loki has and always WILL feel NOTHING).

/ / /

Evening in Asgard fell like a velvet blanket. Soft, heavy, and full of eyes. Loki sat at the edge of a silence thicker than most thrones could bear, letting it stretch across the chamber like a shroud. Gone were the applause, the diplomatic nods, the tedious affirmations of nobility. The people and the court had filed out hours ago, leaving only shadows behind.

He could still hear echoes of their whispers, though (King Loki proudly sees and hears almost everything that happens in HIS Asgard, after all). They weren’t loud. Never loud. They feared him too much to speak so boldly. They were more serpentine. Designed to slither through corridors and coil around ears that listened too well.

“Who’s the mother?”

“Some common Midgardian slut, I’d wager.”

“Or worse. A frost giant, or perhaps some ugly witch. You know what his tastes must be.”

“Do you think it’s really his? The boy barely speaks. Maybe it’s just a political pawn? He’s always been vehemently against taking a wife to produce an heir. Could be part of some elaborate plan to stall on doing so?”

“He looks exactly like him.”

“The eyes are strange. Unnatural. Probably a bastard spell gone wrong.”

“The child has no mother and no history. He simply appeared!”

“Just like his father, then.”

Laughter. Stifled. Poisoned.

And then, the last one: The only one that really made him consider: "Narinder Lokison. The firstborn son of Loki."

It had been said aloud. Proclaimed in ceremony, even. The boy hadn't corrected anyone. Loki hadn't either. The name lingered in his mind like an echo in a massive, frozen cave.

Lokison.

A surreal joke. An impossible title. He should have denied it, corrected it, banished the thought before it settled, but there it was, planted firmly like a stake at the heart.

And the heart. Loki’s heart… It felt—

(Nothing. Loki felt nothing. Loki has and MUST always feel NOTHING).

/ / /

The clasp at his shoulder gave a soft metallic groan as deft hands unfastened it. Saella moved like clockwork. Steady, silent, reliable in the way old steel was: not durable, but familiar.

She had once tended Frigga. Now she removed the regalia from her son with the same grace, never speaking unless required. She knew what silences were for. And yet—

He saw the flicker in her eyes. Just once. As she placed the ceremonial pauldron down on the polished table beside them, a quick glance. Not quite curiosity, not quite concern. Something. He caught it in the reflection of his horned helm, warped slightly in the gold. A tilt of her brow. The brief stillness of thought. But it was there. Of course it was. She was thinking about Nari. Loki remained still for a moment, then tilted his head just enough to watch her from the corner of his vision.

“You didn’t ask,” he said calmly, as if commenting on the weather.

Saella didn’t look up. “No, Your Majesty.”

“You’re thinking it, though.”

Saella gave the smallest of smiles. The kind that said: Of course I am, but I’ll never say it out loud.

Loki’s tone didn’t shift, but his gaze flicked toward the golden door. Closed and quiet. “He is asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Did he require a tale, or a lullaby?” he asked dryly, a light sneer twisting the corners of his lips. “Perhaps a glass of warmed milk and a soft song about valiant warriors and noble kings?”

Saella’s hands didn’t pause in their task. “He cried,” she said. “Then he slept.”

Loki said nothing. But he felt something in his chest itch. A quiet, sharp, annoying little tug. He straightened, rolled his shoulders, and set his jaw.

(Nothing. It’s nothing).

Just noise in a hollow room. He leaned back slightly as she unclasped the next buckle. The sweeping cape came free with a soft hiss of displaced air.

“Tell me,” he said suddenly, voice sharper than intended. “What exactly does a father… do?”

Saella paused. Not long. Not noticeably, but long enough for Loki to catch it. He turned his head and watched her. She looked thoughtful, maybe a bit surprised, as if she'd expected this question to surface eventually, rather than now.

“Well,” she said, voice slow. “That depends on the father.”

Silence.

“And the son,” she added.

Loki’s brow twitched. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” she replied, unbothered.

Loki glanced toward the high window. From here he could see the towers of Asgard, lit from within. Gold upon gold. Perfection upon perfection. And somewhere beneath that light, a small child was sleeping in a bed far too big for him, clutching a ragged wolf made of thread and memory.

Loki hadn’t needed to be told how the boy would fall asleep. Not easily, and not without tears.

(…His pillow must still be damp).

Loki exhaled through his nose.

(Nothing. He feels absolutely nothing).

“I was never meant to be one.”

“Neither was Odin,” Saella said, folding his armor with reverent precision. “And yet he was.”

Loki turned slowly. “Odin was many things. Consistent was not one of them.” Something undeniably sour moved through his voice. And then, like a blade slipped beneath armor, came a memory—

A vault of cold light. The gleam of ancient relics. The Casket of Ancient Winters shimmering like a trapped storm. Odin’s voice, deep and patient, echoing against the stone. His two sons stood at both his sides.

“Do the Frost Giants still live?” Loki had asked. His voice then had been smaller, curious, cautious. Thor had puffed out his chest, beaming.

“When I’m king, I’ll hunt the monsters down and slay them all! Just as you did, Father.”

(And gods—Loki had smiled at him when he said that—really looked at him and smiled at him—)

Odin’s reply had not come with a smile. “A wise king never seeks out war... But he must always be ready for it.”

“I’m ready, Father,” Thor had said.

“So am I,” Loki had added. Not boastful, just… true.

And Odin, with the weight of centuries in his gaze, had looked at both of them. Really looked at them. “Only one of you can ascend to the throne. But both of you were born to be kings.”

Loki pushed away the memory like mold under creaky floorboards. “Is the boy afraid of me?” he asked, abruptly.

Saella didn’t answer right away, her bony, delicate hands pausing for longer than a fraction of a second.

“I think,” she said finally, continuing to work Loki out of his armor, “he is waiting to see if he should be.”

Loki didn’t respond. He simply stood there, back half-turned to her, jaw tight and shoulders rigid. The very image of a king, and far beneath that: a man reeling. Not from fear nor from anger, but from possibility.

With the practiced silence of one who had served in too many royal chambers, Saella gathered the last of his regalia, bowed once, not deeply, just enough to mark the space between them, and slipped out.

The door shut with a faint click. Loki remained. The room was quiet now, lit only by the flickering wash of fire’s light against dark stone and carved gold. Shadows clung to the corners like buried feelings.

(—Like SENTIMENT. No, not SENTIMENT. NOTHING. Absolutely NOTHING).

He moved to the chair by the hearth. Not his throne, just a chair, and lowered himself into it like a man unsure whether he’d earned the right to sit. One elbow on the armrest. Fingers tapping against his temple.

Father.

The word curled around his thoughts like smoke.

Narinder Lokison. Nari.

He almost scoffed aloud. As if a name could make it real. As if blood was all it took to bind ‘family’ together. He stared into the fire. It only offered warmth, not answers.

Somewhere beyond these walls, a boy slept. A small, fragile piece of Loki—dangerous in the way only SENTIMENT could be. He was a liability. A softness in the armor. A crack in the mask. Something enemies could take, use, and break until the fracture spread to him.

He should have been able to dismiss it; pretend it was nothing. But possibility is harder to banish than fear. And the truth—the quiet, unwelcome truth—was that he didn’t think he wanted to pretend not to care. Not entirely. That was the part that unsettled him most; the part that echoed loudest in the icy space he swore to keep frozen.

Loki sat still and let it echo.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

Morning in Asgard arrived with ceremonial precision. No chaos. No mess. Just golden light spilling through arched windows. Loki did not rise immediately. Kings had the luxury of not rushing, after all. When he did move, it was without fanfare. All robes instead of armor. Long, shoulder-length hair tied back with the kind of exacting sharpness that dared anyone to see disorder. He did not summon his ornate Chronovium-infused scepter, did not call for court. He simply left his chambers in silence, footsteps absorbed by the thick runner beneath his sandals. He didn’t intend to visit the boy.

Truly, he didn’t.

He was simply... walking. That was all. Through the wing where the lesser-used guest chambers resided—a place he almost never visited of his own accord. Coincidentally. Quite so.

He hadn’t asked where the boy was staying. That information had been volunteered. Loudly and repeatedly by servants who pratted just a little too clearly within earshot. He wasn’t following the memory of Saella’s footsteps from the night before. And he certainly wasn’t retracing them. Nope. Not at all.

He was absolutely not checking in. He was simply ensuring that all was as it should be. That no one had... interfered. That the boy hadn’t, in some fit of childish frailty, wandered off and expired in the dead of night from sheer SENTIMENTALITY.

(Or something else for that matter. Loki didn’t care. Nope. He didn’t).

He happened to pause near one particular door. One wooden, old, dingy door untouched for ages. It had once been used to house visiting dignitaries with children—those who didn’t trust nannies. Now it "temporarily" held a boy. His boy. Nari Lokison. The name still curled bitter on the tongue. Not for what it was, but for what it might mean. What it threatened to mean.

(—Possibility. Nothing. Possibility. Nothing—)

The boy’s “permanent” room—something the servants also pratted about when they thought he couldn’t hear them—two doors from his own, was a logistical accident: a relic of proximity protocols and courtly optics. He had signed the parchment detailing the plans for it when it was placed before him—ink without SENTIMENT—and given no instruction beyond completion. Let the renovators work until they were dust, for all he cared. Nearness was for appearances and security. Reality would be distance. Tutors, guards, corridors, and schedules—a quiet exile arranged in broad daylight. When the boy's room is finally finished, Loki would reassign him to a farther wing under some tidy excuse, out of sight and reach.

Preferably forever. Definitely forever.

(It wasn't because of SENTIMENT. It was containment).

(Because he means NOTHING—)

(Absolutely NOTHING—)

And yet, here he still stood: at this particular door. He didn't knock, but he didn’t enter either. He simply stood there, still as a statue, as if it might confess something. Then—faintly—came a sound. Something muffled. Shifting blankets, a soft thud, a whispered, uncertain voice. Loki’s brow creased. He leaned slightly closer.

“…Fenrir?” Nari murmured. A pause. Then, sleep-blurred: “Do… you think I did something wrong?”

Loki stilled. Something in that whisper rooted him to the floor.

“I think he doesn’t like me,” Nari whispered to the plush. “Because I almost barfed on him. But maybe… I just have to be good today. And then he’ll like me.”

The voice was small, but practiced. Too practiced. The kind of voice used when speaking to someone or something you trusted not to laugh at you. Or abandon you.

(Or lie to you).

The bed creaked again. “You always know what to say to make me feel better, even if you don’t talk much… But that’s okay, you can stay quiet.”

Loki could almost see it. The boy sitting up in bed, clutching the plush wolf in both arms as if it were a confidant. A familiar ritual, the way one’s hands might hold the only thing left unchanged.

(Weakness).

“What do you think about Asgard? I think it’s kinda scary. It's too big. Too many people. I don’t like the way they look at me. And... I don't think they like me.”

Loki’s jaw tightened just slightly. He was speaking to the thing like it was a person. Not play-acting. Not performing. Just... confiding. Pouring his little heart out to the only thing still allowed to love him back. And it wasn’t even well made. Its stitching was uneven. Its left ear drooped like a broken branch. One button eye was larger than the other. The fur was the kind of dull, matted gray that came from too many nights clutched in sleep and too many days dragged across floors. One could breathe on it and it could fall apart. Yet Nari held it as if it were sacred.

There had been a time, long ago, beneath Frigga’s patient hand, when he too had spoken to things that could not answer. When silence had been less an absence and more a companion. He exhaled slowly through his nose, banishing the thought.

Inside the room, Nari tucked the wolf under his chin and lay down again, whispering: “Maybe today he’ll talk to me. But I’ll talk to him if I have to. Will you stay by my side when that happens?”

A pause.

“Do you think he would wanna see me?”

There was no reply, of course. The silence that followed was almost unbearable. Loki stepped back from the door as though it had threatened to burn him. He turned sharply on his heel, robe sweeping behind him in crisp arcs. He made it precisely eight paces before a quiet voice called from behind him—

"E-Excuse me...?”

Loki froze. He turned slowly. The door was cracked open—just a little. Nari stood in it, arms tight around the mangled plush, his hair still tangled with sleep, one side of his face pressed with pillow lines. He blinked up at Loki with tired, puffy eyes, unsure if he'd broken some unspoken rule.

“I... Uhm... G...Good morning,” the boy added, more quietly. Just in case.

Loki looked at him. No armor. No throne. Just silk robes, a high collar, and an inscrutable expression. He nodded once. “Good morning,” It came out smoother than expected.

Nari looked faintly relieved. “Miss Saella said I might have breakfast with you. If you… if you weren’t busy being king.”

Loki’s gaze flicked down the hall. The council chamber waited. So did half a dozen emissaries. So did half a dozen plans. Then, back to the boy. The wolf plush dangled from one arm now, like a forgotten limb. Nari shifted from foot to foot, like he expected to be told to go away.

“I am,” Loki said at last, and he watched as Nari’s face fell a fraction.

He turned his gaze downward to avoid the sight of it. “But,” he added slowly, “perhaps not for some time.”

The boy looked up sharply. “Really?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

(Liar).

Nari didn’t notice. He smiled—small, unsure, the kind that barely tugged at the corners but was real all the same. “Okay,” he said. “Can Fenrir come too?” He held out his plush as if to emphasize the importance of his request.

Loki regarded it briefly. “He can come.”

Nari beamed. He began to turn, then hesitated again, glancing down at himself. “Um… should I get ready?” he asked quietly. “I mean, we’re going somewhere fancy, right? For breakfast?”

Loki didn’t answer right away. He glanced past Nari into the room.

Modest. Quaint. Sunlight just beginning to filter through the long, emerald drapes. A low table sat by the window, unused. On it, sat a cup of untouched water. Near the corner, a toy chest sat open, its lid gaping as though abandoned mid-thought, with a scatter of small, worn-out wooden soldiers, beasts, and plush animals strewn across the floor in a loose trail.

He should summon servants. He should call for a royal breakfast. Take the boy to the formal dining hall, where everything was gleaming and controlled. Where there were expectations, distance, formality, and—

(No…)

“There’s no need,” Loki found himself saying instead.

Nari blinked, confused. “Oh.”

Then Loki stepped past him into the room. He didn’t ask permission. “This will do,” he said, inspecting the space with a glance. “You may sit. I will have breakfast brought here.”

Nari looked startled. “Here? But… don’t you eat somewhere else?”

“I eat where I choose,” Loki said. “And I choose here.”

The words left his mouth with more force than intended. He wasn’t entirely sure who he was arguing with: the boy, the air, or himself. He raised two fingers, called out a quiet rune under his breath, and sent the enchantment spiraling down the corridor to Saella. Orders for food. Nothing heavy, nothing too formal. Something manageable. Something safe for a child—

His child.

(Nothing. Loki feels absolutely nothing).

He took the seat by the low table without fanfare. Crossed one leg over the other. Folded his hands as he watched Nari carefully. Let the silence settle. He saw the boy hesitate, before warily padding across the floor as if approaching a monster, clutching Fenrir like a hero might clutch a shield. With a bit of effort, he lifted himself into the chair across from Loki, eyes wide, posture tentative.

“Thank you,” he said after a beat.

“For what?”

Nari shuffled uncomfortably. “For not taking me to the big scary places.”

Loki didn’t meet his eyes. “I simply didn’t feel like dealing with you spilling anything upon royal garments.” That was all. That was why. Not kindness. Not comfort. Certainly not SENTIMENT. He sat straighter in the chair, as if that could settle it.

The boy nodded solemnly. “I won’t spill anything anyway.”

Loki gave no reply. When breakfast arrived, the scent of warm bread and spiced tea curling through the air, he poured Nari’s tea first. Not because it meant anything, but because it was practical. And practical things were… safe. They ate in relative silence at first. Not the uncomfortable kind. The sort of quiet that comes when one person is trying not to notice that the other is trying very hard to be noticed.

The food was simple by palace standards: slices of fruit arranged like constellations, fresh-baked bread, soft cheese, and tea that didn’t scald the tongue. Nothing too rich. Nothing too sharp. Saella had understood the assignment, of course. She always did.

Nari’s legs swung just above the floor, his wolf plush tucked snugly under one arm like a quiet observer. He reached for a bit of bread, hesitated, took the smallest piece, and nibbled it with great care, as though afraid that chewing too loudly might invite a scolding. Loki, for his part, merely sipped his tea.

“I’ve never had bread that didn’t taste like… crackly before,” Nari said at last, voice soft but serious.

Loki glanced up. “Crackly?”

“Crackly-crunchy,” Nari clarified, as if afraid of being taken literally. “Not really… squishy.”

“That’s still not much of a consultation," Loki replied dryly.

Nari blinked. Then, after a moment, smiled wider than before. “…It’s good.”

A pause. He took another bite, chewed, then said through a mouthful, “Even Fenrir likes it.”

Loki arched a brow. “I was unaware cloth had a palate.”

Nari looked down at his toy, then back at Loki. “He doesn’t,” he whispered simply, as if it weren't common knowledge (It was). “But he’s still real.”

Loki sipped his tea again, unimpressed, but his gaze lingered on the boy longer than it should have. The logic was maddening. Juvenile. And yet... he understood it. The things you imagined into reality often meant more than the things you'd been given. He looked away.

Nari busied himself with a grape, fumbling with it before popping it into his mouth. Then, after a few moments of nervous fidgeting: “Do you eat breakfast with other people a lot?”

“No,” Loki said slowly. “Almost never.”

Nari nodded as if that confirmed something he'd suspected. He looked thoughtful. “So... I’m first?”

Loki’s brow furrowed. “That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s sorta what you meant.” There was no arrogance in Nari’s voice. Just quiet, unfiltered reasoning, the kind children were rarely credited for, but frustratingly good at. He took another bite of bread, then reached for his tea with two small hands. It trembled slightly, but he didn’t spill.

Loki set his own cup down. “Is there a reason you’re cataloguing my habits over breakfast?”

Nari froze, mid-sip. Then set the cup down as carefully as he could manage it. It hit the table with a light thud, the liquid slightly spilling over the lips. “…I just thought maybe it was impor... impor’ant," he said after a moment. “When grown-ups do stuff they don’t usually do.”

Loki said nothing. Nari looked down again. “Are you mad?”

“I’m not mad,” Loki said.

Nari nodded again, still studying his plate. “…Would you tell me if you were?”

“Tell you?”

“Yeah.” Nari ran a hand through his bed-ruffled hair. “Sometimes grown-ups just get mad. Or they do stuff. Without saying. They don’t always tell you. They just… stop looking at you. Or get quieter. Or send you away. And you don’t understand why they won’t tell you, because you’re doing everything right. At least, you think you are. I dunno. I want to think that I'm good. That I’m doing everything right. I don’t think I can, though.”

Loki stared at him for a long moment. Long enough that Nari began to look uneasy again. It wasn’t what he said. It was how he said it. Thoughtfully. Carefully. Like someone much older trapped in a body far too small. The boy was just a child, and yet he was already deciphering silence like a scholar of the unsaid. Already trying to adapt, to shrink, to please, to survive inside a world ruled by monsters, chaos, and self-interest.

Loki knew that language. Had spoken it fluently long before he ever understood what it meant. What it cost. Something in his chest shifted. Not painfully, just... uncomfortably. Too familiar. Too close. He pushed the feeling away before it could settle. Children mimic what they’re given, that was all. Reflexes born from necessity, not depth. Nari wasn’t like him. He couldn't be. Loki picked up his cup, and took a long, deliberate sip.

Nari shifted in his seat. “I… Sorry. Am I talking too much? You can tell me to stop.”

“I could,” Loki said, between sips.

Nari looked up, waiting.

“But I won’t.”

The silence that followed was warmer than the one that came before it. Less like velvet, all cold and barely insulated. More like wool; itchy, but comfortable and natural.

Nari bit his lip, holding back a tiny smile. “Okay.”

Fenrir, of course, said nothing this entire time. But Loki could've sworn the toy was looking at him. Judging him. He met its gaze coolly. He was not feeling anything. Not connection. Not SENTIMENT. Just… having a tolerating breakfast. Nothing more, nothing less.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

Breakfast had ended without much fanfare. No proclamations. No smiles. Just crumbs left behind, the clink of silverware, and the boy’s wide, searching eyes as Loki stood from the table. He had called for the servants, and Saella appeared as if summoned by thought alone. Loki gave the order for Nari to begin his “orientation.” Light, private, temporary instruction before he was assigned his permanent tutor. Nothing too taxing. Just enough structure to keep the boy from wandering where he shouldn’t. Nari had looked up at him then, half-standing beside the table, Fenrir tucked under one arm. There had been a flicker of something on his face. Not protest, but something softer. A sag of the shoulders. A small, quiet disappointment. As though he'd thought, just maybe, Loki might want to come with him. Just this once.

Loki hadn’t, of course. He had nodded once, turned on his heel, and left without looking back.

(He felt nothing. Absolutely nothing whatsoever).

There were matters to attend to. Real ones. The kind that shaped kingdoms, not children. These took precedence above all else. And so now, in the cool quiet of his chambers, the regalia and the mask must come on again. The robes had been shed, the softness of morning folded away with them. Now there was gold, green, and midnight blue. Polished armor and hardened leather, fur-lined pauldrons and the weight of crowns, responsibilities, and consequences fitted back onto flesh and bone.

Saella worked with practiced ease, fastening each piece without comment. She knew the weight of silence, knew how to let it settle without challenging it. That was why Loki kept her. That, and the fact that she didn’t flinch when his temper curled at the edges.

(And that she had worked for Frigga, who had thought so highly of her, and had been a constant yet quiet presence in his and Thor’s lives. But that wasn’t important. Definitely wasn’t).

(SENTIMENT. Sweet, sweet SENTIMENT. Loki feels nothing. Nothing at all).

But then he saw it again. That flicker. A momentary change in her expression, no more than a quirk at the edge of her mouth. Not quite a smirk. Not quite nostalgia. But something warm. Something… knowing. He caught it in the reflection of a golden plate she adjusted against his shoulder. Saw her eyes drift, just once, to the now cold cup of tea that sat across from them—something he had brought back himself. 

“You didn’t ask again,” Loki said, voice low. Wary. As if the statement itself were a trap.

Saella didn’t look up. “Hmm?”

“Whatever story you’ve been telling yourself since this morning.”

She didn’t deny it. Of course she didn’t. She never lied to him, not because of loyalty, but because she didn’t find it necessary.

“It’s not a story,” she said mildly. “Just… a memory.”

Loki narrowed his eyes. “Of?”

“Of a boy,” Saella said. “Much smaller than he believed himself to be. Sitting in a chair much like the one you sat in earlier, trying not to scowl while his mother fed him pastries he pretended not to like.”

Silence.

Loki scoffed. “I never liked those pastries.”

Saella made a soft sound in her throat. Not laughter. More like its older cousin. “No. But you never stopped eating them, either.”

He turned slightly, the hinge of his regalia groaning faintly. “That was… different.”

“How so?”

“It was expected. Formality. SENTIMENTALITY cloaked in tradition.”

Saella fastened the final buckle at his side. “And this morning?”

He did not answer. She took a step back. Brushed an invisible crease from his mantle. “I brought breakfast. Not tradition.”

Loki folded his arms. “The boy talks too much.”

“It’s what children do.”

“He asks questions.”

“So did you.”

He gave her a sharp glance—almost glare. “I asked the right questions.”

Saella tilted her head, just slightly. Indifferent, but not quite indifferent. Loki could never completely read her. “Doesn’t mean you liked the answers.”

The words landed with a quiet, inconvenient precision. The kind she specialized in. Loki scoffed. “He thinks if he behaves, I’ll like him.”

“And will you?”

Silence again.

Saella didn’t press. She simply adjusted the clasp of his collar and said, without inflection, “Children learn early what earns affection. They learn faster what makes it disappear.”

Loki’s jaw tightened.

Saella stepped back, hands folded. “You don’t have to be him.”

He glanced over his shoulder, gaze darkening. “Who?”

She held his eyes. “Odin.”

The name settled in the room like a sword unsheathed. For a moment, the present flickered.

A younger Loki, smaller, quieter (still believing) stood at the edge of the training grounds. He watched Odin laugh, broad and booming, as Thor brandished a wooden sword too big for him.

“You’ll make a fine warrior one day,” Odin said, clapping Thor’s shoulder with pride. “And an even finer king.”

Loki had been standing just behind them. Not far. Not hidden. But Odin hadn’t looked back. Hadn’t said anything. Not even once. Loki remembered gripping the hem of his tunic tighter. He made breakthroughs in his seiðr. And yet, Odin never really looked at him when he showed him. Not like he looked at Thor.

...Did he do something wrong?

(Sometimes they stop looking. Sometimes they don’t explain. Sometimes you just… aren’t enough).

(And they never tell you why).

Loki straightened, spine rigid. “I am nothing like him.”

“I know,” Saella said. “That’s why you asked me what fathers do.”

Silence once again.

“I asked,” Loki said coldly, “because I needed to be certain I wasn’t making a mistake.”

Saella simply nodded. “Of course.”

But Loki knew the look. Knew she didn’t believe it. Not entirely. Knew she’d seen more in his hesitation than he wanted her to. The same way she saw through him now and yet… she said nothing more. He appreciated that. Loathed it. Respected it. 

Saella gave a quiet bow, just enough to acknowledge the moment without drawing more breath into it. “Shall I summon the council now, Your Majesty?”

Loki took a long breath. “Yes. It’s time.”

As she moved toward the door, Loki stared after her for a moment. Not speaking. And then: “He named the wolf Fenrir.”

Saella paused. “Did he?”

“He talks to it. Confides in it. Guards it like it might fall apart at any moment.”

Saella’s lips barely curled upwards. “Then he’s already stronger than most.”

She then paused, really looking at Loki, as if seeing right through him once again, and then, almost too softly to be heard, “You… care about him.”

Loki blinked. It wasn’t the words that startled him. It was that she’d spoken them to begin with. Unprompted, uninvited, and gently—without instruction or invitation. Before he could respond, her back was to him. The door creaked open with courtly grace, and she slipped through it like a ghost—as if she’d never said a word. Loki didn’t reply. He didn’t move. When the door closed behind her, he stood alone once more. No voices. No eyes. No stupid little plush wolf staring him down. Just the mirror, the armor, and the silence.

He felt nothing. No pride. No fear. Not even that quiet, aching thing curling at the edge of thought. Whatever it was—

(Nothing).

(Absolutely nothing).

He told himself so twice more, just to be sure.

/ / /

The day unfolded precisely as Loki intended. Meetings were held. Threats were managed. Alliances were reinforced with careful words and subtle menace. The court hummed with its usual blend of politics and paranoia—a performance Loki conducted with the flick of a hand and the arch of a brow. He was efficient, sharp, and mercilessly focused.

(Worthy of responsibility. Worthy of purpose. Worthy enough to be REALLY looked at—)

There was no time to think about children. Or breakfast. Or barely put-together wolves made of cotton and thread.

(Speaking of which…)

The boy’s orientation, from what he was told, had gone... well enough. He had allowed Saella the privilege off selecting a few discreet, loyal, nonintrusive attendants to guide Nari through the foundational customs of palace life. He had been taught how to address nobility (though there were few he was likely to encounter directly), how to move with dignity through the halls, how to sit properly, walk properly, eat properly. According to one report, he had even bowed correctly. Twice.

Loki did not smile at that. Of course he didn’t.

(He wasn’t supposed to care—)

The boy had learned quickly. That was all.

Observant. Malleable. Traits that had nothing to do with who raised him and everything to do with survival. Loki recognized the pattern. He’d learned his own posture and manners under the scrutiny of courtiers whose praise rang hollow. He’d remembered the sting of missteps. The backhanded compliments. The way Frigga had quietly corrected what Odin never noticed (or never cared to). Nari was just learning the same. Adapting.

This wasn’t pride. Loki certainly wasn’t proud. He was simply… relieved. Relieved that the boy hadn’t embarrassed himself, and that he hadn’t embarrassed Loki by extension. Nothing more.

(Absolutely nothing more).

The sun dipped low, and evening rose across Asgard in a slow tide of starlight. Dinner tonight was to be held in the smaller formal hall, still grandiose by most standards, though modest compared to the main throne chamber. The table was long, but not unnecessarily so. Loki arrived first, as he always did.

He was still in his typical deep emerald and midnight-blue robes layered with gold-trimmed armor, each plate etched with delicate runes and sharp, deliberate lines. Fur-lined pauldrons framed his shoulders, regal and heavy with authority. His dark green, sweeping cloak trailed behind him like a shadow stitched in velvet, and his golden helm, sharp and unyielding, caught the candlelight like a blade. Regal. Restrained. Unapproachable.

(Kingly, and yet, slightly out of place. Was this how Odin felt every day? Seated high and unmoving, presiding over realms with eyes that always seemed to look past Loki, and never at him?)

(Had Odin felt this same weight? This same hollowness? This strange dissonance between duty and identity?)

(No… Most definitely not. Odin wanted the throne. Coveted it. Crafted it with HIS own myths and made HIMSELF the center of them. HE didn’t let SENTIMENT get in HIS way).

Loki straightened, spine rigid, eye twitching.

(He is merely fulfilling his glorious purpose. But alas, he is just playing the role of a king where one is needed. And kings feel nothing. Loki must feel nothing).

The servants bowed low as he entered and wordlessly began their preparations. Silver trays were set, covered in fine lids. Wine decanted. Bread sliced at precise angles. Even the candle flames bowed in his presence. And then there was Nari. Quietly escorted in by a meek, nervous attendant who barely spoke, as instructed. The boy walked more upright than he had that morning– shoulders straight, hands folded, eyes downcast. He wore a tunic now too, deep green with silver edging. Clean. New. His hair had been brushed, though it still curled slightly at the ends, unruly as expected.

(Because like him, he would always struggle with trying to keep it in place, because Nari got it from Loki, because Nari was Loki’s— )

Loki rolled his shoulders just slightly enough for it to seem like he was adjusting his posture.

(Nothing. This is NOTHING. He feels NOTHING).

The boy sat when gestured to, posture stiff and precise. He reached for his utensils in the exact order he’d been taught, didn’t slouch, didn’t speak. If Loki hadn’t been looking– really looking– he might have called it progress. But he was looking. Really looking. And he saw it. The stillness in the boy’s eyes. Not focus, nor obedience. Absence. A quiet grief buried beneath politeness. His motions were perfect, but hollow. Loki’s gaze drifted lower.

No wolf.

No Fenrir.

The plush was missing.

Nari didn’t mention it. Didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t even fidget. He merely cut his food with care, took tiny, precise bites, and swallowed without expression. He was being good. Too good. Loki said nothing. He took his own sip of wine, eyes half-lidded. The food, exceptional. The setting, refined. The servants, quiet. Everything was perfect, as it should be. And yet—

It really wasn’t.

Loki looked across the table again. The boy’s plate was barely touched. His gaze had lowered now, watching the edge of his fork scrape gently against the porcelain. He wasn’t sulking. He wasn’t pouting. He just looked… empty. Too empty for someone so young. Loki leaned back slightly in his chair as he studied the boy.

He didn’t feel concern. He felt… nothing.

(Absolutely nothing. Definitely nothing).

But still, against his will, Loki’s eyes lingered. Because the absence of that ridiculous, tattered wolf felt inexplicably distracting. He felt the mask loosen–just a little, and he set down his wine glass, barely a clink. Almost casually, almost offhandedly, he asked, “Where is Fenrir?”

The question hung in the air. Not the wolf. Not that thing.

Fenrir.

Nari froze, his fork poised above a carrot. For a second, he didn’t look up. When he did, his eyes were shining with barely held back tears.

“He got hurt.”

He said it softly, his voice cracking almost painfully. But Loki didn’t react. He didn’t need to.

Of course he broke. He was held together with little more than fraying thread and SENTIMENT. The kind of softness the world never lets stay intact for long. Still, a silence followed. A loud one. The kind that turned heads, even among the trained. The servants, who had been quietly murmuring in corners and exchanging platters, went still. No one said a word. No one dared. But he could feel them listening. Watching. He didn’t like being watched. Especially not now.

Loki’s gaze didn’t leave Nari, but his voice dropped monstrously low. “Leave us.”

The command was quiet, but it carried.

Chairs scraped. Robes rustled. Plates were hastily set down and covered. Every attending servant bowed low, not out of ceremony, but to avoid being caught staring, and retreated through the far doors like a tide pulling away from the shores. Nari looked around as they left, small hands twitching. His posture straightened, visibly nervous about the quiet vacuum they left behind. And once the doors shut, fully sealing them in, he let his shoulders sag just a little. Loki still hadn’t looked away. Still hadn’t moved. Something had shifted within him. Thin, fragile. But it lingered in the space between them. He closed his eyes. Let it settle. He embraced this nothing—

(No, it wasn’t nothing. It was something. Something that Loki refused to name. But it was there. It was real, painfully visceral, and sickeningly sweet).

“Come to my quarters tonight.”

Nari’s eyes widened. “W…what? Did I…? Am I…?”

“You’re not in trouble, and I’m not mad,” Loki said flatly, already regretting the clarification. “Bring Fenrir with you.”

“But… he’s hurt.”

Loki stood. The motion smooth, fluid, and final. “Then bring what remains.” 

No explanation. No reason given. The boy opened his mouth again, but said nothing, thinking better of it. Instead, he nodded slowly, unsure, his eyes wet with tears he dared not to shed. Loki turned from the table without another word, his cape catching the candlelight in a soft, shimmering ripple as he moved. He didn’t feel anything. Not guilt, that aggressively pulled at his mind. Not tenderness, that made his heart almost skip a beat. Not that strange ache tightening at the base of his throat. Just... duty.

(Yes. “Duty.” That is what Loki will call it).

He walked away before he could question it; before it had the chance to sharpen into something he might not be able to ignore.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

He did not pace. That would imply restlessness. He stood. Perfect posture. Hands clasped behind his back, and never hanging awkwardly at his sides (Odin used to hate that. Said it made him look uncertain. Indecisive. Small). He faced the hearth. Watching the flames dance across stone as if they might offer him a reason for what he had just done.

He had removed some of his regalia himself. Not all of it, just... enough.

The gauntlets. The mantle. The cape. But he still wore his midnight blue tunic beneath, sharp at the collar, hemmed in gold. Still royal. Still controlled.

(Still worthy).

He told himself it was only to avoid frightening the boy. Nothing more.

(Not because it carried an unspeakable weight. Not because he secretly felt relieved every time he took it off).

He did not ask the servants to prepare anything. There would be no tray of sweets, no tea, no candles lit. He didn’t even request the fire be stoked. Let the room remain dim. Quiet. Let the shadows make sense for once.

(Even if they still whispered of buried feelings).

The minutes passed unbearably slowly. And then came a knock, soft and hesitant. Too polite for a child. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. With a flick of his hand and a bit of seiðr, the door creaked open. Nari stood in the threshold, looking smaller than the day Loki had first brought him to Asgard. He held Fenrir to his chest like a broken relic. It was worse than Loki remembered. The ear had finally torn loose. One eye dangled by a single thread. The seam along the back had split wide, showing worn, balding stuffing within. It looked like a corpse. Still, Nari cradled it as if it were his most precious possession.

“You said… to come.”

His voice was quiet. Not afraid. Just… unsure. Already braced for disappointment. Already expecting this to have been some kind of test he’d failed without knowing how. Loki said nothing at first. He simply turned, gesturing to the couch by the hearth with a flick of his hand. Nari padded across the floor, steps muffled against thick green rugs. He climbed onto the seat with some effort, not quite graceful, and sat with Fenrir in his lap, arms wrapped around the broken plush’s middle.

Loki studied him in the flickering firelight. The boy didn’t speak. Didn’t fidget. Just sat there, waiting. Deftly avoiding his gaze. Clutching what was left of the only thing he’d spoken to without fear. Loki sat down across from him. Not beside. Across.

“You said he got 'hurt',” Loki said.

Nari nodded. “His stitches ripped more during orien…” —A pause, he let the word sit on his tongue, as if figuring out how to pronounce it— “ori-en-tay-shun.”

The boy slightly puffed up, as if proud of being able to say such a simple word. “I didn’t want to leave him behind, but I thought…” He trailed off, bit his lip. “I thought I'd hurt him more if I brought him and..."

“You left him," Loki finished.

“…Yeah.”

“And you regret it.”

Nari’s fingers tightened slightly around the plush. “…Yeah.”

Loki leaned forward slightly, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. His voice was calm, yet detached. “You understand this is just cloth and string. It’s not alive. It will never answer you.”

Nari didn’t argue. Didn’t speak. But he didn’t let go either. Loki exhaled through his nose. He rose from his chair and crossed to a high shelf at the edge of the chamber. Brushed aside a decorative vase, gaudy and unnecessary, and withdrew a small, velvet-lined box from behind a stack of neglected spell scrolls. He opened it. Needles. Thread. A few enchanted stitches tucked between glass vials of balm and salve. Practical things. Forgotten things. Things that once had a use, but logically, no longer mattered.

(And yet, Loki had still kept it there, because it still mattered to him. Because he feels—).

(Nothing. Loki feels nothing about it).

He returned to the fire. Held out his hand. “Give the victim here.”

Nari blinked. “What?”

“I said give him to me.”

“But…he’s really hurt—”

“So was Asgard before I became King,” Loki said dryly. “And I’ve managed to keep that stitched together. Unlike some other SENTIMENTAL fools who wouldn't have even tried.”

Nari didn't question Loki's admittedly odd statement. Instead, he slowly, reluctantly offered Fenrir. Loki took the plush with precise fingers. He turned it over and inspected it. It was worse than Loki thought. The ear was borderline unsalvageable. The back seam had unraveled like a pulled thread in a tapestry. It had been mended before in clumsy patches, uneven stitches, some seams redone with what looked like shoelace cord. Someone had loved it enough to keep fixing it. Again and again and again. Loki didn’t ask who.

(He had a feeling he already knew—).

He could see it now. Not the plush, but the hands that had repaired it. Not trained ones. Not even practiced. These were patch jobs done with love, not skill. Done in too many rooms under too many lights that didn’t shine quite right. Some of the seams were newer. Some were nearly worn away. It had been held together by SENTIMENT alone. And that, more than the unraveling thread, was its fatal flaw.

“Shoddy craftsmanship,” Loki muttered, as if stating fact. “Whoever made it clearly had no idea what they were doing.”

Nari flinched. Not dramatically, but enough to draw attention. Loki saw the barely-there twitch of his shoulders, the quick dip of his chin. He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was soft, uneven. “Mother tried really hard.”

Loki paused. His needle hovered over the plush, thread half-drawn. He didn’t need to ask. He didn’t want to ask.

“She made it when I was in her belly,” Nari said, eyes cast down. “He’s always been with me, and I...” He trailed off, his voice lowering into a wobbling, teary mumble. “I… I dunno what I’d do without him.”

Loki said nothing. He continued working deliberately and quietly. He used the enchanted thread first, reinforcing the broken back seam with practiced, deft hands. He’d mended cloaks this way. Armor padding. Once, a ceremonial tunic that had been torn during a skirmish in Vanaheim. But this felt different. Too small. Too soft. Too careful. He hated how careful he was being.

(He hated that he hadn’t scoffed and handed the boy a better, more regal gift instead. A replacement. A distraction. A solution. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t, because—).

—because long ago, in a room not unlike this one, there had been another toy. A green serpent. Stuffed with wool and straw. One eye missing, the other crookedly sewn back on. Loki had called him Jormie.

He was just a child. The snake had been his companion during long dinners, longer lessons, and even longer silences. A single thing that didn’t demand perfection. That listened. And it had torn right in the middle. Split open like a wound during one of Thor’s rowdier play-fights. Loki hadn’t cried, but he’d stood there frozen, empty. Clutching its limp body, unable to speak. Frigga had come to him quietly that evening. Not with a spell. Not with seiðr.

Just a small wooden box, this very same box, and a gentle voice, “Let’s fix him, shall we?”

She’d threaded the needle slowly, fingers steady, humming some old tune he’d long forgotten the words to. Loki had sat beside her, eyes fixed on the snake, terrified she might make him different somehow.

“Will he still be Jormie, Mother?” he’d asked, voice small.

Frigga had smiled. “Of course. We’re not replacing him. We’re healing him.”

And she had. Stitch by imperfect stitch. Love sewed with each intertwined thread. Loki hadn’t kept the snake. He didn’t know where it had eventually gone. Perhaps given away. Perhaps hidden, the way children bury the things they once needed. Or perhaps lost, its location forever banished behind buried, forgotten memories. But he remembered the thread. He remembered that.

Loki tied off the last thread in silence. Fenrir still looked like a mess, but he was a held-together mess. He handed him back with no fanfare.

“I will warn you now,” he said. “My work is more precise than warm. If Fenrir returns to you with a new personality, don’t come crying to me.”

Nari blinked, eyes wide. Then, to Loki’s slight horror, the boy actually cried. Not loudly. Not in gasping sobs or wails. Just a sharp breath. A blink too long. Wetness that slipped past his lashes and down his cheeks before he could wipe it away. He clutched Fenrir to his chest with reverent care, pressing the repaired seam against his heart. 

“T… Thank you,” Nari whispered. “Thank you.”

And then, before Loki could retreat behind another dry remark or conjure a distraction, the boy moved. He stood, crossed the small space between them, and hugged him. It was not neat. Not elegant. Not rehearsed or practiced like the bows he’d learned earlier that day. It was a child’s hug. Full-bodied. Fierce. Earnest in a way only the very young or the very broken could be.

Nari had thrown his arms around Loki’s waist, pressing his face into his chest and holding on as if he’d fall apart otherwise. Loki froze. His breath caught, not in surprise, but in something worse. Something deeper.

Nari wasn't letting go.

It crossed a line: a line Loki had never drawn aloud, but had enforced with every carefully crafted empty stare and aloof gesture. Children didn’t hug him. Children didn’t want to hug him. And yet, here was one. Quiet. Wholehearted. Needing nothing more than to be near. Loki’s hands hovered at his sides, uncertain, indecisive. He did not return the embrace.

He couldn’t.

(He could).

He didn’t.

(He should).

He mustn’t.

(He wanted).

His eyes dropped to the top of Nari’s head, to the raven-black curls, to the slight tremble in his shoulders. He noticed the softness of the boy’s breathing. The muffled sniffle. The sound of fabric rustling as Fenrir was squeezed between them. And still, Loki told himself he felt nothing. Not the tightness in his chest. Not the warmth seeping into the cold seams of his armor-less sleeves. Not the quiet part of him that remembered Frigga’s hands, the needle between her fingers, and the way she’d held him after—

He closed his eyes.

Breathed in.

Out.

The scent of old thread and firewood.

He would not name it. Whatever it was. This moment. This feeling. This weight. He would not acknowledge it. Instead, Loki let one hand—just one—hover awkwardly before settling lightly on Nari’s back. Not a return of the hug. Not an embrace. Just a hand. A touch. A reminder that he hadn’t pushed the boy away.

(Yet).

“…You may keep to the fire,” Loki said quietly, voice almost hoarse. “Just this once.”

Nari didn’t respond. But he did breathe: a long, quiet, shuddering breath. And slowly, he nodded. He didn’t let go for a long time. Loki didn’t make him.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

Loki remained still, the boy’s arms looped tightly around his waist. The small, persistent, undeniable warmth between them passed through every carefully constructed boundary—

(—Almost passed. Almost. Not quite).

Eventually, Loki realized the boy’s breathing had slowed. Deeper. Softer. Even. He glanced down. The child had fallen asleep. Mid-embrace. Without permission. Without fear.

(Of course he did. He’d had orientation from morning to dusk. And the night before, he had barely cried himself to sleep. The walking, the bowing, the manners. It was enough to tire out anyone, let alone a child already overwhelmed from being in a big, new place. It was simple exhaustion—nothing more).

(Nari's exhaustion ultimately understandable. Not… meaningful).

(Nothing. Loki feels absolutely nothing).

Loki stared at him, frozen by the unbearable stillness of it. This rare, quiet faith offered so carelessly to a monster who had done nothing to earn it. His first instinct was to call a servant. Order them to carry the boy away before the moment melted his heart. But he didn’t. Instead, he shifted just enough to support Nari’s weight, one arm hovering behind his back, not quite touching, not quite letting go. He whispered a simple charm, and the fire dimmed to embers. The shadows it had cast upon the walls fading into tender obscurity.

He did it not out of SENTIMENT.

Just… out of duty.

...Or so he told himself.

Caring was dangerous—an opening in the armor, a seam in the mask an enemy could pry apart. Nari was nothing more than a liability in that sense. A softness Loki could not afford, a weakness that would one day be used against him. And yet… the boy’s warmth against his side, the unconscious trust in this small body that refused to be dismissed. It pierced him deeper than any blade ever could, because he could not decide which was more frightening: caring, or wanting not to.

Nari stirred slightly, curling into him more. A soft noise escaped his throat, something like a sigh and a wordless hum. Loki couldn’t understand it. He was glad he didn’t, because he might’ve answered it.

The door opened without a knock. Saella. Of course. She stood just inside the threshold, her expression unreadable. She said nothing, just observed. And then, as if she’d done it every night of his childhood (as if this were her role, and not a new shape she had quietly stepped into) she crossed the room without a sound. She did not ask. She simply knelt, arms extending. 

Loki hesitated. Then gently, carefully, passed the boy into her arms. Nari murmured at the shift, blinking once, half-conscious. He said nothing. Felt nothing. Just let his hand fall away from the small, sleep-warm back. Saella cradled him like she’d done this before. Like she had carried gods and monsters through the dark and never once questioned which was which. Fenrir hung from one small fist. A mess of thread and memory. Without a word, Saella turned and left. The door shut softly behind her.

Loki stood alone again. He did not sit. Not yet. The room felt heavier now, in the way rooms sometimes do after a storm has passed, or a spell has broken. As if silence were not absence, but aftermath. Loki remained by the fire, one hand still half-lifted from where it had supported the boy, as if the memory of weight lingered there. He lowered it slowly. Pressed his fingers together. Then apart. Then into a loose fist, before letting it fall again to his side.

He had not noticed the embers of the fire had gone out. He had not noticed the chill beneath his skin, not until the door opened once more. Saella returned. Quiet as always. The folds of her robe barely whispered as she entered. She did not speak immediately; simply crossed to the table, lit a single candle, low, flickering, unnecessary, and paused. Loki remained by the hearth, unmoved. And yet, she still approached.

She stopped a few paces behind him. “He asked if you were angry,” she said, voice soft, matter-of-fact. “I told him no.”

A pause.

“...Should I have said yes?”

Loki closed his eyes.

“No,” he said. “That would’ve been a lie.”

“And we do not lie,” Saella replied gently, echoing an unspoken rule neither of them had acknowledged in the many years they had known each other.

Silence settled again. Then, for once, without invitation, without prompt, Saella spoke again. Her voice different this time. Not soft. Not dry. Not neutral. 

“I think… it’s all right,” she said slowly, “to be afraid of the shape something is taking. And still allow it to take shape.”

Loki turned. Not fully. Just enough to see her from the corner of his eye. He could tell that she knew speaking out of line like this could cost her something, but she had done it anyway. Not out of duty. Not out of loyalty. But because of something far more dangerous: Conviction.

He hated that he respected her for it. “And what shape is this?” he asked slowly. “Foolishness? Weakness?”

“No.” Her tone was steady now. “A thread. Worn and ugly, maybe. But holding. For now.”

He stared at her. She gave a quiet bow, not deep, but purposeful. Just enough to acknowledge the moment without trying to possess it. Just enough to say: I saw it, and no other soul will know it.

And just like clockwork, she helped him out of the rest of his regalia. Not another word spoken between the both of them. Then, turning back toward the door, holding the gathered last of it, she stopped once more, just before the threshold.

“I can send someone to relight the fire,” she said. “Unless you prefer to keep it extinguished.”

Loki looked down at the embers. At a scattered thread caught beneath his thumbnail. “Leave it.”

She nodded once and left.

He remained. Alone. Almost. Not pacing. Not thinking. Just breathing. Deathly frozen. Cold. Nothing. And somewhere, not far from here, a child was sleeping with a mended wolf between his arms and a small smile.

/ / /

Morning passed without mention of the night before. Saella did not speak of it. The servants made no note. The fire remained out. And Loki? Loki did not ask. He had matters to attend to. Scrolls to review. Petitions to dismiss. A meeting with a pig-faced envoy from Alfheim who used too many words yet said absolutely nothing. He listened. He nodded. He signed (He sighed). And when it was over, he checked his schedule: not for obligation, but for orientation. He arrived at the small, high-ceilinged chamber before he had reason to. Claimed it was a 'routine inspection'. Observing palace acclimation in process. Routine, of course.

The chamber was lit by tall windows on one side, casting angular beams across the floor. A single cushion sat in the center of the rug: green and gold, slightly too ornate for its purpose. Scrolls, court diagrams, and a chart with the entire Asgardian alphabet had been laid out with academic precision. At the center sat Nari, cross-legged and upright, posture taut with effort.

His tutor, an older Aesir woman with parchment sleeves and a voice like chisel, was already gathering her things. Loki remembered her reputation well: Ylva, ever the eccentric, with her fondness for Midgardian curiosities. A harmless indulgence, though not one the court ever failed to mutter about behind their hands. He had chosen her to be Nari's private tutor deliberately, not only for her precision, but because she taught with a perspective beyond the rigidity of Asgard’s old scholars. If Nari was to be mentored, it would be by someone who understood that knowledge took many shapes, even borrowed ones. She was—quite logically—the most necessary choice.

(Because it was easier to call it 'necessary' than to admit that the decision was driven by care).

She noticed Loki in the doorway and offered a short, acknowledging bow before smiling gently at Nari.

“You are excused, young one,” she said, dismissing her pupil with a curt nod.

Nari rose, smoothing out his tunic. There was something held beneath his cloak, close to his chest. He turned, saw Loki, and paused. But it was a different pause. One without fear or uncertainty. Only a small, thoughtful stillness that Loki was beginning to recognize as the boy beginning to decide something. And then he moved. Carefully—a little too carefully, like he thought he might be corrected or called back. But none of that happened.

He approached Loki, his steps uneven with intent. Loki’s gaze flicked downward towards the shape hidden in Nari’s cloak. Fenrir, still (somehow) in one piece. The boy was now in front of him. Didn’t bow. Just stood there.

“He... didn’t come back with a new personality,” Nari said.

Loki arched a brow. “No?”

Nari shook his head. “He just… loves more quietly now.”

It was said so simply. So plainly. As if the weight of the words belonged to someone else. Loki couldn’t reply at first. Couldn’t find the shape of a response that wouldn’t shatter something. Or build something he didn’t know how to hold. So he said the only thing that made sense. “Good.”

Nari nodded, seemingly satisfied with that, then turned to go, but before he stepped away, the boy paused.

“I think you fixed more than his hurtness,” he said, glancing back. “He’s got some of you in him now. But… It's okay. I won’t tell.”

And with that, he padded past the archway toward Saella, who had evidently been waiting nearby. The old woman leaned against the wall as Nari launched into animated chatter, all gestures and wide-eyed recounting. She listened, attentive and amused, and glanced toward Loki just once.

It was a brief look. Subtle, but unmistakably knowing. And Loki… remained standing. Hands behind his back. Unmoving. Unspoken. Almost smiling. He still told himself that caring was dangerous—that Nari could be used against him, that attachment was a chink in the armor; a crack in the mask. But the thought no longer felt like a shield. More like a habit he hadn’t yet put down. And so he let the moment be. Let it linger. Let himself feel it—relish it just enough to care about the warmth without naming it.

Which was a whole lot of something, for something that he so vehemently insisted was nothing.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

It had been three days. Three days since the boy had fallen asleep against his chest like it meant something. Since Saella had carried him away without a word, like it was something. Since the fire had gone out and Loki had intentionally chosen not to relight it. Since the boy had looked at him and assured him that Fenrir wasn’t any different. Three days of ' royal’ matters.

(Three days of not thinking too hard about it).

He had signed judgments, rewritten trade deals, met with the sniveling pig-faced envoy from Alfheim (again), and politely rebuffed an assassination attempt from a Vanir blade-for-hire—one who had slipped past three sentry rotations and nearly reached the inner hall before Loki tired of their game.

The assassin had spat some fevered accusation about Loki deliberately sowing mischief in Vanaheim to weaken them, citing phantom plots, invisible hands, and foul play. Delusion, they called it. No evidence. No proof. And yet… in this case, the delusion happened to be right.

(Loki was almost impressed by how ‘spot on’ they were).

He had, after all, sent Sif and the Warriors Three there under the pretense of aiding their 'struggle,' knowing it would leave Asgard’s throne conveniently unguarded and his own designs unchallenged.

The chaos left in their wake had only sharpened the fractures he’d been counting on. The assassin had merely been the first ripple of what was certain to become a larger tide, which was fine. The tide was already moving in the direction Loki intended.

He had also, on the second day, visited HIM. All alone. No guards. No Saella.

(No Thor).

There, past layers of locked spells and buried silence, where not a soul would ever find him, lay Odin.

The Allfather had not awoken since Loki had forced the Odinsleep upon him, more spell than mercy, more coup than care. He rested in cold, frozen stasis beneath the golden veil of enchantment, unmoving. Loki had stood above him, arms folded.

He did not gloat. He did not sneer. He simply asked, “Would you have called it weakness… If I’d just wanted to be held?”

Silence.

Odin, locked in the stillness of the Odinsleep, offered no answer, just as he always had when it mattered. Loki waited longer than he meant to. As if expecting something. As if wanting something. But nothing came. With a sharp breath and a tighter jaw, he turned. The door shut behind him with a resounding echo.

/ / /

The chamber was quiet. Too quiet. Loki stood near the far wall, arms folded behind his back, posture flawless, expression neutral. Uninterested. Unmoved. Merely observing.

(Inspecting, he told himself. Not watching. Inspecting).

(Because of… Something. Yes—Something. Not nothing).

The room itself was tastefully decorated: clean lines, polished stone, high windows letting in a wash of morning light that somehow made everything feel smaller. Less regal.

There were no thrones here. No banners. Only a long table, a standing tutor: Ylva, and a boy sitting too straight in a chair far too large for him. Nari.

His hands were folded perfectly in his lap. Spine stiff. Chin lifted a tad bit too much. Ylva was mid-sentence, explaining courtly forms of address in Old Asgardian. Nari nodded at all the right moments. Repeated the phrases on cue. Enunciated each word with precision care. But Loki could hear the contrivedness in it. The rehearsal.

(The exhaustion—barely masked under fierce, unwavering determination).

The boy was trying. Trying too hard to impress someone. Loki’s gaze sharpened. Nari shifted slightly in his chair, and… there—A glance. Just a flick of the eye toward the shadows where Loki stood almost invisible.

Nari’s lips had parted just slightly, like hadn’t expected to find what he was looking for. His hands, previously folded in stillness, curled ever so slightly on his lap. Not with nervousness, but recognition. He hadn’t seen Loki in three days.

(Not since…)

Nari straightened further, his exhausted eyes now gleaming with newfound energy. When asked to repeat a formal introduction, he did so with gravity well beyond his years: “It is... my honor to receive you, Lord Envoy. On behalf of the throne, I... extend full welcome." A beat. A slight furrowing of brows as the boy took a moment to recall what he had practiced. "...Though of course," he continued, "your station shall be verified through the proper channels before any favor is returned.”

Loki blinked. Those were his words. Not the tutor’s. It was the exact phrasing from the conversation he’d had with that hideous envoy from Alfheim two days ago. Behind closed doors, with absolutely no children present.

Ylva hesitated, clearly surprised. “That’s… a more formal variant, but…yes. Acceptable. Well done!”

Nari sat up straighter, clearly waiting for something, but Loki remained silent. The boy’s fingers twitched slightly in his lap, as though uncertain whether to fidget or freeze. He did neither. Only held firm. Perfectly still, just like Loki. 

When asked why Asgardian nobility wore green during mourning ceremonies, Nari had answered (with a too-careful cadence and borrowed gravity that didn’t quite suit his size), “Because green means rebirth. And a good king doesn’t die, he...”

Nari faltered. His brow pinched, and his mouth twitched in irritation, like the words weren’t landing the way they had when he’d practiced them. “He... He leaves something behind,” he finished, quieter. Not unsure. Just frustrated that it hadn’t come out right. Ylva had, of course, praised him for the effort, but Nari didn't seem to be absorbing any of it.

It hadn't been verbatim, but it was close. Close enough for Loki to recognize it. Close enough that he could hear his own voice in the cadence, the rhythm, the deliberate reach for meaning. It was precise. Deliberate. Eager. He should’ve been flattered.

He wasn’t.

He was unnerved. Unfettered. Watching like a man watching a reflection of himself cast slightly off-kilter. Loki knew performance—the aching need beneath it. Knew what it meant to become what demanded respect instead of waiting for them to respect what you were.

(One didn’t earn it. One took it. Demanded it. Just like HE did—until they had no choice but to kneel—)

He looked away before he could think about it for too long.

(“I think… it’s all right… to be afraid of the shape something is taking. And still allow it to take shape.”)

Loki exhaled quietly through his nose and still said nothing.

(Not yet).

The rest of the lesson wound down shortly after that. Ylva dismissed Nari with a few final words, which included a soft “well done” that the boy barely reacted to. His eyes had shifted again, past the quill, past the parchment, past the silver basin of ink. To Loki. Just Loki.

Loki did not move. He remained at the edge of the chamber, hands clasped behind his back. A statue pretending to be a man. Or perhaps the other way around. He watched, without watching, as Nari climbed down from his chair, adjusted the hem of his too-formal tunic, and hesitated, just for a split-second, before approaching. Quietly. Deliberately. As if on some silent cue. As if told that he could approach, but only if he did it the right way: the approved way.

(As if approaching something dangerous. Something that wore the shape of a king, but wasn’t entirely one—)

He stopped three paces away, then stood very straight. Hands at his sides. Then… no, he changed his mind. He folded them behind his back. Exactly like how Loki currently had his. Loki said nothing. His face gave nothing, but his fingers itched.

“S...Sir,” Nari said. A simple word. Soft. Polite. Good.

Too good.

Loki blinked once. It was not the word itself that caught him. It was the absence of another. He waited just long enough to feel the pause stretch too thin, then inclined his head slightly. “Yes?”

Nari’s throat bobbed. “I…”

A pause. He fidgeted once, then corrected himself. “I wanted to say… Good morning.”

The words spilled out fast. Eager. But brittle. And then, in a single breath: “And… I remembered how you… how you ‘con-duct–ted-ed’ yourself as king. At the... the meeting thing. And the af-affirf-mation of nobility ceremony. I memorized everything I could, and Miss Ylva even said it was better than correct! I didn’t talk too much either, and I tried not to fall asleep and—"

Nari inhaled. And then, quieter, “I was good... I think.”

Loki said nothing at first. Because he knew that tone. That shape: the shape of a child who had decided that praise was the closest thing to love they could ask for and so they chased it. Scraped themselves smooth trying to earn it. Hoping that 'good' would be enough. He knew it because he’d done it. Because he still did it. And now here it was, looking up at him with wide, too-steady eyes so much like his own.

“I was good,” Nari said again, softer now. “Right?”

Loki swallowed.

(“I think… it’s all right to be afraid of the shape something is taking. And still allow it to take shape.”)

Loki’s next words were careful. Measured. Sharper than he intended. “You memorized courtly phrases.”

Nari’s shoulders tightened.

“You conducted yourself like I do. Spoke like I do. Repeated what I’ve said.”

The boy’s breath caught.

“And what of what you would say?” Loki asked, a bit more coldly than he intended. “If I asked you, not the version of me you’re repeating, what would you say?”

The silence that followed was neither shameful nor scolding. It was honest. And that, more than anything, was what made it unbearable. Nari dropped his gaze, and Loki watched him long enough that the boy started to shift again. Ready to apologize. Ready to leave. But before he could, Loki spoke.

“...Perhaps ,” he said slowly, “we’ll see if there’s anything genuine to find soon enough.”

The words were quiet. Measured. But not warm. Not kind. Loki hadn’t meant them as a threat, but he hadn’t cared enough to soften them either. He had merely spoken the truth as he saw it: blunt, unvarnished, and undeserving of rehearsal.

But Nari flinched, just barely. Loki saw the way his shoulders dipped; the way his fingers tightened at his sides.

“…Yes, sir,” the boy murmured, not looking up.

Sir. Again.

Loki didn’t correct him. Instead, he only nodded once—curt, imperceptible—and turned to leave. He had other matters to attend to.

The boy took that for dismissal. Of course he did. Nari turned and headed back to his temporary room, quiet as he came. And Loki did not look back, even when he heard the footsteps, light and small, fade down the corridor. Even when he caught the barest hint of quiet disappointment trailing behind them like smoke.

/ / /

Loki didn’t look back.

(Kings never looked back).

He turned the corner, past a pair of idle guards who straightened at his approach. He didn’t acknowledge them. They weren’t worth it. Nothing was at the moment. Certainly not the way Nari had looked at him. Certainly not the way that look had lingered, as if searching for something—waiting for something. Hoping for something.

(Don’t think about it. Don’t).

…But it was too familiar. Too rehearsed. That way of standing just a little too straight, as if correctness could earn affection. And it would have been so easy for Loki to have just given—

(Don’t. Think. About. It).

A younger version of himself flickered at the edge of thought, smoothing down his sleeves, saying all the right words, mimicking the weight of command just to be seen—

(Stop it).

He hadn’t meant to teach the boy to mirror that… Had he?

(...He should’ve called me ‘Father’).

Loki stopped walking.

(No).

(No, that…)

(That wasn’t right).

(That wasn’t fair).

That title meant nothing. It was just a word. A stupid word. It only made it easier to push one away. Easier to disappoint. Easier to—

(Stop it. Please).

Nari shouldn’t have looked at him like that. Like he believed in something. Like Loki deserved it. He hadn’t asked for that. Hadn’t wanted that. Hadn’t—

Loki closed his eyes, and suddenly, he was elsewhere: a memory.

It came in a vault. With ice. And frost that bled up his fingers as the Casket of Ancient Winters answered his touch, latticework light crawled beneath the skin until the lie of pink gave way to the truth of blue. His veins flared like runes. His eyes—red, unfamiliar—caught on the polished floor and stared back at him from a stranger’s face.

“Stop!”

The word cracked across the chamber. Loki turned. Odin was standing in the doorway, broad as the frame itself, his one-eyed gaze found the blue of Loki's skin and faltered.

Silence.

“...Am I cursed?” Loki had asked. His voice did not break. It simply left him, pale as breath in winter.

“No.” Odin’s reply had been immediate, almost reflex. “Put the Casket down.”

Loki set it back onto its pedestal. The chill withdrew by degrees; color rushed back to his hands; the red in his eyes dimmed to green. But the truth did not retreat with the cold. It remained, ringed around the pedestal like frost.

He looked at his father. “What am I?”

“You’re my son.”

A beat.

The silence drew tight between them—old, heavy, crowded with everything that should have been said and never was. Odin’s shoulders sank under an invisible weight.

“What more than that?” Loki had pressed, because he had known this cadence, this carefulness. He had heard it at other doors, on other nights, when answers were a kindness withheld.

Odin did not answer.

So Loki followed the thread himself, pulling until it cut. He glanced at the Casket. “The Casket wasn’t the only thing you took from Jotunheim that day, was it?”

Odin met his eyes—finally, fully. There had been nowhere left to hide. Long before this chamber, Asgard had gone to war with Jotunheim to drive the Frost Giants from Midgard’s shores; when Laufey’s advance was broken, they took his greatest weapon—the Casket of Ancient Winters—and sealed it in this vault. “No.”

Another breath. Another winter.

“In the aftermath of the battle,” Odin had said, voice quiet, “I went into the Temple and I found a baby. Small for a giant’s offspring—abandoned, suffering, left to die. Laufey’s son.”

The name struck like a dropped blade. Laufey. King of Jotunheim.

“Laufey’s… son. Laufeyson…” The name felt wrong in his mouth, like a shape his tongue should not have known.

He saw Thor as if at a distance—gold-bright, loud with certainty—wearing the word brother like a banner. (A borrowed word, then. A costume they had both mistaken for skin).

And Frigga—her hands had guided his, her voice patient over every lesson—had she known? Of course she had. Had Odin placed a frost-born child in her arms and asked her to love it anyway? She had. (Had she told Thor? Surely not. He would have worn the secret like armor or blurted it like challenge).

But then… those looks, now reinterpreted; that gentleness sharpened into pity, that pride sanded down into carefulness. 

Had they all known?

Had he been the only one in his own life who did not?

He looked again at his hands—at the memory of blue that would not wash away—and suddenly the map of his life redrew itself all at once: the glances, the restraint, the way love had always felt like something to be earned. A monster he was, then. Not by deed, but by origin.

(And origin was the one thing he could never out-think).

“Why?” he had asked, the word steadier than he felt. “You were knee-deep in Jotun blood. Why would you take me?”

“You were an innocent child,” Odin said.

“You took me for a purpose,” Loki had said, voice wobbly. Uncertain. “What was it?”

Odin hesitated.

“TELL ME!”

“I thought we could unite our kingdoms one day,” Odin said at last, the admission rough with age, “bring about an alliance, bring about a permanent peace… through you. But those plans no longer matter.”

(There it was again. Usefulness, dressed up as purpose).

“So I was no more than another stolen relic,” Loki said, the vault’s cold finding his voice, “locked up here until you might have use of me.”

“Why do you twist my words?” Odin asked, weary anger threading through his restraint.

“You—You could have told me what I was from the beginning,” Loki said. “Why didn’t you?!”

“You are my son. My blood. I wanted only to protect you from the truth.”

“Wh–What? Because—Because I... I am the monster parents tell their children about at night?”

“Don’t…” Odin warned, but it lacked bite; it sounded like someone already losing the argument he wished wasn’t happening.

“It all makes sense now,” Loki said softly, tears threatening to spill. “Why you favored Thor all these years.”

“Listen—”

“Because no matter how much you claim to ‘love’ me,” Loki finished, each word winter-cold and venomous, “you could never have a FROST GIANT sitting on the Throne of ASGARD!"

The silence after that said everything else. The cold did the rest.

(Loki hadn’t cried. Not then. Not out loud).

He opened his eyes. The corridor remained, gleaming in the morning light, yet colder than before. The gold-veined marble caught the sun just wrong, too sharp, too bright, like it was trying to make the silence look beautiful. But the silence wasn’t beautiful. It was unbearable.

Loki’s hands were fists now, tight enough for his nails to leave shallow, stinging crescents in his skin. He hadn’t noticed the warmth rising in his palms, thick, damp, seeping, until it threatened to spill. His throat burned, not from shouting, but from everything he hadn’t said. Everything he wanted to have said.

The world around him was still and polished and poised, and yet somehow it roared, a wailing, invisible noise pressing in painfully from every side. The hum in the walls. The pulse beneath his skin.

It was all so excruciatingly QUIET, yet so excruciatingly LOUD. Too much. Too much. Loki forced himself to keep walking, to focus on the rhythm of his boots against marble. The swish of fabric. The ticking of time. He counted it. 

One, two, three…

(He completely relies on you).

Loki clenched his jaw.

Four, five, six…

(He’s a weakness).

His eye twitched.

Seven, eight, nine…

(You’re just like ODIN).

The next number wouldn’t come. For a split second—just one—Loki faltered. The rhythm collapsed. A breath caught sideways in his throat. It was all too much. Too loud. Too close. But… 

(“A thread. Worn and ugly, maybe. But holding. For now.”)

He exhaled. Not sharply. Not raggedly. Just enough. Then, slowly, he released the fist first, followed by the jaw. He rolled his shoulders once, subtle, smooth. Straightened his cuffs. Pressed the creases flat. Nothing dramatic. Nothing visible. Just enough to feel the motion—like a nastily tangled stitch steadily being pulled taut.

He thought about Fenrir. An objectively ugly thing held together by SENTIMENT alone. Yet, Loki had gone out of his way to stitch him up, not because he deserved to be saved. Not because he was elegant or valuable or whole, but because something small, useless, and unworthy had dared to believe it still mattered.

And it did.

So Loki breathed again, gathering the silence in one fell swoop. And then kept walking—slower now. Not escaping. Not unraveling. Just… continuing.

He noticed a loose thread brushing the edge of his sleeve, caught on a cufflink, and plucked it, before twisting it once between his fingers and letting it fall to the cold, marble floor. He had other matters. Important matters. Real ones. Schemes. Power. Deals struck beneath the skin of a world that was doomed to fall if he didn’t play his role. And Loki always played his role well. He slipped on his mask, and continued down the hall.

/ / /

Hela waited in the catacombs where the stone still bore the cracks from their last “discussion.” Her presence leeched warmth from the air. It was all intentional, of course. She liked to remind people what dying felt like.

She did not rise when he entered. She merely looked up from her seat on the broken dais of a long-forgotten burial chamber, one leg crossed over the other, her fingers idly tracing the hilt of a blade that did not yet exist. 

“King Loki,” she said, slowly. “You’re late.”

“I arrive when I mean to,” Loki replied, voice smooth, impassive. “Time is a performance, not a constraint.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t take the bait. Instead, he scanned the shadows that pooled behind her, the shrouded souls that whispered reminders of her claim. Hela smiled slightly at the silence. She always smiled when she thought she’d won.

“I take that you wish to discuss boundaries again,” she said. “You’ve grown fond of those lately.”

“Fond of limits,” Loki corrected, “not boundaries. There’s a difference. One governs. The other conquers.”

She tilted her head. “And you’re the governor?”

“I’m the only one who cares enough about Asgard to keep it alive,” he said flatly.

“Pretending,” she echoed, voice soft, sweet, venomous. “Yes. That does sound like you.”

He didn't flinch. There was something dangerous in how easily their conversations slipped from political to personal. How often the words between them danced on old blades and cuts. Her offers always came sweetened: “I will keep your secrets should you promise to extend Hel’s reach,” she had said once. “Give me access to the roots of Asgard, and I’ll help you silence Thor’s name for good.”

(Loki hadn’t answered then. He never did. There were easier names to bury. More deserving ones. Thor’s was just... loud. Inconvenient. Persistent in the way storms were, not because they meant harm, but because they couldn’t help themselves).

(He had told himself that was all it was. A storm. Nothing more).

He had, of course, given Hela something—just enough. A sliver of power, a token strip of land, a writ so ceremonial it was little more than theater. He stalled her as he stalled most others: with wit, with charm, with the careful illusion of concession. But he knew what she truly sought. Not territory. Not titles.

She wanted the throne beneath his throne—the heart of Asgard, where the roots of Yggdrasil sank deep and Chronovium bled in its rawest form. The place where time itself unraveled into sap and stone, where past, present, and future tangled into one song.

And he had seen what came of it. Thread after thread where the realm cracked and fell—Asgard in ruin, again and again, its towers shattered, its people scattered or slain, its heart hollowed to dust. Some futures ended in fire. Others in frost. Some in silence so absolute it felt like grief. In most, he did not survive.

And the ones where he did live? He was alone.

(And in that loneliness, there had been absence where something ought to have been. And that… lingered).

He did not trust the throne. But it kept showing up intact only in the futures where he sat upon it. That was the terrible thing. The necessary thing.

(He was just claiming his birthright. That's all. That's it. Nothing more to it, and nothing more to question about it).

“I trust our arrangement is still in place?” Hela asked now, gaze sharp—too sharp—like she'd noticed the lapse in his attention, and had simply kept talking until he returned.

“For now,” Loki said. “If you don’t tug too hard.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What happens if I do?”

Loki smiled faintly, without humor. “Then the thread might snap.”

Something in him flinched at the word. Thread. Like the one he had tied off three nights ago with gentle fingers and too much care. Like the one from the cufflink of his sleeve that he’d mindlessly plucked out just this morning. Like the one Saella had called ugly, worn, and still holding.

Silence.

Then Hela rose, slow and deliberate. She stepped close to Loki, her breath ice-cold against his collar.

“You’re not yourself,” she whispered.

Loki didn’t blink. “I’ve never been anyone else.”

She laughed softly, brushing past him toward the exit. “We’ll see how long you can hold that lie together.” The door slammed behind her, shaking the old stone. Loki remained, hands behind his back and shoulders squared, but mind elsewhere. A thread pulled taut inside his chest.

(Just a tug of something).

One more tug, and it felt like it would all unravel. Or hold. He didn’t know which scared him more. Somewhere above him, a boy waited for something, and Loki began to feel it: the tug.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

Loki had not returned to his quarters immediately after his meeting with Hela. He'd had reports to read. A petition to deny. A trade agreement to amend—again.

One of the lesser, outer realms had threatened to revoke an alliance unless they were permitted to name their child after one of the Ten Realms’ moons. Loki had crossed out all the moons. In response, he received a loaf of bread baked into the shape of his horned helmet.

He didn’t even dignify that ridiculous gesture with a reaction.

(But nonetheless, it made for a decent snack).

And perhaps it was petty, but he had underlined Asgard three times in that amended agreement—just to remind them who held the pen.

They didn’t trust him. Not fully. Not yet. But he ruled anyway. He made no declarations of virtue. Only decisions, but he made them carefully, and he made them well.

By the time the sun dipped behind the golden towers and the weight behind his eyes became too heavy to ignore, he’d dismissed the last of his advisors with a wave.

Finally, the day was done. He didn’t say it aloud, but the thought lingered with a rare flicker of something near relief: Dinner. Quiet. Simple. Nari would be waiting, no doubt already seated—feet not touching the floor, probably fussing with the silverware, possibly rehearsing what to say.

(Always prepared. Always determined. Like he thought there was something to prove—).

(—Don’t think about it).

(You’re not supposed to care).

It had become a rhythm of sorts. Awkward. Predictable. Easier than it should’ve been. So when Loki stepped into the dining chamber and found only the firelight waiting, he paused.

The table was set. One chair had clearly been readied for a smaller occupant with extra cushions, adjusted silverware, and place mat slightly askew, but the boy was not there. No one was. Loki frowned faintly, then looked toward the servant at the wall. 

“Where is he?”

The servant gave a shallow bow. “He has not arrived, Your Majesty.”

“Saella?”

“She has not come either, Your Majesty.”

Loki waved the matter off with a flick of the fingers. “She’s likely still preparing him. Find them and send them in.”

The servant nodded affirmatively before shuffling quietly out of the dining hall. Despite the lack of a certain important occupant, Loki sat anyway.

The meal was placed before him, but he did not eat. Not yet. His gaze slid once toward the empty seat across from him. Just briefly. Then he picked up his glass and drank. Not hurriedly. Not distractedly. Just… precisely. He told himself this wouldn't be the first dinner the boy would be late to. He will arrive soon enough.

But then ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

The food, once warm, had begun to cool. The wine dulled on his tongue. Loki cut a piece of roasted root and set it neatly on the edge of his plate. It remained untouched. He didn’t look at the empty seat again. Not directly. Only in glances. Slanted, infrequent. Dismissive.

(Just a missed meal. A delay. Children became distracted often. He used to be the same. It was not uncommon).

The servants, well-trained, said nothing. Cleared nothing. Only momentarily exchanged nervous glances that they thought he wouldn’t notice. No updates on the whereabouts of Nari and his caretaker. He refilled his glass once, and then not again.

Another five minutes.

A flicker of seiðr stirred at Loki’s fingertips before he stilled it. Old habit. Old instinct. The kind that felt too close to worry to be allowed. He folded his hands and waited.

A muffled chime sounded faintly through the far corridor, some distant clock, too cheerful for the moment. The kind of sound that made time feel polite. Measured. Predictable. Welcoming. But the quiet in the room had shifted. It wasn’t peaceful or welcoming anymore. It wasn’t expectant. It was waiting.

Loki drummed his fingers once against the table’s edge, slow and even. Then he stopped, because he was listening now. Not passively. Not politely.

Really listening.

No footsteps. No shuffle of boots. No childish voice down the corridor. Not even the rustle of the boy’s tunic as he tried too hard not to run down the halls. Nothing. It was too quiet.

(And Loki did not like quiet when it came like this. Slow, creeping, as though something had been removed rather than delayed).

Still, he said nothing. Still, he did not move. His eyes had sharpened in a way that meant the silence had overstayed its welcome. But before he could react to it, there came a knock just beyond the main dining doors—delicate, hesitant, the kind of knock used by someone hoping not to be heard. Loki did not rise. 

“Enter,” he said flatly.

The door creaked open. A servant stepped in—young, barely more than a teenager— with a tray he wasn’t supposed to be holding and a tremble in his hands that made the goblet atop it rattle faintly. 

“Y-Your Majesty,” he began, voice low and thin. “Forgive the intrusion—there was… I was told to…” He faltered. Swallowed.

Loki didn’t blink. “Speak.”

The servant’s eyes flicked to the empty chair at Loki’s left, then back to the floor. “It’s the young one,” he said finally, too fast. “T...The prince. He was meant to be with Miss Saella to prepare for the evening, but he... he disappeared. He wasn’t in his t-temporary quarters. And the garden guards didn’t see him pass. And—”

Loki stood.

The tray clattered as the servant jolted, nearly dropping it. He caught it just in time and fell silent, eyes wide.

Loki hadn’t meant to rise so fast. He hadn’t meant for his heartbeat to pick up, or for the taste of iron to creep onto the back of his tongue. He hadn’t meant for this—this burn in his chest that wasn’t rage but was close. Closer than it should’ve been.

“Are you telling me,” he said, voice cool, sharp, and glacial, “that you have lost the boy?”

The servant opened his mouth. Closed it. Then nodded once, barely. Loki took a step forward, and the servant stepped back in kind. One more inch and he might’ve turned and fled, but then another voice filled the room. 

“It's true.”

Saella.

She had entered silently, as she often did. But her presence now was anything but subtle. She stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable—but wrong in a way that struck Loki cold. It was the same expression she’d worn the night he’d usurped the throne. Not afraid. Not angry. Just bracing. Loki’s jaw tightened. The air around him shifted. 

“Explain.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to the servant, who bowed and nearly tripped as he scrambled out of the room. Only when the door clicked shut again did she speak.

“He’s not just gone,” she said. “He ran.”

Loki stilled. A silence fell, taut and immediate.

“What do you mean ran?” The words came slow, deliberate. Measured only because he was holding them back with both hands.

“I mean,” Saella said carefully, “something happened after lessons. Something small, at first. But it broke him.” Her voice didn’t waver, but her tone had softened. “He was scolded—harshly. Too harshly, perhaps. For losing focus. For answering poorly. For not applying himself.”

Loki said nothing, but the quiet around him darkened— heavier now.

“He stopped trying after this morning,” she added. “Wouldn’t speak unless prompted. Didn’t correct his posture. Didn’t eat. Lady Ylva assumed he was being stubborn.” Saella paused, then took a breath. “After his last lesson, someone—one of the older, noble boys—mocked him for being favored. For being… yours.”

A silence fell. Dense. Inevitable. Saella went on, more gently now. “Some heated words were said. He didn’t lash out. He didn’t shout. He just… stood there. Then turned and ran. We’ve searched everywhere we thought he’d go—his room, the library, the lower gardens, the servants’ wing, but…” Her voice dimmed. “…he’s not anywhere he’s supposed to be.”

Loki’s reply came at a whisper, but it was no softer for it. “And no one thought to inform me sooner.”

It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation laced with ice.

“We thought he’d return on his own,” she said, quietly, her gaze almost strained. “He’s done it before. Hidden in corners. Found small places to breathe. He’s a child, Loki. A frightened, exhausted child who thought he’d failed you.” 

That hit true; deep and cold. Loki didn’t move, but his fingers curled once behind his back. “Where was he last seen?”

Saella’s eyes didn’t move. “By the solar. Looking toward the wing you sleep in.”

Silence.

Loki turned before she could say anything else. The shadows rippled behind him as he left, fast and silent. The corridor blurred past him in streaks of gold and shadow. He didn’t speak. Didn’t slow.

The guards he passed barely had time to acknowledge him. He dismissed them with a flick of seiðr, wordless and cold. He didn’t trust his voice just now. It burned at the edges of his throat—tight and bitter, like grief trying to pretend it was fury.

(He had only looked away for a moment. One gods-damned moment. One day. One breath-)

(And now this—)

(Why did this happen...?)

(No. No, don’t ask that).

(It happened because of you).

(Because you stayed too distant, you couldn't even care enough to–)

(You did this).

The doors to his private quarters stood ajar when he reached them. That was the first sign. He stepped in with measured silence, not seiðr. He didn’t need seiðr to know someone was there. The air held it: tension, breath, warmth that hadn’t been there when he left. And there, on the cushioned bench beneath the arched window, curled awkwardly on one side, his too-large tunic pulled halfway over his knees, sat Nari.

The boy was barely awake.

His eyes widened the moment he saw Loki in the doorway. Guilt leapt to his face so quickly it almost made Loki falter. His fingers curled tighter around something in his lap—Fenrir, the mended wolf. The same objectively ugly thing Loki had repaired not long ago.

“I’m sorry,” Nari blurted before Loki could say a word. “I didn’t mean to be bad. I just– I didn’t know where to go, and I was running and, and—and I didn’t want to go back, and I thought...”

His voice cracked. The words didn’t come. Nari’s mouth opened once. Then closed. Then again. But whatever he’d been about to say caught in his throat and stayed there. His fingers curled tightly in the fur of the mended wolf on his lap, and the tremble started—small at first, then rising, until his shoulders gave a sudden, shuddering hitch. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and then again, each time smaller, each time more broken, until the apology dissolved into quiet sobs that he didn’t try to hide.

Loki stood still, his shadow stretching long across the floor, and the mask cracked just a little.

(He would burn them. Every last one of them who had dared humiliate the boy. Who had watched him falter and had done nothing. Who had twisted a child’s fear into shame. Let the golden halls melt if they must. Let the courtyards crack and the towers fall. He would make it known what became of those who touched what was his. Let the realm tremble. Let it kneel-).

But the fury didn’t break loose. It curled in on itself, tightened like a thread, and snapped. Because it wasn’t just them, it was also him.

“Y…You weren’t here, but I thought maybe you’d come eventually,” Nari said, a bit smaller now. “I remembered where your room was. I only remembered that.” 

The silence that followed—punctuated by muffled sobs—was unbearable. Loki stepped in, slow and quiet, closing the door behind him with seiðr. His steps echoed faintly on the floor. The boy tensed.

Loki looked at Nari—really looked—and saw it now: the puffiness around the eyes. The stiffness in his shoulders. The way he hadn’t changed out of his lesson clothes. He looked tired. Small, crumpled at the edges, weathered, and yet…

“You ran,” Loki said at last, low and quiet.

Nari flinched. “I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t trying to—I didn’t want to make trouble.”

“You made it anyway.”

That landed too sharply. Nari looked down, fingers tightening around Fenrir’s ear. “I know.”

There was a beat.

“I didn’t mean to disappear,” Nari said. “I just didn’t know where else to go.”

Something in that sentence—didn’t know where else to go—slid under Loki’s armor like a blade. And there it was: that feeling he refused to acknowledge.

In the game he played, SENTIMENT was a liability. Nari was a liability. A weakness that could be used, twisted, broken. Useless in the cold calculus of keeping a throne.

And yet… the boy’s voice, his posture, the stubborn throb of concern in Loki’s own chest: these things defied the rules he lived by. He could not banish them, and the inability to do so was perilously close to fear. Loki was not a man accustomed to fear. And at this moment, he feared. That, more than anything, made him crueler than he meant to be.

“You endangered yourself. You abandoned your escort. You ignored protocol.”

“I know,” Nari whispered again. “I just… I thought maybe you wouldn’t be…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Loki didn’t ask him to. He took a step closer. The boy tensed again, like bracing for something worse than scolding, and for a moment, Loki almost reached for him. Almost. But instead, his fingers twitched, and fell to his sides.

“I thought you would’ve known better,” Loki said quietly, almost coldly. Nari’s breath caught, and that was the end of it. No punishment. No raised voice. No comforting words either. Just a deepening quiet. Loki turned away first.

“Get out.”

Nari stared. “Wh… What?”

“Get out. Go to your room.”

His eyes shone with unshed tears. “B... But I—”

“That’s an order.”

Nari nodded too quickly and slipped off the bench. He hesitated once—just once—at the door, as if he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t. He only whispered, “Yes, sir,” and fled. He didn’t close the door behind him.

Loki remained, motionless in the center of the room, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight. The words he had spoken echoed too loud in the quiet, sharper than they’d sounded in his head. He didn’t know how long he stood there, but it felt long enough for the silence to feel sour.

Then, as he turned to leave, he saw it.

Fenrir.

The mended plush wolf slumped on the floor where Nari had dropped it beside the cushion. One ear slightly bent. Forgotten.

(No… left behind).

Not on purpose nor intentionally, Loki knew that. But it was still there. Still waiting. Still whole. And that, somehow, was worse.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

He stood there for a long time, just staring. Fenrir lay crooked on his side, glassy button eyes tilted upward like he was waiting to be picked up. Loki’s breath was thin in his chest. Too steady. Too practiced. He knelt—not swiftly, not dramatically—and picked the wolf up with careful fingers. The thread in his belly had begun to fray again. Just slightly. A single stitch loose.

(Tug too hard, and the seam would unravel. It always started small, didn’t it?)

(Just like…)

Loki turned it over once in his hand. He should have said something else. He should have done anything else. The words had been right there—on the tip of his tongue, buried just beneath his pride—but he’d chosen silence instead. Chosen control. And now, in its place, there was the heavy stillness of a child’s absence, and a ridiculous plush animal he’d once repaired without thinking.

Now all he could think about was how it looked alone. How he had left it that way. The ache in his throat tightened. Regret, sharp and unwelcome, settled in his chest like frost.

(Not that he’d ever call it that out loud).

He set Fenrir gently on his desk, then turned away.

/ / /

The night outside the windows had deepened. Beyond the glass, the lights of Asgard flickered in their elegant patterns, majestic and undisturbed. A realm still standing. Still breathing.

(...But for how long?)

He had been gone for a while—long enough for the corridors to empty, for the lamps to burn low. He’d walked without aim or destination, past the Bifrost Gardens, through the marble halls. The night air had been cool, yet sharp enough to keep his thoughts from unraveling too far. He told himself he needed distance, composure—anything but stillness. But the quiet had followed him anyway. Every reflection in the glass, every bowed head that turned away, had only made the noise in his mind louder.

By the time he returned, the torches in the antechamber had guttered to flickering embers. His footsteps echoed too clearly on the floor. When the door shut behind him, the hush of his chambers pressed close again, thick with the scent of ink and cedar-wood. For the first time all night, there was no one left to fear him—

(—or to remind him why he despised himself).

His gaze drifted to his desk, where Fenrir still lay there slumped, thread pulling slightly at the seam of his belly, just enough to come undone if left too long. Loki reached for him again, crossed the room, pulled open a small drawer built into the base of his old writing cabinet, and drew out a velvet-lined box—the same one he used to fix Fenrir just days ago.

He opened it, took a needle, some green thread—a deep forest green, nearly black in low light—and settled himself back on his desk, kneeling slightly over the broken wolf. Quietly, patiently, he began to sew. The stitches were small, tight, and practiced. He’d always had steady hands. It helped with illusions, and it translated well into this painfully SENTIMENTAL thing.

Loki didn’t hear the door open, but he felt the shift in the air. Saella had returned with fresh linens. She entered halfway, saw what he was doing, and paused. She said nothing, only moved about the room with deliberate quiet, placing things where they belonged, folding what needed folding, adjusting a flame that had flickered too low. She did not speak his name. She did not ask about the thread. But her glance, brief and deeply knowing, fell once on the plush in his hands before moving on. She knew better than to offer words in moments like this.

Loki said nothing either.

As he worked on Fenrir, he thought about the weeks to come. The futures he had seen—tangled, ruined things with jagged edges and no mercy.

He thought of Hela, with her slow smile and her barbed offerings, her promises wrapped in blood-silk and bone. She could not be trusted. That had never been in question. The only question was when to act. How to unmake her without unmaking everything she had, in her own cunning way, helped him build. He would have to betray her eventually.

And Thor—Thor had said nothing. He didn’t need to. It was the look that lingered. Not the clash of hammer or cry of war, but the look. The one Thor gave him as he stood behind Hela, bruised but unbowed, thunder crackling at his shoulders, the timeline buckling open like a wound behind him. A rift Loki had crafted himself–deliberate, precise, meant to banish, not destroy.

But Thor had understood. He had known. And in that last instant before the rift took him, Thor had turned. Just slightly. Just enough for their eyes to meet. That look—gods, that look—Loki could still see it when he closed his eyes. Not rage. Not shock. Not even betrayal. Just... Disappointment.

You really are the worst, brother.

That was what it said. Not spoken in fury, just... a look. A memory out of place, souring against the sadness in Thor’s gaze as the disappointment quickly melted into one of promise: One that Loki understood instantly.

I am coming for you. And when I do, no god or power in the Ten Realms will save you.

And then he was pulled into a distant, dangerous timeline. Loki hadn't seen him since.

And the worst part? He believed him. But the truth—

(—it was always the truth, wasn’t it?)

—was that he didn’t know if he’d be fast enough. Clever enough. Strong enough to even experience Thor’s wrath. Should he choose to give up or unwillingly lose the throne, he had seen so many versions of himself fail. Die. Fade. And when he looked into those futures and did see himself standing… it was often on a pile of ash. With no one beside him. He would never admit that such futures had saddened him so.

He didn’t want to be the only one left. He didn’t want to be remembered the way Odin had been: worshiped, resented, forgotten by those who needed him most. He didn’t want to stitch the realm together only to find that no one remained to live in it—to watch it crumble one unraveling thread at a time.

When the final knot was tied and trimmed, he turned the plush gently in his hands. The seam was nearly invisible now. Fenrir was whole again. He turned the plush over once again in his hands, fingers brushing the newly mended seam. Then, with quiet care, he placed Fenrir back on his desk—centered, upright, facing outward.

Not forgotten. Waiting.

He let his hand rest there a moment longer than necessary, then pulled it back. He would return Fenrir himself, and in the morning, he would speak to Nari. Not as a king, but as a something else.

/ / /

Morning light filtered through the high windows of the throne wing, pale and crisp, with none of the golden softness of the night before. The air was still. Almost reverent.

Loki had risen far earlier than his advisors expected, though none dared comment on it. He’d dismissed two briefings before they were finished and waved off a general mid-sentence. His answers were clipped, precise, and hollow. His destination was already decided.

Fenrir sat tucked into the crook of his arm, his button eyes gleaming faintly in the low light. Loki did not walk toward the wing where Nari resided with ceremony or guards. He needed neither. He only needed time–just a little– and perhaps a moment’s grace to fix what he had undone the night before.

But before he reached the turn to the east hall, a page approached. Not just any page. One of the High Pages, clad in silver-trimmed robes and holding a scroll with both hands. His boots were polished. His breath was quick, and his expression far too composed for a boy so clearly afraid to speak.

“Your Majesty,” he said, with a too-low bow.

Loki did not slow. “Walk and talk.”

“Yes, my king. There’s… a delegation. At the gates.” The page cleared his throat as he fell beside Loki. “Not of lords nor diplomats. But warriors. Veterans. They seek an audience.”

That gave Loki a pause.

“They say they come bearing report from the Vanaheim campaign,” the boy continued, “but they… they also invoked old rights. The kind not bound to court schedule.”

Old rights. The kind invoked before courts were formalized, before counsel came with parchment and wax. Those were rights that couldn’t be turned away. Not without raising questions. Not without inciting whispers. Loki stopped and turned his gaze toward the boy, sharp and narrowed.

“Names.”

The page swallowed. “The Warriors Three, and Lady Sif herself. They arrived at the outer gates at first light.”

Loki faltered.

His silence wasn’t long. It didn’t need to be. The pause itself spoke enough. His fingers tightened subtly on the plush at his side, the soft fabric creasing slightly between his knuckles.

“And they come with what?”

“They said only that they wished to offer counsel.” The boy swallowed. “And… remembrance.”

Remembrance. Loki’s jaw tightened.

A performance, then; a careful, conspicuous formality dressed in loyalty. And beneath it? Accusation. He could feel it already, tightening like threads through the air. Of course they knew. Not all the details. Not the spell. Not the sleep he’d placed on Odin, nor the fate he’d spared them from. But they knew enough. Enough to watch him with wary eyes. Enough to question his every silence; every closed door.

(They had always been loyal… just not to him).

“Prepare the solar,” Loki said quietly. “Have them escorted there. Tell them I will receive them… shortly.”

The page bowed and turned away, and Loki stood alone in the corridor for a moment longer. Fenrir still lay against his arm, stitched and waiting. Loki’s fingers tightened around the plush. He had meant to return him quietly. Speak softly. Choose better words. Undo what had been done.

But Asgard, ever loud, ever watching, had summoned him first.

/ / /

The solar was not meant for diplomacy. That was the throne room’s duty, the council chambers’ design. But Loki had chosen the solar all the same– smaller, enclosed, sun-drenched from its curved windows and far enough from the royal heart of the palace to make it feel personal. Controlled. Unrecorded. Strategic.

He entered with deliberate calm, clad in his green, gold, and midnight blue regalia, shoulders squared, steps light, and scepter clenched tightly. Regal; effortlessly so. Fenrir was no longer in his hand. He’d left the plush tucked inside his desk drawer— a weakness hidden away from sight— the stitched seam still cold from his fingers. What was supposed to be a brief detour had become something else entirely.

He hated that.

The door shut behind him. Three heads turned first. Volstagg. Fandral. Hogun. Each bowed in their own fashion– Fandral with his old flair, Volstagg with slightly too much gravity (as always), and Hogun with nothing more than a curt dip of the chin.

But Sif? Sif didn’t bow. She straightened instead, glaring at him from the corner of her eye. Tall. Stark. Severe in her leathers and braids. Her hand hovered near the hilt of her sword, not gripping, but close. Not careless. Never careless. For a breath, no one spoke. Loki crossed the chamber in silence, letting the heavy quiet fold itself over them like a second cloak. He didn’t seat himself. Not yet. He took in each face with that too-sharp gaze of his– the one that never softened unless he meant it to.

(He did not mean it now).

Volstagg chuckled– a short, awkward rumble that didn’t quite land. It fell into the quiet like a stone into a shallow pond, rippling only once. Hogun said nothing. He never did unless he meant it. Loki’s eyes drifted from one to the other, taking in the faint traces of travel on their leathers— dust in the creases, blood dried and scrubbed from steel. They were weary, yes. But not broken. Not damaged. Not even properly winded. That was unfortunate.

He had intended for them to be gone longer. Much longer.

“You encountered little resistance, then,” Loki said, letting the words come slow, casual.

Fandral shrugged. “A few skirmishes near the southern cliffs. The usual bravado from the western clans. But once their king began declaring his pet lizard a ‘seer of the All-Truth,’ the rest of the realm turned on him.”

“And the visions?”

“Hallucinatory nonsense. Saw bees in armor. Claimed the throne would sprout legs and march away.”

“Pity,” Loki said dryly. “Sounds almost poetic.”

“They blamed us,” Volstagg said, more seriously now. “Said the instability was seeded from Asgard. That we sent false dreams to their king to provoke revolt.”

Loki tilted his head. “Did you?”

“No,” Fandral said. “Did you?”

There it was: lightly tossed, dressed in jest. But the cut was there beneath it. Loki offered no answer. Not aloud. Instead, his thoughts turned briefly inward to the planning chambers, the ink-stained drafts, and the ciphered orders. The distractions. The detours. The great sleight of hand.

The rebellion in Vanaheim had not been entirely unintentional. Loki had allowed certain flames to catch. Nudged them with whispers and rumors seeded by disguised agents. A few dreams too, yes. Slipped between veils by his own hand with the help of Karnilla, Queen of Nornheim and ruler of the Norns.

She was a mistress of fate and formidable power, though no great schemer. Not compared to him. Aligning with her had been a calculated necessity. If he was to keep the throne and prevent Asgard from spiraling into one of the countless tragic ends he’d glimpsed, then securing the allegiance of the Norns was non-negotiable. Karnilla’s talents lay in weaving the threads of possibility. Loki’s lay in cutting and retying them when no one was looking. 

Together, they'd stirred the dreamscape just enough to agitate. Just enough to keep them gone. And for a time, it had worked— long enough for that Vanir assassin to slip into his hall, swinging at ghosts and crying treason without proof. The court had dismissed the attempt as delusion. Loki had known better. The assassin’s aim had been true, even if their evidence had been nothing but air. But they had returned too soon. Quicker than he anticipated. He had hoped to draw the campaign out through winter at least– especially once the second front had begun.

(Especially once he sent the Valkyrior and Crimson Hawks to meet Hela’s endless legions near the Nightgates of Niflheim).

That war– the one he never named publicly– had been raging beneath the skin of the Ten Realms for weeks now. Invisible to most. Fought on shifting soil and skies of black ice. There were no songs for that conflict. No heralds. No honors. Only blood and frost and the flayed cries of the dead being stirred anew, but it was necessary.

The throne had to be unguarded. Hela’s attention had to be kept engaged elsewhere. If she ever turned her full attention back to Asgard– the Heart of the Realms– she would no doubt quickly tire of his stalling. So he’d sent the Valkyrior—the last of them, those who still bore oaths to the crown—and the Crimson Hawks, Asgard’s most ruthless irregulars, to meet her. They fought as shadows. As myths. Their sacrifice had bought him time. Silence. Power. But now Sif and her companions stood here. Returned. Whole. Watchful.

Too watchful.

“You chose strange timing to return,” Loki said aloud, his voice still unreadable.

Volstagg shifted. “We received word that peace had returned.”

“To Vanaheim, perhaps,” Loki murmured.

“And to Asgard?” Hogun asked. Loki gave him a long, long look.

Sif kept her eyes on Loki’s face, as if waiting to catch him faltering. “We heard whispers before we reached the gates. About Odin. About Thor.”

Loki gave a quiet hum. “Whispers have always been fond of my family.”

Sif didn’t laugh. “No one has seen them,” she said, voice sharp, clipped. “No word. No message. Not even a rumor. Only the silence.”

“I believe,” Loki said smoothly, “that is what most of you desired. Silence. No more thundering charges. No more impulsive battles. No more bellowing over council tables and hurling tankards during negotiations.”

There was a pause. A beat stretched too long to be comfortable. “No more questions,” Hogun murmured, his voice flat as ever, but somehow colder.

Loki turned his gaze slightly. “Ah, so you’ve come to ask questions. Just not directly.”

Fandral raised both brows. “You are the king now, Loki. We come to offer counsel, not interrogation.”

Volstagg nodded. “And our blades, if you’ll still have them.”

“If?” Loki echoed, a smile creeping at the corner of his mouth. “Have you come to make me prove my worth to you, Volstagg? Shall I hurl Mjölnir into the sea and chase it down with lightning?”

“You know none of us could lift it,” Volstagg said gently.

Loki’s expression flickered. A twitch at the brow. A shadow behind the eyes. A crack. Barely. Then it was gone.

Sif took a step forward, slow and deliberate. “You rose to the throne in the absence of its rightful heir.”

“Absence,” Loki repeated, his voice too calm. “Not death. Not imprisonment. Simply… absence. Curious how no one seems to know the difference.”

“You told the court that Thor left of his own volition,” Sif said.

“I did.”

“And Odin? Your Father? ”

Silence.

The words hung in the air like frost. Loki’s jaw tensed, and for the briefest moment, the chambers of memory split open. A darker stillness. A colder hall.

He could almost hear her again—Frigga’s voice, soft but unrelenting.

“I’ve done everything in my power to make you comfortable, Loki.”

“Have you?" He had replied. "Does Odin share your concern?”

“You know full well it was your actions that brought you here.”

“My actions.” He had laughed, sharp and hollow. “I was merely giving truth to the lie that I had been fed my entire life: that I was born to be a king.”

Frigga’s voice came soft, yet breaking. “A true king admits his faults. What of the innocent lives you took? What of all the families you tore apart?”

He knew which lives she had meant. The frost-born. The ones he had hunted upon the shattered, desolate ice of Jotunheim—slaughtered beneath a sky that cracked with storm and hate. He had gone there burning, his veins molten with fury, his heart howling to erase the truth of blue from his blood.

He had called it vengeance. He had called it duty. But there had been no justice in it—only rage, only the blind desire to prove that he was NOT ONE OF THEM.

Odin himself had torn him back from it, blocking his seiðr before he could pierce it through another helpless shape of ice and breath. The Allfather’s voice had thundered, but even then, Loki’s blood had roared louder. He remembered the heat in his palms, the sting of frost on flesh, and the sound—unmistakable, unending—of his own laughter turning to screams as he was dragged back through the Bifrost. The next thing he knew was silence. An oddly comfortable cell, a single torch guttering in the dark, and the echo of his seiðr still clawing at the walls.

That was where Frigga had found him—had come to him when nobody else did.

“A mere handful,”  Loki had replied, voice like a blade drawn in winter, “compared to the number Odin has taken himself.”

“Your father–”

“HE’S NOT MY FATHER!”

The words cracked through the hall, and then came the silence—thick, stretching, and unbearable. In it, Loki turned toward her. Frigga stood very still, the weight of his fury settling over her like frost. In her eyes shimmered tears she did not let fall.

“Then am I not your mother?”

He had hesitated. A single beat. “...You are not.”

And still she had smiled through those tears.

“Always so perceptive about everyone but yourself.”

That smile had chilled him more than any blade. It was the last smile his mother had given him before the end, and it haunted him still. He had meant to take the words back, but death had stolen the chance, leaving him with nothing but the echo of his own cruelty.

Back in the present, Loki smiled slowly. “Do you wish to speak of treason, Lady Sif?”

Her hand twitched near her blade’s hilt. Just a breath of movement.

“No,” she said. “Only truth.”

Loki turned from them, his cloak whispering along the solar’s stone, and walked to the window, where the morning sun began to spill across the golden roofs and gleaming towers beyond. His reflection met him in the glass: pale, elegant, dangerous. Tired.

“...Truth,” he said, as though tasting the word. “Such a tedious pursuit. Always subjective. Always brittle. And rarely useful in the governance of a society.”

“We served Asgard just as you have,” Hogun said suddenly. “We bled for her. Followed her kings. Swore our lives to her peace.”

“And now?” Loki asked, still facing the light.

The silence that followed was not immediate. It took shape slowly, like a thing being forged in discomfort. When Sif answered, it was not with accusation, but with something more dangerous. “Now, we want to believe you deserve to rule her.”

Loki’s gaze narrowed faintly at the window’s reflection. A flicker of something passed through his eyes, too fleeting to name.

“So you don’t,” he said.

“That depends on what happens next.”

That, at least, was honest. Loki closed his eyes for a breath.

In. Out. Measured.

He was good at measured, but beneath the calm, beneath the control, something low and bitter had begun to boil. Not because they had challenged him. Not because they saw through the carefully drawn narrative, but because he should not be here. Not in this room. Not enduring this parade of insinuation and vague honor. He should be walking the lower corridors now. Passing the eastern gallery. Standing at the threshold of a winded down, unrenovated room with green curtains and cold floors. A boy would be there— or not, and a lonely, mended wolf plush would be back in his arms.

(And Loki could've made everything better if he had just—)

That was what mattered this morning. Not this pantomime. Not these old loyalties dragging their suspicion through his solar like a chain they refused to let go of. But here he was. And unfortunately, he could not dismiss them. Not outright. Not without consequence.

Even now, after all he had done— after the throne had bent, the court had fallen silent, and the Ten had remained mostly obedient and distracted with his mischief— these four still held weight. They weren’t just relics of past wars. They were legends etched into the songs sung in the barracks and the bedtime stories whispered to noble sons.

(They were Thor’s friends. Never his).

They held no position at court. No political power. But they commanded respect. Honor. And that kind of loyalty was a blade that could cut straight through a king’s armor if ignored too boldly.

So—

He would give them something. Not the truth, but enough shape and shadow to keep them looking elsewhere. He turned back from the window at last, hands folding neatly behind his back. His voice, when it came, was cool silk edged with command. 

“Very well,” he said. “You wish for proof that I am not your enemy. Then I will give you what all old warriors crave.”

A pause.

Volstagg tilted his head. “A feast?”

Loki didn’t smile. “Well yes, but actually no. A purpose.”

Even Hogun stirred at that.

“The rebellion has collapsed, yes,” Loki said, beginning to pace now. “But its embers remain. There are still clans in Vanaheim who believe in divine inheritance. In the prophecy of the Seer-King. In the madness of his vision. They will gather again. They will stoke the flames anew. And we must not give them time to build.”

He gestured toward the center table—now subtly summoned with seiðr from the wall. A map of the Ten Realms spread itself open across the table’s runed surface, glimmering with green light. “You will lead a diplomatic sortie. A peacekeeping effort, if you will.”

“A peacekeeping—?” Fandral began, brows lifted. “You mean a mop-up mission.”

“I mean,” Loki interrupted, voice smooth, “you will remind the outer villages what Asgard’s presence feels like. You will walk the lands the mad king defiled. Speak to their elders. Restore the crown’s image, not with blade, but with presence. With mercy.”

“And if they resist?” Hogun asked.

Loki met his eyes. “Then you will remind them that Asgard still remembers how to strike.”

A pause.

Even Sif seemed… caught. But suspicion still burned in her stare, now tempered with calculation. It was Volstagg who asked, “And what of Thor?”

“What of him? ” Loki countered softly.

“If he returns.”

Loki’s smile was slow. Flat. “Then he will find the throne warm and well-kept. As a loyal son would wish.”

Another pause.

Fandral chuckled, though it was a bit tight. “So we’re to be your… royal banner. A bit of muscle. A bit of message. A bit of distraction.”

Loki inclined his head ever so slightly. “If you like.”

“We’ll need supplies,” Sif said quietly. “Escort. Seal of the throne.”

“You’ll have them,” Loki replied. “Everything you need. I’ll even let you take your pick of the Einherjar. Just as long as you are able to leave within the next two days.”

Volstagg grunted. “That generous, are we?”

“I am not your enemy, Volstagg,” Loki said quietly, but with an edge. “Not unless you insist on becoming mine.”

Sif gave a curt nod. It was not agreement nor trust. But it was acceptance—for now.

“Very well,” she said. “We… ride within the next two days.”

Loki bowed his head slightly. “Of course. Safe travels, Sif. Gentlemen.”

And with that, the meeting was over. They turned and left without further ceremony, the door shutting behind them. And the moment it did, Loki exhaled—just once, slow and tight— and vanished the map with a flick of his hand.

The solar seemed colder now. Quieter. As though it, too, had held its breath. He stood in that stillness for a beat longer. Two. Then moved. He had lost the morning. The whole gods-damned morning. And now… he needed to find Nari.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

He stepped out of the solar like a shadow recoiling from the sun—graceful, composed, but drawn tight beneath the skin. The door clicked shut behind him, muffled by wards he didn’t remember casting.

The corridor was empty. Of course it was. He had dismissed the guards himself. Hadn’t wanted to risk them overhearing Sif’s clipped tones or Volstagg’s wary warmth. But now, in the wake of that exhausting theater, he almost wished someone had been waiting.

(Almost).

The weight in his chest hadn’t eased. It had only shifted, like a stone slowly rearranging itself in the gut. And beneath his palm, the cool metallic handle of his scepter still hummed with the seiðr he’d used to lock the door, preventing Sif or any of the others from doubling back (Merely a necessary precaution).

He let it go, the spell– and the others he had cast– dissipating with a hiss of green energy. The air in the hall was cooler than it should have been. Late morning light cut through the stained-glass archways above, spilling violet and gold across the marble floors. Dust motes danced in those patches of light like slow, glowing snow.

Loki moved quickly and quietly. Not exactly with urgency, but with direction. The kind of pace that could be mistaken for purpose if one didn’t look too closely.

Past gates to Odin’s archive. Past the long mural of Asgard’s greatest warriors. Past the statue of himself, whose golden eyes never failed to catch the corner of his gaze. Down the eastern stairs. Toward the guest wing.

He didn’t reach it.

Saella was already waiting. She stood in the shadow of the archway, not barring his path, but not yielding it either. Her arms were folded loosely in front of her, expression unreadable. However, her eyes were sharp as ever; a quiet gold, like yellow diamonds beneath frost. The kind of eyes that had seen too much and still softened anyway. Loki halted.

She said nothing at first. Then, from the folds of her robe, she pulled out something small. Familiar.

Fenrir.

He’d forgotten. In the drawer. In the rush. In the gods-damned solar and all the staged suspicion within it.

Her hands didn’t tremble as she held the plush out to him, and her face didn’t waver. But her voice, when it came, was gentler than he expected.

“I thought you meant to return this.”

Loki stared at it. At the mended seam. At the way her fingers curled gently beneath the plush’s hind leg, steadying it without possessiveness.

“I was delayed,” he said.

“I know,” Saella replied softly. “The court has many demands.”

Something in her tone tugged at him like a hook behind the ribs. She stepped closer, holding Fenrir between them, but not pressing it into his hand. Not yet.

“Delays happen,” she continued, “but some things don’t wait the way we think they will.”

Loki’s jaw tightened. “I know.”

“You still have time,” she said. “But not forever.”

Saella gently placed Fenrir in his hand. Her old, bony fingers brushed his, her touch warm. She looked back up at him then, and there was no accusation in her gaze. Only something that might’ve been concern. Or perhaps belief, so fragile it hadn’t yet decided whether it wanted to survive.

Loki closed his hand around the plush. Not tightly, not possessively, but like someone holding a thread and hoping it wouldn't snap. He didn’t thank her, but he didn’t walk away either. Saella walked past him down the corridor, cloak whispering against the polished floor. Loki looked at Fenrir again. And then finally, he moved.

/ / /

The hallway outside Nari’s chambers was quiet.

Too quiet.

As he stood before the closed door to the old, dingy room used to house the children of visiting dignitaries, Fenrir loosely beneath his arm, he hesitated. Only for a breath. Then, with a light touch to the knob, the door opened.

Inside, the room was dim. The curtains were drawn halfway— an awkward, uneven pull that looked like it had been done by a child trying not to be noticed. The fire in the corner hearth had gone out sometime during the night, and the air was tinged with the faint chill of stone and silence. Along the wall, a small chest leaned open, forgotten, with a few toys scattered nearby—one toppled soldier left face-down on the rug, another slouched against the leg of a chair. The rest lay in little clusters everywhere, as though they had been held mid-parade before being abandoned.

In the center of it all, curled on the wide window seat beneath the sill, was Nari.

He didn’t look up when the door opened. Not right away. His knees were pulled close to his chest. His back was to the door. And even though he hadn’t moved, Loki could see the tension in his shoulders. The deliberate stillness of someone who was trying to be invisible. Fenrir shifted faintly under Loki’s grip.

“Nari,” Loki said, voice low and measured. Not soft, but close. The boy flinched a little, but it was enough.

Loki’s hand curled tighter around the plush. Something twisted, low in his chest. Unnamed and Unwelcome.

(That maddening, inconvenient thing—).

He stepped further into the room. “I have Fenrir with me.”

No answer.

Loki’s fingers shifted slightly against the plush’s worn fur, tracing the newly reinforced seams as if to prove their existence.

”Some of the stitching was coming loose,” he said after a pause, voice measured, as though he were delivering an inventory report rather than… whatever this was. “I reinforced it. Tightened a few of the weaker joins. He’ll hold together longer now.”

Still nothing from Nari.

Loki inhaled once. Shallow. Carefully hidden. “I… did you wrong last night” he said next. “And I hurt you as a result. That wasn’t my intention.”

Still, no answer.

But Nari did shift— just slightly. His shoulders hunched deeper. His head tilted, like he was listening even if he didn’t want to admit it.

It was worse than silence. Worse than argument or tears. It was fear. Fear of him. Loki couldn’t look at it directly. Couldn’t let it settle fully in his mind. He focused on the boy’s shadow instead. On the crooked folds of his tunic. On the way his toes curled just beneath the hem.

(He should leave. Let Saella handle it. Let time do what words never could. But he couldn’t move. He just stood there—scepterless, crownless, not even a king in this corridor— watching a child he’d once sworn he’d never sire. Sworn he’d never care for. Because caring made him a target, and the boy was already a chink in his armor just by existing).

(...What was it that she said again?)

(“I think… it’s all right… to be afraid of the shape something is taking. And still allow it to take shape.”)

And then Frigga’s voice, not spoken but remembered, ghosted at the edge of his thoughts. There had been a place— a quiet one. One she had loved. One he had avoided since her passing. Flowers had once bloomed there, stubborn and strange, even in winter. He hadn’t been back there since he had usurped the throne. Too many memories. Too much of… her. But perhaps…

He approached slowly, not close, and set Fenrir on the window ledge; upright and facing the boy.

“May you come walk with me? There's something I want to show you.” That was all Loki said. No commands. No apology. Just a quiet, too careful question. And he waited patiently.

Nari didn’t answer right away.

He looked at Fenrir, still sitting sadly on the windowsill, then slowly, warily, turned to look at Loki.

His eyes were still red from crying– too wide, too tired, too guarded. But he moved, uncurling his limbs with a child’s hesitant stiffness, like he wasn’t sure if standing would mean punishment or permission. He didn’t take Fenrir, but he followed. Not close. Not hand-in-hand, like a child might with a parent– Just a few paces behind, like before. Only this time, there was no shriek of the Bifrost. No sickened stumble or hurried apology. No Saella waiting at the end of the hall. Just this corridor. This silence. And Loki’s green and gold fur-lined cape shifting like a memory ahead of him. The boy’s steps were slower now. More cautious. But steadier, too.

Loki did not look back, but his posture wasn’t the same as it had been that first day. Not so rigid. Not so cold. Back then, his presence had been a wall. Now it was… something else. Still tall. Still distant. But not closed. The silence between them stretched. Longer than the corridor. Longer than the walk itself. It lingered in the corners of the palace as they passed through marble halls and torchlit archways.

Every sound echoed: footsteps, rustling fabric, the faint clack of a servant’s tray far behind. It was as if the realm itself was watching. Listening. Just like before. But there was no scorn in the air now. No biting chill in Loki’s stride. He didn’t bark orders or wave the boy ahead. His pace was measured. Careful. As though, for the first time, he was walking with someone, rather than being followed. He still did not speak.

They turned down a corridor seldom used. Older stonework. Fewer windows. The kind of place where sunlight filtered soft and slanted through narrow arches, warming dust motes midair like sunfire.

At the far end stood a gate fashioned from wrought iron shaped into twisting branches. Leaves and stars curled into its design, not hammered, but grown. Silver filigree traced its edges, and ancient seiðr clung to it like morning fog—barely there, but unmistakable to those who knew how to feel it. Gentle. Protective. The sort that hummed lullabies into the stone. Loki stepped forward and pressed his palm to the gate. It opened with a whisper. Beyond it, the air changed.

There was no throne here. No guards. No banners or murals of Loki. No grand Asgardian relics. Just a pocket of stillness, nestled between old solstice wings and carved into the bones of the palace itself. A space unseen on royal schematics or maps.

Soft moss lined the pale quartz path that wound in lazy spirals toward the center. Beds of flowers impossible in their season and perpetual in their bloom-spilled color like memory across the edges. Bluebells nodded in unseen wind. Roses curled around marble roots. Even the sun here felt quieter, diffused through enchantments woven high above the hedge walls, and birds chirped in the canopy, some real, some illusion

Each sound was purposeful. Calming. A woven hush anchored by old spells designed not to dazzle, but to preserve. To protect.

And in the far corner, veiled slightly in shadow, stood a willow. Its limbs cascaded like silvered thread, slow and swaying. Beneath it: a stone bench, simple and smooth. Empty. Waiting.

It was, in every possible way, untouched by the affairs of kings. Loki stepped inside and waited, but Nari lingered at the threshold, apprehensive. Then, without being told, he slowly followed.

His boots made soft sounds on the path—gentler now. Less wary. Loki said nothing for a moment, letting the quiet settle again as he watched Nari’s eyes wander to the bluebells and roses, and to the floating blossoms drifting without wind. Let the garden do what it was meant to do. He could see the question in the boy's eyes.

“My mother made this place.” His voice was not loud. Nari turned to look at him.

“She… didn’t like the royal gardens,” Loki continued, tone even but distant. “Said they were too perfect. Too sculpted. Always trimmed and polished, but never alive. She wanted something that grew for itself. A sanctuary.”

He took a few steps, letting the memory bleed into the present. “She didn’t use seiðr to shape it. Not all of it, at least. She coaxed the roots by hand. Talked to the stones. Sang to the vines. I remember that part most. Her humming.”

Loki stopped near the willow, while Nari stood a few feet behind him, silent but listening.

“I used to come here,” Loki said, a little more quietly now. “When I was about your age. There was a patch of moss beneath this willow," he gestured, "just big enough for one child to lie down. I would bring my own stuffed toy.”

That got a small blink from Nari. Just one. Loki didn’t look at him. He crouched slightly, brushing a fallen blossom from a low bench. “His name was Jormie. He was a green serpent stuffed with wool and straw. One of his eyes was missing, and the other was barely sewn back on. I dragged him everywhere. Even here. He had a little tear behind his jaw where I’d forced him too hard through a chair once. I told everyone he could talk– but only if you squeezed him the right way.”

He gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “No one ever heard him, but I swore they were wrong.”

There was a long pause. Then—

“…What did he say?”

Loki’s breath caught. Just a little. He glanced toward Nari. The boy’s eyes weren’t wide anymore. Not entirely. And his voice came out fragile, uncertain, but it was there. Loki straightened slowly.

“He said…” Loki paused, glancing upward toward the willow branches, “that one day he would grow so big, he’d wrap around the whole of Asgard and keep it safe. So no one could hurt me.”

Silence.

“That’s stupid,” Nari mumbled.

Loki’s brows shot up, and he turned to look at Nari a bit faster than he intended. The boy wasn’t glaring nor sneering. His lips were curled in the smallest of smiles, one that didn’t quite reach the eyes, but tried to. Loki tilted his head, amused.

“Is it?”

Nari’s fingers toyed with the hem of his sleeve. “Snakes can't do that...”

“Ah,” Loki said, “but Jormie wasn’t just any snake.” And then, softly: “Neither are you.”

That gave the boy a pause. Loki did not explain. Instead, he turned slightly, gesturing toward the bench under the tree.

“Come,” he said. “It’s cooler here.”

The bench under the willow wasn’t grand: just old stone worn smooth by time and use. Moss crept along its legs, and flower petals– both real and illusory– had gathered in the corner crease, pink and pale like shed memories.

Loki settled onto one side of it, his posture composed but not rigid. Regal, yes. Always. But quieter now. He folded his hands loosely in his lap and waited.

Nari stood a moment longer. His gaze flicked between the willow, the bench, and Loki’s shadow on the stone before slowly stepping forward. Then he sat beside Loki– only tentatively, not too close. Just far enough for hesitation to linger between them. His legs didn’t quite reach the ground. They swung gently and nervously.

The quiet returned, settling like a hush in the vault where Odin slept. No need for pretense nor lies here; only the soft chorus of birds overhead, the rustle of the willow's long fingers brushing the earth, and the low thrum of a space long-forgotten by politics and war. And in that stillness, something stirred in Loki’s chest.

(Not sharply. Not painfully. Not this time).

It didn’t arrive with a blade or burn or ache– but something else.

(Not nothing. Something—)

A warmth. Small and steady. Not demanded. Not claimed, but given. Offered in the shape of a boy sitting nearby, uncertain and brave all at once. It filled the space between them, seeping into the cracks Loki had once sworn to keep sealed.

He had promised himself—before this day—that he would never care for the boy. Not truly. Not beyond the bare minimum to keep him alive, useful, and out of his way. Because caring made you slow. It made you falter. And yet… here it was, curling quiet and persistent in his chest.

It should have been banished on sight. But it didn’t feel like an enemy now. And though it frightened him—gods, how it frightened him—it did not freeze him. Not here, in this garden that still smelled faintly of bluebells, roses, and ironwood, where the ghosts of simpler memories lingered like morning mist. It was only the two of them. No throne. No court. No crown.

And in that rare and terrifying freedom, Loki let it take shape. He let it breathe. He let himself look at it—really look at it—and he embraced it. Felt it.

This time, Loki broke the silence.

“I was… unkind,” he said. The words came low. Careful. “Yesterday.”

Nari was quiet.

Loki looked down at his hands. They were clasped so tightly his fingers felt numb. “But I wasn’t angry at you. I was… afraid.”

Still, the boy was quiet.

“I should not have spoken to you that way. I should not have sent you away.” He hesitated before saying: “I am… Sorry.”

That last word took a beat longer than it should have. As though something inside him resisted. Still, he said it. Cleanly. No riddles. No deflections.

Nari’s foot kicked a petal by accident. “You didn't yell."

“No.”

“You didn't hurt me.”

Now Loki stilled. He turned, just slightly. Enough to look at the boy. “I would never.”

Nari shrugged a little. “But bad people do.”

“I am not bad.”

(Liar).

“But you were… scary.”

The words weren’t meant to wound, but they landed like a blade anyway. Loki swallowed. “I know.”

Nari hesitated. Then, quieter than before, “Did I… do something wrong? Is that why you looked mad?”

Loki looked away then, jaw tightening. A muscle jumped just beneath the skin.

“The truth is…” He stopped. Started again. “You are doing everything right. A little too right. I didn’t enjoy seeing you push yourself that hard to impress me.”

A beat.

“You are not the reason for my silence, Nari. You never were. That was me. That was…” He exhaled slowly. “Me trying not to become someone I swore I’d never be. Someone who ignores. Who lies to you your whole life. Who closes doors instead of opening them. I was afraid…” Another breath. “I still am. But not of you.”

The breeze stirred the willow. Light and green and thin.

“Not too long ago, I said something awful to someone I loved,” Loki said. An image of Frigga flickered in the back of his mind. “And I never got the chance to take it back. So when I heard what happened to you—when I saw that you had come to my quarters in your moment of sorrow, I…”

He trailed off, and Nari tilted his head. “You what?”

“I didn’t want to say something I couldn’t undo.” Loki’s voice was nearly a whisper. “So I said nothing at all. And I let that nothing become something worse.”

He let that hang for a breath. Then, “Will you let me say what I couldn’t say before?

Nari blinked. And then slowly, meekly, he nodded.

Loki let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I am not displeased with you.”

“Not when you struggled to remember your quotes and courtesies. Not when you stumbled or only bowed properly twice or asked too many questions at once. I watched you try so hard to impress me, to conduct yourself like me, talk like me,” Loki exhaled through his nose, faintly, “and while I… understand the instinct, I never asked that of you. You don’t need to be me to be worthy.”

He turned toward the boy, gaze sharp, focused, and real.

“You are not here on trial, Nari. You are not a test I must judge, or a prize I will revoke. I don’t tally your worth by how well you recite names or stand straight-backed at supper. Even if you make mistakes, I will still be pleased with you. Because you’re trying. Because you care. Because despite all this,” he gestured faintly to the palace, the weight of court, of crown, of purpose, “you have not let this place break you.”

The boy’s mouth parted slightly, and he blinked fast, as if trying to hold something back. He then looked away, staring at a nearby, fallen petal as if it were the most interesting thing in the universe.

They sat for a moment in that hush. The soft rustling of branches above them, the hum of bees in the blooms nearby. Loki let the quiet linger, but only briefly. Then he asked, with a gentleness he didn’t know he still possessed, “Can you tell me what happened yesterday?”

Nari didn’t answer right away. His legs kept swinging slowly, rhythmically, still watching that petal.

“I was... trying really hard,” he said slowly. “All morning. I wanted to be good. I wanted you to be happy with me.” Loki didn’t interrupt. He nodded, slow and small. “But then after I talked to you…” Nari's brow furrowed. “I forgot the stars. The ones I was supposed to memorize. And mixed up the houses, because I was... sad, and I got yelled at. A lot. Miss Ylva said I wasn’t thinking.”

Loki’s gaze sharped. “She had no right—”

“NO!” Nari turned quickly, eyes wide, the motion so sharp it startled a bird from the hedge. “She-She did! She was just… tired. And confused with me. I could tell. I was being bad anyway.”

“You are not–”

“I was,” Nari insisted, shoulders hunched. “I didn’t try after that. I was sad. And mad. So I stopped answering things. I stopped looking up. I made her think I didn’t care.” His voice dropped. “But I did. I do. I really, really do.”

Loki’s throat ached.

“I was…” Nari hesitated, drawing in a breath. “I was trying to make her mad. So she’d stop liking me. ‘Cause I—” He faltered. “I don’t think anybody here likes me. They all look at me weird, and her being nice to me didn’t feel good for some reason. I... Didn't like it. I wanted her to stop.”

Loki opened his mouth, then closed it.

Nari went on, quieter now. “After my lessons, one of the other boys found me while I was waiting for Miss Saella. He said he didn’t like me. He said I was a phoney’ prince. That I’d get thrown out once you got bored of me, because you’re bad, and that makes me bad too. And I'm not bad. At least, I don't think I am.”

He looked down. “So I left.”

“Ran,” Loki corrected softly. “You ran.”

Nari nodded, ashamed. “I didn’t know where I was going. I just didn’t wanna cry in front of him.”

He sniffed once, hard. “I hid behind the curtain in the music hall. The one that smells like dust and oranges. It was the quietest place I could find. I stayed ‘til it got dark. Then I went to your room, because it was scary, and I didn’t know where else to go.”

Loki closed his eyes for a breath, anger coiling slightly in his chest. “I will see to it that the boy who insulted you is punished. And as for the tutor-”

“Don’t send Miss Ylva away!”  Nari burst out, sitting up straighter, his voice panicked.

“Why not?”

“Because she wasn’t bad bad. I was the one being bad. And I like her. She’s nice to me. Nicer than all those other tutors I had before. Please don’t make her go away. Please.”

Loki exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. “You are far too kind.”

“I wanna apologize to her when I see her again. I can't do that if she's gone.”

Loki studied him for a long moment. Then gave a quiet nod. “Very well. I won’t send her away.”

A beat.

“And… in addition to that,” Loki said. “I will expedite the renovations for your permanent room. So that you may be closer to my quarters, should you wish to find me easier for anything else. You know your way to this garden, yes?”

Nari nodded. A bit uncertain, but confidently enough.

“You are free to come here whenever you please as well. If you need anything, please do not be afraid to find me. I…”

Loki faltered, thinking. His gaze dropped to the garden in front of them, where sunlight filtered in faint dapples through the willow’s swaying limbs. A place where he and Thor used to play, and Frigga would watch from this same bench. And Odin? Absent. Just like always.

“...I will never vanish. I will never not be here,” he continued quietly. “Not without warning. Not without reason. You will not wake one day and find me gone.”

It wasn’t a promise he made lightly.

His voice, when it came again, had lowered—not cold, but steeped in something older. Something tired.

“When I was a boy, I learned to stop asking. I learned that silence filled a room more often than answers did. That doors could close without explanation. That a father’s absence could be dressed up in glory, but still feel like abandonment.” He paused. His fingers curled slightly on the bench’s edge. “That will not happen to you.”

He didn’t say Odin’s name. He didn’t have to. “I will be here. Even when I do not know what to say. Even when I fail to say it well. Even when I say the wrong thing. I will be here.”

Nari leaned back a little, and the breeze returned, tousling his already unruly hair. The garden held its hush. Somewhere above them, a bird chirped once, as if it too were listening.

The boy was silent for a long time. Then he scooted slightly closer. Not much, just a few inches, but enough. They sat that way for a while. The boy and the king. The monster and the child. Then—quietly, too quietly—Nari asked, “Is…Is it okay if I call you… ‘Father’?”

Loki did not move, but his heart did. It twisted once. Not a sharp pain. Not even a pang. Just… something. He looked at the child– really looked at his child. The raven-black hair. The green eyes with those strange blue flecks in one and red in the other. The way his hands curled when he was unsure. So small, so alive, so real. And waiting.

Loki let out a breath. His voice, when it came, was softer than the wind through the willow. 

“Of course.” He didn’t smile. Not with his mouth. But something in his shoulders eased. Something in his gaze broke and reformed, steadier now. 

“Of course,” he said again.

Nari’s breath caught in his throat. Then he leaned against Loki’s side—carefully, hesitantly, and then steady and firm as he relaxed.

Loki stayed very still, allowing himself to feel the boy’s warmth. Then, slowly, he let one arm move around the boy’s back. Loose. Light. Not commanding. Not kingly. Just... present. Nari’s voice, muffled now against green and gold fabric, came once more.

“Thank you, Father.”

And that… that caused a thread of something inside Loki to curl tight around the word, and he let it take shape.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

Loki stayed seated even after Nari had fallen quiet against him. His cape pooled like shadows at their feet, and the bench beneath them held their silence as if it, too, understood the weight of what had just been said. The willow rustled softly above, branches swaying like gentle hands combing through memory. Time passed, though neither marked it. Eventually, Loki stirred. His hand, which had rested lightly around the boy’s back, withdrew with the same care it had been offered.

“Come,” he said, rising to his feet with slow grace. “You have lessons to finish, and a tutor to apologize to.”

Nari blinked up at him, sleepy-eyed and faintly disoriented, as though surfacing from a spell. He rubbed at his face with the heel of his palm and slid off the bench. His boots landed softly on the moss. The halls were not as quiet now. The day had crept onward without them, and the stillness that had blanketed the palace earlier had shifted into movement. The court had stirred. The servants had resumed their rounds. Voices echoed faintly in the distance, low and formal. Loki walked at a measured pace, and Nari followed. Not directly at his heels, but near enough that his presence was felt. No longer trailing. No longer distant. Just... near.

When they reached the study chamber, Ylva was already inside, sorting scrolls with a stiffness that suggested she'd been expecting something bad. Her posture straightened further when the door opened, her hands pausing mid-motion. Loki stood in the doorway. Not looming. Not cold. Simply present. He said nothing. Issued no command. Gave no rebuke. Only a short, subtle nod.

Ylva exhaled just faintly. Her hands resumed their task, a bit steadier now. Nari stepped past the threshold. His pace slowed as he entered the room, and he hesitated– not because he feared punishment, but because something in him wanted to be sure of something. He turned and looked at Loki. Not with pleading. Not with dread. But with quiet resolve. His shoulders were still small, still uncertain—but they were set. His eyes met Loki’s not with defiance, but with a question already answered.

I can do this, they said.

And Loki, King of Asgard, god of a thousand tricks, usurper, son of two realms and father to one—met his gaze and gave the barest nod in return.

Go on, it meant.

I’ll be here.

/ / /

There was still a realm to govern. The monster had not vanished, but something else had awakened beside it. He returned to the solar, refreshed his bearing, and slipped once more into the mask of expectation that clung to the throne like frost. The warmth of the garden lingered on his shoulders, quiet and thin, but it didn’t soften the edge of his stride. There were petitions waiting—he skimmed and dispatched them with the precision of a blade. Requests for trade sanctions. One, in particular, caught his attention: a petition from House Thrysson for an extension of their land grant. His eyes narrowed. The boy who had mocked Nari belonged to that house.

How convenient.

He signed the scroll with a flick of the quill—denied—and, after a pause, added a note to double their tithe for the season and put the boy on mucking duty. No explanation. No warning. Let the brat’s father connect the dots.

Call it petty, but Loki saw it as (more than) necessary.

He also remembered to make due with his promise and, with a brief notation to the stewards, 'kindly' authorized the renovators to expedite the completion of Nari's room—two doors from his own, of course. For efficiency's sake. Nothing more.

Finally, he had reports from Heimdall, who now watched over Asgard with eyes that could see everything… except Loki himself.

That part had been by design.

Even so, Heimdall’s voice shimmered across the conduit stone beside the window just after midday, distant but composed.

“The storms near Vanaheim are quieting. I anticipate safer travel will resume by solstice,” he said first. Then, after a pause too long to be accidental, “And the child?”

Loki didn’t lift his head from the scroll he was signing. He knew Heimdall hadn’t seen Nari since the day he had brought him to Asgard. “What of him?”

“He was not seen leaving the court last night. Nor this morning.”

Loki’s tone was dry. “Have you taken to tracking children now?”

Another pause.

“No,” Heimdall said calmly. “Only those others would grieve if lost.”

That gave Loki the smallest pause—but not enough to show it.

(He had to remind himself that he wasn’t supposed to care–)

(Nari was his weakness—)

“The boy is well. And under watch,” Loki said flatly, sealing the scroll with a flick of green. “Is there something that requires my attention?”

There was no answer at first. Just the quiet hum of the scrying stone. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

The connection faded with a faint shimmer. Loki leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled loosely, gaze distant. With Karnilla’s help, he had veiled both himself and the palace from Heimdall’s gaze. Not entirely. Just enough. Enough that the golden-eyed sentry could still observe the realms, the gates, the comings and goings of the court… but not the private halls. Not the throne. Not Loki. Not witnessing him claiming his birthright (Usurping the throne). And not the boy. It had been necessary. A precaution more than a punishment. The Watcher’s gaze could be too keen, and Loki had no patience for questions cloaked as counsel. It was also the reason he had not summoned Heimdall when Nari went missing—he couldn’t see him. Wouldn’t have been able to. And that, too, had been by Loki’s design.

Grumblings came next. Complaints from distant border settlements still loyal to the vanished king, their letters full of veiled accusations and desperate nostalgia. He answered them swiftly and without warmth. His hand was steady now. His judgments clearer. By midday, he summoned Hela. She appeared before him in a cloud of cold, pitch-black darkness, and stood where the ceiling narrowed into the high vault beside the ancient scrying pool that mirrored nothing unless asked,  the light catching strangely in her dark armor. Her arms were folded, her stance relaxed, but Loki knew better than to mistake it for ease. Her smile was already in place. Crooked and uncomfortably knowing.

“Well, well,” she mused, drawing the words out like silk through blades. “The prodigal children return, and what does my dear little brother do? He rolls out a feast and welcomes them with open arms.”

“They’ll be watched,” Loki said simply. “Every moment. But if they are to remain in Asgard, they will be treated with the same respect they so loudly claim to defend.”

Hela scoffed, the edge of her smile sharpening. “You’re getting soft.”

He ignored the jab and moved toward the table of sigils. With a flick of his fingers, a new seal shimmered into place—green and gold, humming faintly with layered seiðr. “I’m granting you broader access to the Yggdrasil tapping device. The chambers beneath the vault are also yours to manage as you see fit. Temporarily.”

That gave her pause.

The device itself was Loki’s own invention—an intricate weave of magic and machinery designed to draw Chronovium directly from Yggdrasil’s roots without destabilizing the realm. Chronovium was saturated with volatile chronal energy, the kind that could warp time, fracture possibilities, and stitch them back together again if one was clever or ruthless enough. Few dared touch it. Fewer still knew how. But Loki can confidently say that he had borderline mastered it. And mastery brought advantage. He had nearly limitless access to the Chronovium’s flow, while Hela’s share had always been strictly measured—portioned out in calculated intervals to keep her ambitions from growing too quickly. Granting her greater access now was no gift; it was a lever, and one he could pull back at any moment.

Hela’s smile flickered—thinned, but didn’t vanish. “Is this another delay tactic? Or is it your way of apologizing for rationing the root’s flow again?”

“You’ll have what you need,” Loki said evenly. “In measured increments.”

She turned to him fully, the gleam in her eyes no longer amused. “I’ve kept the Valkyrior chasing ghosts. Kept the Crimson Hawks occupied on Midgard’s rim. I silenced the gateposts that would have heralded Thor’s return.” Her voice dipped, colder now. “Do not think me your shield forever, Loki. I did not unleash my legions to play watch dog while you braid ribbons around your throne.”

Loki’s gaze didn’t waver. “And yet the throne still stands.”

“For now,” she said. Then, almost gently, “You know he’ll come. Eventually.”

“I know,” Loki replied. “And he’ll find the throne no easier to reclaim than it was to abandon.”

A silence stretched between them, taut as a pulled thread.

Then Hela’s gaze lowered briefly to the tips of Loki’s fingers, where seiðr still shimmered faintly from the sigilwork.

“Something’s fraying within you. I can smell it,” she said at last, almost idly. “A thread out of place. You used to keep everything so neatly knotted.”

He raised a brow. “SENTIMENTAL, are we?”

She gave him a look. “Hardly. But I know a man trying not to come undone when I see one.” Her smile returned, sharp and dry. “Try not to tangle yourself so badly you forget which side you’re on.”

“I haven’t,” he said, but the lie felt thinner than usual.

Her grin returned, darker now. And then, she bowed— mocking, yes, but a bow all the same. Loki didn’t return it. He turned, cape sweeping behind him. “I’ll have the feast arranged for this evening. I want them fed. Rested. Disarmed by civility, if not by force. You need not worry about them getting in your way, sister.”

“You think a warm meal will unravel old grudges?”

“I think it will give them fewer excuses,” he replied coolly. “And fewer eyes for you to gouge out when the time comes.”

Hela laughed once, dry and low. Then, more softly, “Remember, Loki: no one breaks a bargain with me twice.”

He looked over his shoulder, eyes glittering. “That means I get to do it once.”

She exhaled through her nose. “What an exasperating fool you are when you try to make a joke.”

He offered no denial. Only a slow, regal incline of the head. “Try not to kill Yggdrasil. There’s only so much Chronovium one can harvest from it at one time.”

“And you,” she called after him as he left, “try not to fall in love with your own virtue. It’s unbecoming.”

But he didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. His pace was calm and unhurried. There was still a feast to plan, and more importantly, a boy finishing his lesson at the far end of the palace, in a study chamber that suddenly felt far less distant than it once had.

/ / /

As the light angled gold through the high spires of the palace, Loki made his way down the corridor that led to a small study chamber tucked between the eastern archives and the outer library vaults. His steps were soundless, measured. His presence, however, was not. Every servant he passed lowered their gaze. Every flickering torch along the wall bent toward him in a faint lean, as if sensing the shift in air around him. He reached the chamber door just as the hourglass within ran out. Sand hit crystal in a final whisper. Loki heard it before his hand reached the latch.

Inside, the room had grown quiet. Miss Ylva stood beside the long desk, her back rigid, though not with the same nerves as before. She sensed something had shifted. Perhaps not forgiven, not exactly— but understood. Nari was still seated at the desk, a charcoal stylus in one hand, and a curl of his raven-black hair fallen over one eye as he bent over a sheet of parchment. Loki opened the door. The sound caught both of their attentions, but it was Nari whose eyes lit up, wide with something that looked suspiciously like delight.

“Father!”

The word came out clear. Eager and a little breathless. Loki froze. It wasn’t fear— not exactly. It was a feeling too strange to name. That word—father—it rang through him not like a bell, but like a crack in a wall he hadn’t realized was there. Something had shifted in it. Split. And now light was shining through.

(He thought of Odin. Of truths withheld. Of years wasted on half-buried lies and raised voices that called themselves love).

And then he forced himself to smile. Not perfectly, not easily, but he meant it.

“Hello, Nari,” he said, voice low and a little rough around the edges. “I came to collect you.”

“You came,” Nari said, pushing back his chair as if surprised he needed to confirm it aloud.

“Yes,” Loki said, that same not-quite-smile lingering in his mouth and nowhere else. “I did.”

Nari was already scrambling to pick something up from the table. He held it carefully in both hands— his earlier work on a slightly creased sheet of parchment.

“Look, look, look! I learned how to write my name!” he said, grinning now as he turned it toward Loki.

The letters were scrawled in rough, angular Asgardian characters. Far from perfect. One was backward. Another floated just a bit too far from the rest. But it was unmistakably Narinder Lokison.

(He couldn’t help the swell of PRIDE that almost caused his heart to skip a beat—)

Loki took the parchment gently. His eyes traced each mark.

“Hmm,” he said, tapping one of the letters with the tip of his gloved finger. “A touch of flair on the ‘r’. That’s a bold choice.”

Nari beamed. “Miss Ylva said I was allowed to make it fancy.”

“Did she now?” Loki glanced at the tutor in question, who gave a carefully neutral nod. He returned his gaze to Nari. “Well. It suits you.”

Nari’s chest puffed out just a little. “I want to write your name next.”

Loki blinked, then chuckled faintly—an exhale of something softer than his usual sharpness. “That might take more than one parchment.”

“Then I’ll use two!”

Loki handed the paper back with uncharacteristic care. “Very well. But not until after supper. You’ll need all your strength for the sheer number of syllables.”

Nari giggled. “What’s a silly-ble?”

Miss Ylva, watching quietly from the side, did not speak. But the slight shift in her posture—her ease—spoke enough. Loki gestured toward the door. “Come.”

Nari obeyed instantly, rushing to his side without hesitation this time. He fell into step beside Loki without needing to be told. No glances back. No lagging behind. Just the light tap of his boots keeping rhythm with the King’s longer stride. They walked in silence for a stretch—an easy one now. The kind that didn’t feel like something unsaid was pressing against the air. Nari looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.

“Did you have to learn how to write your name when you were little?”

Loki hummed. “I did.”

“Was it hard?”

“Not the writing,” he said. “The spelling. No one could quite agree how it should be done.”

Nari squinted. “But it’s your name. Don’t you get to decide?”

Loki smiled again, genuinely this time, if faintly. “You’d think.”

They turned a corner near the long corridor that overlooked the outer gardens. The windows glinted with midday sun, streaking the floor with golden light. Nari skipped over one of the brighter patches, casting a lopsided shadow. “Is your horn-helmet thingy heavy?”

Loki blinked. “Heavy?”

“Yeah. The gold one. With the weird twisty parts.” Nari gestured vaguely with his fingers, mimicking the curve of the horns.

Loki chuckled under his breath. “It can be.”

“Is that why you’re not wearing it?”

“In part.”

Nari nodded as if this were deeply important. Then, after a pause, he added, “I like when you don’t wear it. You look more like you.”

That gave Loki a pause. He hadn’t expected that answer.

“And what do I look like when I am me?”

Nari considered this seriously. “Tired. But less… heavy.”

Loki didn’t respond right away. He wasn’t sure how to. Instead, he adjusted the folds of his cape, and reached out briefly to steady Nari as the boy stumbled slightly on the polished floor. The boy didn’t flinch at the touch. Didn’t pull away. He simply righted himself and kept going.

“Miss Ylva said the Warriors Three were back,” he said a moment later, eyes wide. “And Lady Sif too. She said there’s going to be a big dinner tonight. Are we going?”

“Of course. That goes without saying,” Loki said. “But not just yet. There’s time still.”

“Do I have to sit next to anyone?”

“You may sit wherever you like.”

“Even next to you?”

Loki looked down at him. “Especially next to me.”

Nari’s grin spread across his face like light across the floor. “Then I’ll try not to spill anything.”

“I’ll try not to use my seiðr to turn the wine to ink,” Loki said dryly.

Nari snorted. “You can do that?”

“Regrettably,” Loki said, recalling a past experience of doing so in his youth, “yes.”

“Would I be able to do that one day?”

“When your seiðr manifests, perhaps.”

Nari’s eyes gleamed with mischief, but he said nothing else. They turned another corner, this time toward the wing that led to the small banquet chamber where preparations were already underway, but Loki slowed as they reached the threshold. He looked down at the boy again.

“You may go in ahead. The attendants will guide you to your seat.”

Nari paused, his gaze sweeping over the banquet chamber where Sif and the Warriors Three were already gathered at their places. The sight seemed to weigh on him for a moment, and when he turned back, there was a faint crease between his brows.

“You’re not coming?”

“Soon,” Loki said. “I’ve a word to say to someone first.”

He didn’t elaborate, and Nari didn’t ask.

But Loki’s gaze lingered— not on the door ahead, but beyond it. Past the arches. Past the stone. Past the evening’s obligations and the silver platters being polished. There was a room deeper still, buried under vaults of spell-work and time. A chamber cloaked in stasis, behind a veil of runes only he and one other could breach. It had been some time since he stood before it. But perhaps, he thought, that time was nearing again. Nari tilted his head, thoughtful. Then, to Loki’s surprise, he reached out and pressed the parchment with his name: Narinder Lokison, into Loki’s hand.

“In case you forget what to call me,” Nari said solemnly.

Loki looked at the paper. Then back at the boy.

“I won’t,” he said, softly.

And for the first time in what felt like centuries, that promise wasn’t a lie at all.

/ / /

With Nari’s parchment folded neatly in his gloved hand— creased once, then again, until the word Lokison pressed faintly against his palm—Loki made his way down. Down past the heralded halls and sunlit corridors. Past the reach of revelry and expectation. Past even Hela’s lingering presence in the scrying vaults.

To HIM.

The doors to the chamber did not open easily. They never did. They recognized blood but not mercy. And the enchantments had only thickened over time—layers of defense Loki had laid himself, as if trying to protect something sacred and broken in the same breath. He slipped through them in silence.  The room beyond was colder than he remembered. Odin lay exactly as before: suspended in the stillness of the Odinsleep, wrapped in the golden veil of runes and silence. Starlight filtered down from the domed ceiling above, fractured by crystal and spellwork. It gave the illusion that frost glittered in the air.

Loki stood in the hush. For a long time, he said nothing. He did not pace. He did not sneer. He did not speak his anger aloud—not this time. Instead, he opened his hand. The parchment crinkled as it unfolded. A child’s writing. Imperfect, bold. Narinder Lokison.

Loki stared at it, then at the man who had never called him son without armor behind the word.

“I thought,” he said at last, voice low, “that whenever I came here, it would be to gloat. Or curse. Or ask why.”

The silence answered with its usual emptiness.

“But today… I don’t want your answers. I don’t even think you ever had them.”

He stepped closer, and for a moment, the flicker of seiðr beneath Odin’s eyelids almost gave the illusion of wakefulness. But it was only the light. Only a trick. 

“I just wanted you to see this name.” Loki set the parchment on the stone edge of the dais. Not reverently. Not cruelly. Just… precisely. “He doesn’t know you. Doesn’t need to. That’s your legacy.”

A beat. Loki’s jaw worked silently, his eyes sharp but tired. “He… called me ‘Father.’ ” His throat tightened just slightly. “And I almost smiled. Imagine that.”

No movement from the sleeping king.

“Not for your sake. Not to outdo you. Not even for pride.” Loki paused. “It just… meant something. That’s all.”

The silence did not argue. It never did.

Loki turned to go, the parchment left where it lay, small and unassuming against the golden stone. At the threshold, he paused. “If he ever asks about you… I’ll decide then if you are worthy enough to know him.”

And then, with the soft sweep of his cape against the floor, the God of Mischief, Lies, and unexpected promises stepped up into the hall again. He expected silence. What he found instead was Sif. She stood at the far end of the corridor, half-shadowed by a fluted pillar. No armor. No sword. Just her presence—clad in formal attire—solid as stone, arms crossed over her chest. 

Her eyes– those warrior’s eyes, too familiar with grief—were fixed on him. Loki stopped.

“Snooping, Lady Sif?” he asked lightly, though his tone lacked true bite.

“I might ask the same of you,” she said, stepping forward.

He didn’t move. The door behind him sealed with a soft shimmer of runes. Sif’s gaze flicked toward it. Then back to him.

“I’ve been watching you,” she said. 

“Then I suppose you’ve seen quite a bit,” Loki said, voice smooth. “Tell me, did the promise of a feast not suit your tastes? Or is it my company you find unpalatable?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You walk these halls as if you’ve earned them.”

“And yet here I am.”

She stepped closer.

“What did you do to him?” Her voice was low now. Measured. The kind of quiet that came before steel was drawn.

Loki’s expression didn’t change. Not outwardly. “You’ll need to be more specific. There are quite a few ‘HIMS’ in my life.”

Sif’s eyes didn’t waver. “Odin. What did you do to him?”

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

There had been a time—long ago—when silence meant something very different. Loki remembered it now, not because it was relevant, but because memory had a cruel sense of humor. He had been younger then, barely into his early teens, and full of spells he only half understood. Thor had annoyed him, as he often did, boasting and stomping about, throwing around his weight like it was a hammer. So Loki had done what he thought would silence him—just a bit of harmless mischief. Instead, he accidentally turned him into a frog.

A VERY convincing frog.

At first, he had thought it was rather impressive to pull off the transformation. But then he remembered how his mouth had gone dry when he tried changing Thor back. How his fingers had trembled with the weight of knowing he might have gone too far when the reversal spell wasn’t working. Of knowing that he didn’t know how to bring Thor back. And then Sif had to make it worse by storming into the practice courtyard, boots scuffed, braid wild, fists clenched. 

"Where is he?" she’d demanded. "What did you do to him?"

Loki had tried to lie. To stall. To redirect. But Sif had only narrowed her eyes and repeated the question like it was a blade pressed to his neck. Over and over: WHAT DID YOU DO TO THOR?! Until even the frog looked embarrassed. In the end, Frigga had found them. And in the quiet that followed her arrival, she had simply held out her hand. 

“Loki,” she’d said, with a calm that made his stomach twist. “Give me the frog.”

He had done so. And Frigga—without drama or fanfare—had turned Thor back with a soft glow of magic and a look. Then came the earful.

“You do not hide what you break, Loki,” she had said, gathering Thor close, shivering, slimy, and dazed. “You mend it. Or you ask for help.”

And in the guilty silence that followed, he nodded, trying not to cry. Thor had croaked weakly in agreement. He had never turned him into anything again. And now? Now, centuries later, silence still lingered. But it was no longer guilty silence. It was the silence before judgment. A silence that wasn’t defensive. Just calm. Too calm.

“He is not dead,” Loki said at last, “nor disgraced. He sleeps.”

“So you made him sleep.”

“I did what had to be done,” he said, his tone even. “Call it mercy, if it helps you sleep at night.”

“I don’t need help sleeping,” Sif said tightly. “But maybe you do.”

Loki’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Sleep is for those who can afford dreams.”

Sif stepped closer, the weight of her presence pressing forward like a drawn blade. “I know you, Loki. Even when you wear this crown. Even when you wrap yourself in soft silks and sharpened words. I see you.”

“Then you must see,” he said, gesturing faintly to the hallway around them, “that Asgard still maintains order despite my rule.”

“Order built on silence and lies,” she snapped. “On veils. On locked doors. On enchantments Heimdall himself can’t see through.”

She glanced past him again to the closed door behind him. “What lies behind that?”

“A room,” Loki said evenly. “With a man who taught me what not to become.”

“And yet here you are,” Sif said, her voice a little softer now. “You rule with a vanished king behind locked doors. And now... a child.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. “I take it that you met him.”

“He was alone when I arrived. You handed him off to the attendants like a—”

“Careful, Sif,” Loki said, his voice suddenly cold. “You may find that your assumptions cut closer to jealousy than justice.”

She ignored the bait. “He’s your son, Loki. And not just by blood. He talks about you like you hung the stars.”

For a flicker of a moment, Loki looked away. Just once. But Sif saw it.

“What game are you playing that needs a child in it?” she asked, more softly now. “What do you plan on doing to him?”

Loki’s reply was slow. Measured. “Not every bond I forge is a weapon.”

“Isn’t it?”

Silence.

“I don’t trust you,” Sif said. “And I won’t pretend to. But that boy—he doesn’t know the man you really are. Not yet. He doesn’t know you’ve already weighed him on your scales and marked him as a weakness. He doesn’t know that in your eyes, he’s something to be guarded only because he can be used, and discarded the moment he becomes a liability.”

Her voice softened just enough to twist the knife. “And if he ever sees past the man you pretend to be—if he finds out what you truly think of him—he’ll know exactly what you are.”

She trailed off. Let the weight of it hang. Loki didn't flinch. But something in his jaw shifted. A tension. A flicker. A thread pulled taut.

“Then watch closely,” he said, voice low. “If you must play Watcher in Heimdall’s absence, do so well. But know this, Sif...”

He stepped past her. Not fast. Not threatening. But purposeful.

“…If he discovers the truth, it will not make him safer from me. Only closer to the danger you fear.”

(And perhaps that was the danger all along).

He didn’t wait for her reply, and Sif didn’t give one. She turned slowly to watch him go, her gaze shadowed with something that was not quite fear. Something he hadn’t yet named, but had let take shape. And it was that—more than her suspicion—that Loki found most dangerous.

/ / /

He entered the feast hall at twilight—golden torches and crystal chandeliers casting long shadows across the low oak tables. As he stepped through the arch, the atmosphere shifted. Noble voices hushed, the clatter of platters paused mid‑air—even the musicians dimmed their playing. Nari, however, didn’t sense the undercurrent. His eyes lit upon see­ing Loki, and he slid into the seat at his side.

“Father!” he whispered with joy, nearly leaping from his chair.

Loki offered a carefully measured smile—soft around the eyes, stiff at the mouth.

“Nari,” he murmured. He settled into his place, the weight of court returning around them, but softened by the warmth in the child’s gaze. Across the table, Sif, Volstagg, Fandral, and Hogun exchanged glances—flickers of curiosity, suspicion, something unreadable. They—except for Sif—bowed politely, but their eyes stayed locked in assessment. Loki rose. The room hushed further, plates and cups stilling in mid‑moment. He cleared his throat.

“Tonight, we honor warriors,” he began, voice smooth and steady. “Those who fought not only with steel but with spirit. Lady Sif, and the venerable Warriors Three, you embody the valor of Asgard. Let this table symbolize peace, unity, and... respect.”

He allowed that last word to linger, wrapped in courtly grace. 

Then, he continued. “Respect not simply for strength, but for restraint. Not merely for tradition, but for what rises in its place when tradition fractures. For it is easy to wield a sword. Far harder to wield judgment. To govern without being governed by vengeance. To lead without demanding to be followed.”

His eyes flicked toward Sif, just briefly. “And so we gather, not only to pay homage to your return, but to what that return demands of us all—tolerance, patience, and the willingness to see what lies beyond our own beliefs. The Asgard you have come home to is not the Asgard you left. It breathes differently now. Walks a finer line in the aftermath of this 'Timestream Entanglement'.”

His gaze swept the room. Some heads nodded. Others remained still.

“And yet,” Loki added, tone softening, “its heart still beats. Its halls still stand. Its people still dream.”

He let the words rest on the table like a newly laid sword, his gaze flickering to Sif again just briefly.

“May tonight remind us that honor can share a table with change. That valor need not fear silence. That even here—where shadows once fell long—we might find light again.”

A pause. Loki’s hand brushed the rim of his goblet, but he did not raise it.

“To the ones who fought,” he said at last, “and to those who now must learn to stay.”

He sat.

Silence held for just a second longer than politeness required. Then came a scattered chorus of lifted cups, murmured toasts, and the clinking of silver against glass.

(But he heard what wasn’t said more than what was. He always had).

Nari’s small hand crept within reach of Loki’s, but stayed shyly on his own plate. He watched, unafraid, as his father surveyed the table. Volstagg responded first, booming yet measured.

“Well‑spoken, your Majesty.”

Hogun’s nod was sparse but respectful, while Fandral’s flicker of a smile seemed to both challenge and forgive. Sif’s expression remained reserved, though lightning glinted in her eyes.

The feast began with little fanfare.

The food was… acceptable. Loki picked at it with the idle grace of someone who didn’t need the nourishment but understood the ritual. His wine remained untouched. His thoughts did not. Across the table, Nari was speaking—animated now, gesturing with small hands, a faint smear of gravy at the corner of his mouth. Volstagg leaned in, his massive frame bowed forward in mock solemnity, his beard already speckled with crumbs.

“So tell me, lad, what else do you get to do in the palace? Any sword lessons yet?”

Nari’s eyes lit up. “Not yet, but Miss Ylva said I’m really good at writing! I can do all the letters now, even the fancy ones.”

“Can you now?” Fandral asked, reclining lazily but watching closely. “And what about other things? Do you get to go outside the palace? Or is our glorious King keeping you under lock and key?”

The tone was light. The smile, almost teasing. But Loki caught the sharpness beneath the velvet. Nari didn’t notice, he only shook his head with a light smile.

“Noooooo. Well, sometimes. I go to the garden! The one with the tree that has long hanging leaves. And there’s this room with all the big windows and I can see the clouds when they roll in, and Father said I’ll have my own room soon and—”

“And who takes you to these places?” Hogun asked, voice low and steady, eyes unreadable.

Nari blinked. “Umm… Sometimes Miss Saella. Or Father. Or I go by myself if I remember the way. I’m still learning my way around. It’s waaaaay too big and confusing here.”

There was a silence then—brief, but noticeable. Loki didn’t flinch. He merely lifted his goblet and tilted it slightly, watching the wine catch the light like blood in water.

“And do you like it here?” Fandral asked, still smiling, though the angle of his head had turned just a touch too still.

Nari nodded. “I do. At first, I didn’t know how to feel because it was a bit scary and weird, but there’s always yummy food. And I have Father. And my room is warm.”

Volstagg chuckled, deep and hearty. “That’s more than I can say for the barracks in Vanaheim!”

“Oh! Do they make you sleep in armor?” Nari asked, eyes wide.

“Aye. Once or twice. But you’ve got the better end of the deal, clearly,” Volstagg said with a wink. “Warm room, good food, and a father who willingly sits beside you? That’s more than most can say.”

At that, Nari beamed. “He came to get me after my lesson today too.”

Loki did not smile, but he registered the glances exchanged across the table. There it was again: The weighing. Not of Nari, but of him. He took a long, slow breath. Kept his hands folded beneath the table. Let them talk.

(Let them know what a worthy king you are by letting them talk to your WEAKNESS).

“After your lesson, you say?” Fandral tilted his head, twirling the stem of his wine glass between two fingers. “That must’ve been quite the sight. The King of Asgard, collecting his own child like a page fetching a scroll.”

There was humor in his tone. But it was the kind that curved, just slightly, like a blade. Nari giggled softly, not understanding the edge. “He didn’t say much. But he did like my handwriting. I mean… I did just learn how to write my name today!”

“Didn’t say much?” Volstagg raised a thick brow. “That sounds about right.”

Hogun sipped his drink without comment.

Loki said nothing. His eyes were half-lidded, face unreadable, but his posture had shifted just a hair tighter—shoulders drawn back, chin slightly lifted, the way one does when enduring something rather than engaging with it. Nari turned to Loki.

“Speaking of my writing, do you still have the paper with my name?”

The question was innocent. Bright, even. But it sliced cleanly through the table’s uneasy civility. Loki’s gaze flicked to him, then to the others. Just once. Briefly. Calculating.

“I did,” he said smoothly, reaching for his wine but not drinking it. “Though I fear it may be misplaced somewhere between the feast planning and my scroll-work.”

“Misplaced?” Nari repeated, a touch of confusion in his brow. “But… didn’t you fold it?”

“I did.” Loki’s voice remained soft. Careful. “And perhaps, in doing so, tucked it where it would be safe.”

Nari tilted his head. “Is that where you could have left it? Where you said you had to talk to someone?”

There was a small shift at the table—no clang of fork or dramatic gasp, just a subtle slowing. The way a room might fall still before a storm. Even Volstagg paused with a hunk of bread halfway to his mouth.

“I remember,” Nari added, still looking at Loki. “You didn’t go into the dining hall with me. You said you had a word to say to someone first. And I gave it to you so that you wouldn't forget what to call me.”

“I did,” Loki replied, voice pleasant but crisp. “And the word was said.”

“To who?”

“A very old acquaintance.”

Sif’s brow furrowed, eyes narrowing just slightly. Fandral raised his glass again, more for cover than drink.

Nari blinked. “What kind of acquaintance are they?”

“Not the sort to join us at dinner,” Loki replied, and his smile was razor-thin. There was a pause. Too smooth to be natural. Too restrained to be harmless.

Hogun, still silent, studied Nari. Then Loki. Then his wine.

Nari didn’t seem to notice the undertow. He chewed on his lip, then glanced up. “I hope they liked it. My name, I mean.”

Loki met his gaze. And for a moment—just a flicker—something in his face softened–

(Not nothing. Something. Like a crack in the mask letting the frost through—)

“They didn’t say,” he murmured.

Sif’s knuckles had gone pale where they gripped her goblet. She said nothing, but her eyes didn’t leave him. Nari didn’t notice. He reached for a piece of bread. “Well, I’ll write it again if I need to. Maybe I’ll even write yours next time, Father. With two parchments, of course. I think I can handle the ‘syl-biblbles’. Or whatever those are.”

Volstagg laughed, though it rang with a touch of awkwardness, and Fandral chuckled, leaning forward just enough to keep the atmosphere light.

“Well now, there’s more than enough time for you to learn,” he said, “and if you can master syllables, young one, you’ll soon surpass half the court.”

“Euugh. The court,” Nari said between bites. “It’s too quiet. And the grown-ups all look like they forgot how to blink.”

Volstagg barked another laugh, this one warmer. “A wise instinct. Blinklessness is the first sign of nobility.”

“Or treachery,” Fandral added, smile still fixed. That earned a long sideways glance from Sif.

Hogun spoke at last. “Words can be weapons too.”

Nari blinked. “Even writing?”

“Especially writing,” Hogun replied. “It outlives its author. And can even outlast memory.” There was silence after that. Not long. Just long enough.

Loki reached for his goblet again, not drinking. He wasn’t watching Nari anymore. Not directly. He was watching them—the small ways they adjusted their posture. How they kept their tones friendly and open, but steered the conversation like trained hounds circling a trail. Polite. Clever. Hunting. He was starting to tire of it. Sif leaned forward, arms on the table.

“Tell me, Nari,” she said gently. “Do you ever get… lonely here?”

Nari hesitated. His small fingers curled around the rim of his plate.

“I was before,” he admitted. “But not as much now, since you guys are here.”

Sif nodded. “That’s good to hear.”

“But…” Nari added, frowning slightly, “everyone else sometimes looks at me funny. Like they want me to say or know something, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Oh?” Fandral said, masking surprise well. “What kind of people?”

Nari shrugged, suddenly uncertain. “Just… people. Guards. Sometimes the servants. They look at me weird, even though I’ve been good. And I think I’m supposed to understand what it means, but I don’t. Not really. I’ve only been here for a couple of days.”

There was a pause. Then Fandral, tilting his goblet and watching Nari over the rim, spoke softly. “You know… there’s someone we know who wouldn’t have done that.”

Nari tilted his head. “Who?”

“Your uncle,” said Volstagg, with a strange softness. “Thor.”

Nari blinked, then looked up at Loki. “I have an uncle?”

Loki didn’t answer right away. His fingers tapped once—lightly—against the stem of his goblet. “You did.”

“Still do, don’t you?” Fandral said, voice light but not quite innocent. He glanced at Loki. “Unless he’s… less missing than you led us to believe.”

Nari raised a brow at that, and Volstagg cleared his throat. “He was very good with children. He would have loved to have you around.”

Sif added nothing. But her gaze was fixed on Loki. Nari, meanwhile, furrowed his brow.

“Where is he now?”

Loki’s voice was gentle, but cool. “Away.”

“Where?”

“Away,” he said again, with the kind of finality that didn’t invite follow-up. A flicker passed over Nari’s face—confusion, maybe. Or the faint, creeping awareness that not every question had a safe answer here. He looked down at his plate. Loki didn’t move, but behind his stillness, something sharp pressed at the edge of him– an old, familiar cold. Thor’s name had been spoken aloud. Like a blade drawn gently across the table. Not an accusation. Not yet. But close.

(It almost felt like SENTIMENT—Not that he would ever admit to that. No. It was something a bit more different—more confusing—than that. And it made him feel something that was almost viscerally painful: grief).

And Sif: Her mouth had parted, as if she might speak—might push the point, press it into something undeniable—but she caught herself. Her jaw shifted. Her lips pressed thin. No one filled the silence. It stretched long enough to grow brittle. Then Volstagg, trying too hard to brighten things, said with a hearty smile, “Well, if everyone’s looking at you strangely, lad, it’s probably because they can’t believe someone as sweet as you could be sired by him.”

(It did not, in fact, brighten things).

Nari laughed, a soft sound, but it was very unsure. His eyes flicked toward Loki. “You’re just teasing… right?”

“Of course,” Volstagg said too quickly. But Loki caught it: The hesitation in Nari’s face. The way he turned back to his food without another word, chewing slower now, his joy pulled inward like a shell drawing tight. Loki sat a moment longer, expression unreadable as his wine caught the firelight again. Then he slowly pushed his plate forward, and folded his hands. 

“I do hope,” Loki said at last, voice smooth as silk, “we aren’t frightening the boy with all this well-meaning scrutiny.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The words slid into the conversation like the edge of a knife under ribbon—elegant, but precise. Across the table, Volstagg cleared his throat and leaned back slightly in his chair, sweating bullets. Fandral swirled his wine, avoiding eye contact. Hogun’s fingers tapped his goblet, gaze carefully trained on his plate. Sif's hand remained tight around her goblet, though she said nothing. 

Loki glanced sideways, as if speaking to no one in particular. “I know the weight of a name. And I know what it’s like to have every gesture pulled apart, studied, and misread. Let us not teach a child that he too must grow wary of everything that happens around him.”

Nari looked up, blinking. “I wasn’t scared.”

“Of course not,” Loki said gently without looking at him. “You’re far braver than most.”

A servant appeared at the far end of the hall, bearing trays of jeweled confections—spun sugar and fruit-glazed pastries, creams folded into paper-thin crisps, gold-leafed jellies in delicate dishes. Loki didn’t shift his gaze, but his words turned ever so slightly wry under his thin smile.

“Ah. Salvation by sugar. The truest peacekeeper at any Asgardian gathering!”

Nari clapped softly, his earlier wariness melting into excitement at the sight of dessert. “May I have the one with the green and yellow top, please?”

“You may have three,” Loki said, voice a low drawl, and waved for the servants to proceed. “Please. All of you. Help yourselves.”

The warriors shifted, uncertain—but Volstagg, perhaps to break the tension, reached forward with a gruff, “Ah, I never say no to sweet things, no matter what.”

Fandral followed, then Hogun. Sif hesitated the longest before taking a tart, her fingers slow on the silver tray.

“Let it not be said,” Loki added, voice soft and cutting, “that I don’t usually offer something sweet after a bitter course.”

The tension broke—just enough for the room to breathe. Plates were cleared. New ones replaced them. Wine was refreshed. Conversation turned to duller, safer topics: training schedules, a wager made between Volstagg and Nari to learn the sword, the progress of renovations on Nari's permanent room, a poor steward’s mistake with firewood allocations. But Loki remained still. Watching. Not smiling. Not anymore. And across the table, though the others laughed and clinked glasses, Sif’s eyes stayed on him.

She did not eat her dessert.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

The torchlight had been dimmed by the time Loki returned to his chambers. The feast was long over. The halls had grown quiet, the echoes of forks and forced laughter smoothed into nothing. But still, he carried the noise of it behind his ribs. Fandral’s needled remarks. Sif’s watchful stillness. Nari’s voice, bright and oblivious— at first. He didn’t summon her. He never needed to. Saella arrived moments after the door closed, silent as the dark silk she wore, her hands already moving to untie the outer clasps of his formal coat. Loki let her. She said nothing at first. She never did.

Loki stood still, watching her slow, old fingers to work their practiced path across the line of golden fastenings at his collar. His mind drifted, though he did not let it show. The tension in his shoulders was not from the armor alone. He felt it: the tightness of expectation, the weight of what had been said and worse: what had not. And still, he saw it. That glint of something in her golden eyes.

“Once again, you didn’t ask,” Loki murmured, watching his own reflection in the mirror across the room. “Whatever it is you are thinking, go on and spit it out.”

Behind him, Saella folded the cloak with care. “I was only wondering whether the boy noticed.”

Loki hummed. “Have you now?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she lifted his shoulder guard next, setting it neatly on the rack. The quiet rustle of silk and leather the room’s only sound.

“And if I told you,” he added, almost absently, “that I didn’t need your judgment tonight?”

“I would offer none,” Saella replied. “Only the truth you already know.”

He turned then. Not fully—just enough to glance over his shoulder at her. “And what truth is that?”

“That they are growing bold,” she said. “And restless. Sif was not trying to provoke you tonight, not really. But she was trying to see something.”

“She’s always trying to see something,” Loki muttered. “Unfortunately, I’ve stopped being interested in showing her anything.”

A pause. Then her voice, soft but certain, “But the boy still sees.”

That stopped him. His jaw tensed faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching toward thought, then restraint. 

“Yes,” Loki said. “He does.”

“And what does he see?”

Loki reached up to unfasten the last of his cuff buckles himself. “A version of me. One I’ve let him believe in. One that he believes so strongly in that he felt the need to repeat things I said aloud.”

“Children listen well,” Saella said pause. “Especially to what isn’t meant for them.”

“Yes,” Loki murmured, eyes narrowing. “He asked me tonight if I still had the parchment with his name on it.”

Saella’s hands stilled.

“I lied,” Loki said. He turned to face her fully now, and the weight of it was in his gaze—sharp, glittering, but weary beneath the polished surface. “I have found that I do not lie to him easily.”

“No,” she said. “But it gets easier.”

He closed his eyes at that. The frost was there—always there now, under the skin—but it cracked faintly, like thaw in spring.

(Something. It was something).

“I do not know what will be left of me when he learns the whole of it,” he murmured.

“And yet,” Saella said, stepping forward to place the folded cloak in his armoire, “you still let him stay.”

The implication wasn’t lost on him.

“You think he would be safer away from me,” Loki said, opening his eyes.

“No,” she replied. “I think you will one day wish he had been.”

Silence.

Then Loki—lowering himself into the seat by the hearth, fingers steepled beneath his chin— asked in a voice that was softer than he intended, “And if I said I would rather he learn to hate me from close by, than from afar?”

Saella watched him. Not with pity. Not with fear. Just the same quiet, nonjudgmental steadiness that had defined her since the day he had assigned her to her post—the day he usurped the throne. She knew the truth of Thor's dissapearence. Had watched Loki despair over the future. Loki didn’t have to ask to know that she knew everything. She knew what it cost him. And yet, she never antagonized him. Never would.

“You’ll still lose him,” she said.

“I know,” Loki whispered.

The hearth crackled, soft and low. Saella didn’t speak again. She returned to the armoire with his regalia, closing its doors with a muted click. Loki sat still for a long time after she left.

/ / /

The wind on the Bifrost Bridge cut cold through the morning fog, crisp with leaving. The sky above was pale and streaked with silver, a quiet kind of mourning. Loki stood in full regalia— modest, sharp, unreadable—his hands loosely clasped behind his back. Nari stood beside him, bundled against the breeze, but not cold. Fenrir sat tucked beneath one arm, his other clutching at the hem of Loki’s cloak. Sif and the Warriors Three approached the edge of the portal platform where Heimdall waited, silent, his golden gaze fixed somewhere far beyond. His hands rested calmly on the hilt of his great blade. But his posture was taut. Watching.

Their departure had the shape of ceremony but none of its warmth. Sif’s boots echoed faintly as she stopped before Loki. “Until next time,” she said. Her voice was even. But her eyes: those remained too still. A soldier’s stillness. A promise in it. Or a threat.

Loki inclined his head, calm as still water. “May your journey be uneventful.”

A pause. Then Sif crouched before Nari, surprising them both.

“You be good, little star,” she said, brushing a curl from his forehead. “And don’t let that wolf cause too much mischief.”

Nari giggled, squeezing Fenrir. “He only bites bad people!”

Sif smiled faintly. “Good.”

One by one, the Warriors Three followed. Volstagg gave the boy a great, jostling hug, lifting him briefly off the ground with a bear-like chuckle.

“Hey, lad. Don’t forget our pact, eh? You learn the sword, and I’ll bring you a storybook from Vanaheim.”

“I will!” Nari grinned, wiggling when he was set down.

Fandral swept into a bow far more theatrical than necessary.

“You’ve made this visit far more tolerable, young one,” he said smoothly. “Do grow up faster. You’ll be the only decent company left.”

Nari laughed, and even Loki allowed the faintest, measured smile.

Hogun knelt last, quiet and steady. He said nothing at first, only extended a hand, which Nari clasped solemnly.

“You have your father’s eyes,” the stoic man said lowly, not as praise or warning, but simply fact. “But there is something else in them too... a steadiness. Curiosity. A kind of quiet honor.”

Nari blinked, unsure whether that was good or bad, but held Hogun’s hand tighter.

“Hold onto that,” Hogun said. “The world will ask you to forget it. Don’t.”

Then he rose, gaze lingering just for a breath too long. Not on Nari. Not even on Loki. But beyond them, to Heimdall. There was no exchange. No nod. No word. Only the brief meeting of their eyes. Then he turned, and without another sound, stepped through the portal’s light. Sif followed next. Then Fandral. Volstagg paused, gave Nari one last wave, and met eyes with Loki.

“Take care of your son,” he said almost too casually, but quietly enough for only Loki to hear. “Some things… matter more than thrones.”

And then he too was gone. The Bifrost shimmered closed behind them. Wind rose again. The bridge hummed beneath their feet. Loki exhaled slowly. Nari tugged gently at his sleeve.

“They’re really gone?”

“They are,” Loki said. He watched the empty span of the bridge for another moment. “For now.”

Heimdall did not speak. But he didn’t move, either. Loki met his gaze briefly, reading nothing, yet aware something had shifted. A tide pulling back from shore. He could feel it. The frost in the corners of the palace. In the walls. In his ribs. Something had been set in motion. He turned at last, gently steering Nari away. The boy glanced back once over his shoulder.

“Do you think they’ll visit again?”

Loki looked down at him. “I think… we shall see.”

They left the bridge behind, footsteps echoing in the morning light. And as they continued down the corridor, Loki a step ahead and Nari bouncing softly at his side—high, high above, Heimdall stood perfectly still. Watching.

Always watching.

/ / /

A week passed with little fanfare. Not in silence, but in the strange, suspended quiet that settled over the palace like fog—thin, constant, almost imperceptible until you stepped out of it. The court resumed its motions. Councils met. Petitions were brought forward. Edicts were reviewed and signed. The realm, by all appearances, moved forward. And Loki? He ruled. Efficiently. Sharply. With precision that left little room for dissent, though dissent whispered still in corners and corridors. He sensed it in the way voices dropped when he passed. In the way courtiers bowed too deeply, or not quite enough. The throne, though won, had not yet been earned in their eyes.

Let them fear, he thought. Fear was quiet. Fear obeyed. He sat each morning in the high council chamber clad in his green, gold, and midnight-blue regalia: threads immaculate, attention absolute. He listened. He ruled. He corrected. He outmaneuvered. 

(He showed them how WORTHY he was—)

He reinforced outer defenses, tightened the gates of the vaults, redrew patrol rotations at the palace perimeter. Subtle things, not enough to stir suspicion. Just enough to be ready. Just enough to stay a step ahead of whatever step might follow. He had a feeling. Still, he made time to stop by the craftsmen's wing, where whispers of paint and plaster now filled the hallway two doors down from his own. He never lingered long. A few words to the foreman. A glance at the window seat cushions and a mural in progress. A note on the balance of the bookshelves.

Made time to review the guards assigned to the boy’s wing, replacing two with quieter, more observant ones. Made time, sometimes, to glance out of the corner of his eye—during court, at meals, in passing—to find Nari watching him. Not always directly. Not openly. But thoughtfully. As though puzzling something. As though the dinner with the warriors hadn’t ended with the closing of the Bifrost gates.

(What did he see, exactly? What had taken root in that clever, mischievous little mind?

(Did he sense it? The lie of this place, of this throne, of him? Did he feel it in the way the air stiffened when Loki entered a room, or in the way others softened their voices, not out of respect but out of fear?)

(Would he ask, one day, what Loki had done to earn all that silence?)

(And when he did… would he still smile the same way? Still look at him like this? Or would he flinch? Would the truth—ugly, sharpened by guilt and need—make a stranger out of him too?)

(Loki had spent a lifetime becoming what they feared. He hadn’t planned on caring what one child thought of him. And yet…)

It was late afternoon when he found Nari curled in the reading nook, two parchments sprawled across his knees, tongue poked out in quiet concentration. Loki paused in the doorway. “You’re meant to be with your tutor.”

Nari didn’t look up. “Miss Ylva said I could have a break. For thinking.”

Loki arched a brow. “And what, precisely, are you thinking about?”

“I was…” He paused, and then slowly held up one of the parchments, revealing a series of crooked letters.

“I was trying to write your name," Nari said. "With two parchments. But I don’t know how to write all of it.”

Loki arched a brow. “You’ve managed ‘Loki’ , I see. Nicely done.”

“But…” Nari frowned. “The rest. What comes after? I heard someone call you something longer. Not just 'Loki'. Loki Something-son? But… every time they say it, it’s different. I don’t wanna get it wrong.”

“...Laufeyson,” Loki said, voice smooth. “My full name is... Loki Laufeyson.”

Nari mouthed it silently, eyes narrowing in concentration as he tried spelling it out. “Lauf…ey…son.” Then, slowly, “Who’s that?”

“My… father,” Loki replied slowly, but not inaccurately. “Laufey is his name.”

King of Jotunheim. Still alive. Still cold. Still cruel. He had left Loki to die, a thing too small to be worth naming, perhaps ashamed that something as pathetic as Loki could have come from his seed, or perhaps for some other reason—Loki would never know. Odin had found him in a temple, claimed him, molded him, and made him prince of a realm that never would have accepted the real him. Laufey never reached for him again. Never needed to. And yet, Loki bore the name.

Not Odinson.

(Because whatever else he was—whatever else he pretended to be—he remembered where monsters came from. And sometimes, it was easier to wear the name of the thing they already feared).

“Oh.” Nari paused, blinking. “I thought… you were Odinson.”

A beat. Then Loki turned slightly, gaze flicking toward the far window. “I was raised in Odin’s house,” he said. “But names have a longer memory than oaths.”

Nari looked down again at the parchment. “We don’t talk about him much. In my lessons, I mean. Just that he was king before you.” He glanced back up. “Was he… bad?”

Loki’s mouth twitched at that. Not quite a smile. “He was… many things,” he said at last. “A great ruler. A cunning one. Sometimes cruel. Often distant. But no—he was not only bad.” He paused. “Just… a ‘ father’ to one son. And a lesson to the other. And now… gone.”

“...So Laufey is… Your real father? Not Odin?”

That gave Loki a pause. “...No.”

Laufey was a name. A necessary one. A placeholder in the lineage that had nowhere else to rest. Blood may have tethered them, but blood alone did not make kin. One called him son in word. The other never did at all.  So no. Neither of them truly held the title. Not in the way that mattered.

(But still, Nari deserved to know the full picture).

“Laufey left me in a temple,” Loki murmured. “Newborn. Unnamed. I will never know if it was mercy or shame, but he never came back for me.” He let the silence stretch, thin and sharp. “Odin found me there. Took me in. I didn't know what I was.”

Loki’s gaze turned distant. “I know now. I am a Frost Giant. I do not share blood with Odin. I never did. I never will.”

Nari was quiet for a while after that, tracing over the loops of the L again and again. He didn’t completely understand the implications of what Loki had revealed, but his expression was solemn. “Is that why everyone’s... sca..." He trailed off and tried again, "...weird about you?"

Loki didn’t look at him. “Perhaps.”

“Are you scary?”

This time, Loki did look. But the boy wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t even frowning. Just thoughtful. Curious, the way only a child could be—open, unguarded, earnestly trying to fit pieces together.

“I can be,” Loki said. Then added, almost lazily, “But usually only when I mean to be.”

Nari nodded, absorbing that. “Miss Saella’s not scared of you,” he said after a moment.

“No,” Loki agreed.

“Miss Ylva isn’t as well.”

“...No,” Loki agreed again, but with a touch of doubt.

Nari didn’t notice. He was too busy writing. “Sif and the Warriors Three weren’t either.”

“They’re braver than most.”

“I don’t think you’re bad. You said so yourself.”

Loki’s gaze flicked to him again.

“I think people just don’t know how to read your face,” Nari continued, now doodling tiny stars around the name. “It’s always very still. Too many silly-bles. That makes them nervous.”

A wry smile touched the corner of Loki’s mouth. “You may be right.”

Nari grinned and held the parchment up proudly. “I think I spelled it right.”

Loki took it and looked it over.

The letters were uneven. Slanted. Some were slightly too big. But it was his name. All of it. More than most ever bothered with. And for reasons he would not name, it was suddenly harder than usual to meet the boy’s gaze.

“…Well done,” Loki said at last, folding the parchment neatly. “May I... keep this?”

Nari nodded, pleased. “You can put it somewhere secret if you want.”

“I just might.”

Loki set it carefully on the corner of the nearby table. Not hidden. But not forgotten either. For a moment, they sat in companionable quiet. The boy leaned back against the nook cushions, legs swinging gently off the edge. Outside, the afternoon light had started to cool, casting longer shadows across the floor.

The golden hour, Loki thought. The calm before the pull of night.

And then, softly, came a small, timid voice. “…What are you not telling me?”

Loki blinked. “Pardon?”

Nari didn’t look at him. “Sometimes,” he said slowly, “it feels like you want to say something. But then you don’t. Like at the feast last week.”

There was no accusation in his voice. Just quiet honesty. Perception, gently offered. Loki said nothing. Nari looked up again, and there it was—that same gaze from across the council chamber that he had seen time and time again, from the end of the long table, from the corridors when he thought Loki wouldn’t notice. Thoughtful. Steady. Not afraid, but searching.

“I don’t mind if you don’t want to tell me,” he added, more softly now. “But I think… maybe someday I’d like to know.”

And before Loki could reply, the boy stood up, gave a little stretch, and padded toward the door, humming to himself like the weight of what he had just said hadn’t been a weight at all. He stopped at the threshold.

“I just remembered that I gotta go back to my lesson. Miss Ylva is waiting. Goodbye, Father!”

Loki stayed behind in the quiet. The parchment remained on the table, and the name remained written on it.

There was something in that—something that caught behind the ribs. An observation spoken aloud, gently, without demand or fear. Just curiosity, and the quiet strength to bear whatever answer might come. Loki had never dared to call out Odin. Not really. He had always known, somehow, that such disrespect would be turned into a lesson. That the ache in him would be met with silence—or worse: disappointment dressed in wisdom. But this child with raven-black curls still tousled and ink smudged in both hands had looked at him—really looked at him— and said it anyway.

(A strange thing, that kind of bravery).

Stranger still, how much it reminded him of himself—only softer. Less sharp. Not blunted by bitterness. Not yet. The sun dipped behind the tower spires, casting the last gold light across the stone floor. And for a flicker of a moment, Loki wondered what might become of that question when someday came.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

Night fell quietly over the palace. The last light had long since vanished from the windows, replaced by the shimmer of moonstone lanterns and the distant gleam of starlight through high panes of glass. Somewhere beyond the chamber walls, bells marked the final watch. The wind outside whispered faintly through the courtyard arches, a cool hush weaving through the silence.

Nari was asleep now. Saella had collected him from the last of his lessons earlier, as she often did—quiet, unhurried, her voice low when she’d found Loki seated by the fire with unread scrolls in hand. She hadn’t lingered, but she’d offered her usual summary before dismissing herself for the night: the boy had eaten well, listened better, and spent a full hour turning over the word “astronomy” like it might reveal its secrets if he studied it long enough. He had asked three questions about the stars, one about the Bifrost, another about when he would start sword lessons, and none—mercifully—about Thor.

He had been quieter than usual at bedtime, though. Thoughtful. But he hadn’t resisted sleep. Now, the halls were quiet. Even the embers in the hearth had settled to a low, pulsing red. Loki stood before them, one hand resting against the edge of the mantle, gaze lost in the flames. He had just finished reading his scrolls when he felt it. Not the chill of the cold. Not the heaviness of thought. But a pressure; a subtle shift in the air, like the realm itself had gone still.

The door did not open. It didn’t need to. She stepped through shadow instead, the fire instantly dimming to shimmering coals in response to her presence.

“Hela,” Loki said, not turning.

“You said they wouldn’t interfere,” came her voice. Smooth. Too calm. The sound of a blade drawn slowly, purposefully—more threat in the stillness than any shouted demand. Loki turned.

She stood at the edge of the chamber like a blade carved from shadowed crystal—sleek, unyielding, and unnaturally still. Her armor shimmered in deep obsidian and viridian hues, catching the light with an eerie, metallic sheen. The helm curled back like the horns of some ancient predator, leaving her face exposed, but no less terrifying for it, and her eyes—sharp and cold—glinted beneath the dark crown, ringed in green like a promise of ruin. Even the air around her seemed to recoil—like it knew what she was. And she looked deeply upset.

“I said they wouldn’t be a problem,” Loki replied, evenly. “They left.”

“They left and now they’re my problem,” she hissed, taking a slow step forward. The air grew colder. The fire in the hearth dipped, hissed. “One that festers. You should've killed them the moment they returned.” She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to. Each word coiled through the chamber like a curse.

“The Valkyrior,” she said. “And the Crimson Hawks. Sif and the Warriors Three have been calling them back. Not just whispers now. Not deserters or rogues. Entire units. Some from the outer provinces. Others pulled off fronts where they’d nearly fallen to my legions. They’re returning. Gathering.”

 “They won’t find much.” Loki said coolly, refusing to step back.

“They don’t need much,” Hela snapped, taking another step, and the torches lining the wall shuddered. “They need enough. And they have it. Enough to disrupt the borders I carved. Enough to scatter the executioners I placed. You’ve let them pull the threads too long. Now they’re knitting a blade from them.”

Loki’s gaze narrowed. “You’re mixing metaphors.”

“I’m mixing warnings,” Hela snarled. “You may not see it, sitting here in your pretty throne, but I do. I feel it. The cracks. The slow retreat. They’re unmaking what I’ve built—and now Thor has passed my watch.”

Loki’s head lifted slightly at that. His voice, when it came, was cool. “Then perhaps your grip was never as tight as you believed.”

“You were never meant to build,” he went on. “Only hold. Quietly. Unseen. Expand your undead army, not… expand your domain.”

A beat. Hela narrowed her eyes.

“They know of our alliance now,” She spat. “And they’re pulling warriors from my grasp. The Valkyrior. The Crimson Hawks. All of them. Sif has been spearheading the effort—stirring the ashes I left cold, and now they burn again. If you expect me to keep my legions contained while she rips the very spine from under me—”

“You’ll adapt,” Loki cut in, sharp as glass. “You always do.”

“You promised me freedom in the shadows. Power,” she growled. “But I will not be shackled there while they play martyr in the sun.”

“You have land,” Loki said. “You have soldiers. A realm. Power enough.”

“I require more.”

“Of course you do.”

Hela stepped forward, slow and measured, her eyes alight like distant stars over a battlefield. “More command. More soldiers. More land in the realm of the living to replenish what I’ve lost. You may sit in your gold tower pretending not to notice, but I see it. The others move now because of him. Thor’s presence—wherever he is—will rally the fools who wavered. He is not just alive. He is dangerous, and I need strength.”

“No,” Loki said.

It was soft. Final.

Her lips curled. “No?”

“You’re already overextended,” he replied. “If I gave you more, you’d waste it flinging half-dead corpses at an enemy who now knows where to strike. You failed to even watch Thor. Now that he has escaped your watch, I can’t be certain if or when he will come back. I’ve allowed you your foothold. I will not let you rule through it.”

“You’d rather let them undo everything we planned?”

“We planned balance,” Loki snapped. “Not conquest. Not chaos. You said you would stay out of sight. Operate in shadow. Not raise a banner above the graves and announce to them our partnership.”

Hela’s smile thinned. “Plans change.”

“No,” Loki said again. “Only patience runs thin.”

She moved closer—too close. Her shadow licked along the floor like smoke, her voice low and coiled. “And what of your patience, little brother? You cling to a throne maintained through silence and fear, while coddling a child and pretending to be soft as though he were your redemption. As though SENTIMENT might unmake what you've done.”

Loki’s jaw tightened.

Hela’s eyes glinted. “Did you think I didn’t know? That I wouldn’t be curious about what was causing you to fray at the ends? Your spawn wandering these halls like some unanswered prayer. It’s pathetic, really.”

A beat.

The temperature dropped. She smiled. “I let you play your little game. I said nothing. But tell me, how long do you think that boy will stay soft? How long before he stops looking up at you and starts asking what’s buried beneath all this pageantry? And when he does… when he learns the truth… what then?”

When Loki didn’t respond, she tilted her head deliberately. “He’s a sharp little thing. Already suspects something. Wouldn’t take much. A whisper here. A truth there. And suddenly, your sweet heir isn’t looking to sit beside your throne... but away from it.”

Her voice almost softened now to a whisper. “One could almost say,” she started slowly, “That you are not unlike Odin…”

There it was. The flicker. The fracture. A crack behind Loki’s mask, quick and cold—but Hela saw it. Drank it in like wine.

“I will not give you more,” Loki said, voice frostily cold. “And should you threaten me again, you’ll learn just how little tolerance I have left for your schemes.”

Silence.

Then Hela’s voice, low and bitter, carved through it like a knife. “You forget who helped put you on that throne.”

“I forget nothing,” Loki said. “Especially you.”

A long silence hung between them. Neither moved.

“Three days,” Hela said, breaking it. “Three days I will give you to pull yourself together, little brother. And if by the final dusk, I see no sign of spine nor storm… I will act. Whether by whisper or blade, history will move. And you will not like the shape it takes.”

The words didn’t name a target. They didn’t have to. She had given him no detail. No hint. Which made it worse. Because Loki knew her. When Hela threatened nothing specific, it was never because she didn’t have something in mind. It was because she had too many things in mind. He wouldn’t know what she’d chosen until it was already bleeding. With a flick of her wrist and a gleam of her ghostly cloak, she turned and vanished into shadow—leaving no door open behind her. The silence that followed was not peace. It was pressure, like a held breath that will someday break.

And Loki, standing alone in the cooling chamber, did not move. Only when the silence grew heavy—when even the fire seemed to dim in fear of what had just passed—did he shift. His hand slipped into his pocket. Slowly. Deliberately. And withdrew a parchment. He unfolded it. His name stared back at him.

“Loki Laufeyson.”

Still written in crooked letters. Still ringed in stars. Still spelled out by a hand too small for war. Still unknowing.

(But for how long?)

/ / /

Before the strike of dawn, Loki moved unseen. Beneath Asgard’s foundation—deeper than tombs, deeper than memory— lay a hidden chamber nestled in the half-living roots of what was once Yggdrasil. Here, old sap still pulsed like a slow, eternal breath. And at the center, cradled in coiled roots and faintly thrumming stone, stood a mirror; a device Loki had crafted himself during his study of Chronovium— something that would allow him to see the timelines with much better ease. It didn’t reflect. Not truly. Its surface writhed like obsidian seen through a breath-fogged window, fractured with silvery veins that shimmered too fast to follow. It was not a mirror of the self. But a mirror of possibilities. Of echoing constants.

Loki had not returned here in weeks. Not since the first time he pressed his hand to it and bled. Now, he stood before it again. He raised a hand. The moment his fingers met the glass, it bit him— subtly. Silently. The sting was slight, but blood welled instantly, and the mirror drank it in. A low hum reverberated through the stone like a sound remembered rather than heard. And the mirror awoke. A thousand versions of himself flickered in its surface, but he ignored them. He reached deeper.

Show me what endures, he thought.

(Show me what remains, even when everything else falls).

The images shimmered, blurred. Loki narrowed his eyes. And within the mirror, he saw a golden hall in ruins, flames licking the bones of green and gold banners. A boy, cloaked in shadow, pulling away from him with fear in his eyes. Hela crowned in smoke, sitting upon the throne. Thor, gazing at him with a heartbroken expression as he lifted Mjölnir to strike him.

Sif, bound in chains, glaring at him with hate— yet in other visions, she was free, her hair unbound, her voice low as she spoke to warriors in crimson and silver, issuing orders to recall the Crimson Hawks and summon the Valkyrior. And beside her, again and again and again, Heimdall.

Different garbs. Different realms. Sometimes they stood together at the head of an army, steel in their eyes. Sometimes they turned their backs to him, their whispers unbroken as he raged unheard. In some visions, he crossed blades with them; in others, they slipped like smoke through the ranks of loyalists, rallying those who would not bend. But in every flicker, one constant remained: they endured. Together.

In one timeline, Heimdall stood in a ruined field where the Bifrost once shone, speaking to Sif and a ragtag band of soldiers—faces unfamiliar, but marked by loyalty. In another, Sif pressed a hand to Heimdall’s arm as he passed something small—metal, glinting, a sigil—into the palm of a cloaked youth before vanishing into mist. And in another, the clearest of all, Sif stood with sword unsheathed at the shattered throne while Heimdall knelt, whispering a mournful vow Loki could not hear. Behind them, the Crimson Hawks and Valkyrior stood united.

They were not traitors, not conspirators, but believers. Ones who stood for something older than kings. Loki’s hand curled slowly against the glass, blood rising in a thin smear across his palm.

“Of course,” he whispered.

They weren’t rebelling against him, not truly. They were rebelling against a vision. A vision Loki had been shaping in secret, forged from necessity and something else alike. Their allegiance had always been to the realm, and Loki?He had become something else.

(A guardian of survival).

(Even if it meant playing the role he must play).

(Even if it meant doing monstrous things).

(Even if it meant striking first with absolutely no mercy).

He closed his hand into a fist, blood cooling in his palm.

So—

They would not stop. Not because they hated him, but because they believed— and that made them infinitely more dangerous.

The mirror dimmed, and Loki turned away, plans already forming behind his eyes. He would call for a summit; a show of diplomacy. Invite Sif and Heimdall. And then, he would lay a trap so carefully spun, not even Heimdall’s sight would catch it until it was too late. He had the means. The Chronovium he had slowly and carefully harvested from the roots of Yggdrasil shimmered in cold, obedient abundance.

(He told himself it was for the realm’s safety).

(He told himself it wasn’t personal).

But beneath the rationalizations, something twisted. A thread of regret, tightly wound and hidden from view. He pushed it away. Buried that feeling deep in an impenetrable fortress. He would do what he must, because that’s what kings did— even if it meant breaking the two gazes he had never truly been able to slip past.

/ / /

The rest of the day passed in a blur of motion sharpened by intent. By first light, Loki had summoned the inner ministers of court to an unscheduled assembly—no warning, no explanation, just a wordless message stamped with his seal. They arrived confused, robed hastily, their hair still damp from sleep and their expressions sharp with unease. Some arrived late. None arrived unarmed.

Loki greeted them with calm precision, already seated at the head of the chamber as though the night had not ended for him. He gave no preamble. No warmth. Only a cold recitation of necessity. He spoke of recent disturbances in the outer provinces. Of shifting allegiances. Of whispers threading through the barracks like rot. And then, in one smooth breath, announced a formal summit— ostensibly to “reaffirm unity” in the wake of potential unrest. Not all were convinced, but none dared challenge him outright. Instead, the murmurs began to circulate—softly at first, like smoke in a closed room.

“Why the urgency?”

“Why Sif? Why Heimdall?”

“Why now?”

Loki offered half-truths with surgical ease. Too vague to dissect. Too neat to dismiss. He mentioned reports of untraceable missives passed through the northern watchtowers. Names that reappeared too often in the patrol rosters. Movements that didn’t match their orders. He gestured to patterns only he seemed able to see. He alluded to intercepted communications—details fogged, origins unclear, all conveniently unverifiable. The council asked questions and Loki gave answers. They weren’t always the same, but they were always enough. And when one voice—too bold, too naive—suggested it might be prudent to speak to Heimdall and Sif directly, Loki merely arched a brow and asked, “And if they are the leaks?” 

That ended the discussion.

By noon, the royal scribes were drafting invitations wrapped in silk and veiled threat. Every word crafted to sound like diplomacy. Every seal placed as if it were a warning. The royal guards began quiet preparations for an audience that would, outwardly, appear civil: polishing the floor tiles, setting the guard rotations, inspecting the feastware. Only a select few knew that beneath the stage of reconciliation, traps had been laid– enchantments hidden in the thresholds, restraints tucked behind the banners, arcane contingencies whispered to the palace sentries. And still, despite all the noise, Loki moved like a man unbothered. To the outer court, he was composed. Serene. A king tending to the affairs of state. But behind closed doors, he was something else entirely.

(A man who would burn every bridge to keep the realm standing. A schemer who told himself that SENTIMENT was a luxury for men with nothing to lose. A monster by choice, if that’s what survival demanded).

The surveillance enchantments were woven into the Bifrost Hall’s stonework by his own hand– quietly, precisely, without fanfare. He didn’t delegate. He didn’t trust anyone else to get it right. Not this time. Not when the risk was so precise. So personal.

Everything had been set in motion.

Everything except one thing. He had not yet seen the boy today.

The day had unraveled in hours of calculation, deception, and strategy—every corridor echoing with the footfalls of summoned messengers, every corner of the court quietly bending toward the summit he had set into motion. And yet, amid the orchestrated chaos of power and pretense, there remained that thought like a pebble in his boot: He made an effort to see Nari at least once every day.

(That wasn’t SENTIMENT. That wasn’t some misguided urge to give the boy what Odin never gave him. It was strategy. It was about presence- maintaining authority in ways that could not be questioned, about keeping a close watch on someone whose safety mattered).

(That was all).

(That was all).

It wasn’t until the fourth bell rang– low and resonant through the high towers– that Loki slipped away from the war room and stepped into the marble colonnade that bordered the western training yard. The air out here was different. Less suffocating. It smelled of dust and sap and grass, of sweat and wood polish and faintly of youth. Steel clashed faintly from the senior yards beyond, but here—within the inner ring—was only the soft rhythm of discipline being shaped into muscle.

There were no crowds. This wasn’t a public drill. Loki had made certain of that. Just a handful of students in one corner, their training tunics loose around their shoulders, their wooden practice swords clumsy in their grip. And in another corner: a private lesson. At the far edge of the ring stood Nari. The smallest. The palest. His tunic too long in the sleeves, his boots a touch too large. But his posture was serious—shoulders squared, chin lifted, arms stiff with determination. His brow furrowed in intense concentration as he mimicked his instructor’s movements.

It had taken considerable effort to secure this tutor.

The man was no fool, and no sycophant. He had trained the children of the royal guard, not princes. But he had agreed—reluctantly—to teach Nari after a quiet word from Loki and a hefty purse sealed in wax. That, and the strange condition Nari had insisted upon during a dinner one night: that he be taught because he had made a pact.

“A promise,” Nari had said with wide, determined eyes. “To Mister Volstagg. Learn the sword in exchange for a book from Vanaheim. A real storybook, Father.”

Loki hadn’t argued. He had honored the boy’s pact, and so he found the best man available. And now? Now he watched from behind a marble column, cloaked in silence, his presence unseen. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loud. Just watched. Nari’s grip was awkward. His swings wild. He was trying too hard. That was the first thing Loki noticed—elbows locked, shoulders tight, every movement fueled more by sheer will than understanding. Just like he had been, once.

Back when he too had stood in these same yards—smaller than the others, paler, always told to hold the sword higher, straighter, better. He’d trained beside Thor then, and where Thor had thrived under weight and form and brute precision, Loki had stumbled. Thin wrists. Too much wrist. Not enough follow-through. Not enough force.

“Daggers suit your type better,” one instructor had muttered.

“Trickery suits you best,” Odin had said when Loki came to him for reassurance.

(And that… That—)

Loki blinked. The memory was forming teeth. Too close. He let it slide back into the dark before it could take shape. Nari was not him. Not exactly, but close enough that it caused something to stir in his chest. His gaze sharpened as he watched the boy tumble sideways from an over-correction. The instructor reached out–firm but not unkind— and gently adjusted the angle of his stance. Nari nodded, serious. Then gritted his teeth and tried again. And this time, he hit the target: a soft thwack against the padded dummy’s ribs. Not elegant nor clean, but real. The sound echoed in the still air. And Nari—

He smiled.

Loki felt something tighten in his chest. Not pain. Not pride. Something stranger. Something quieter. Like the brief glint of light in a closed room; too fleeting to name. He began to turn away. But just before he did, Nari’s head lifted, and they met eyes. Loki froze, half in shadow. And the boy, without hesitation, lifted a hand and waved. Just once. Not urgently. Not to demand attention. Just to say, “I see you.”

At first, Loki didn’t move. But something in his expression shifted— barely. A breath, a flicker. Then, slow and deliberate, he raised two fingers in return. Not quite a wave. More a gesture of acknowledgment. Of… presence.

"I see you too."

And then it was over. With practiced quiet, he turned and slipped back into the halls. Back to the throne. Back to the lie. Back to the summit he thought would save him. Back to the trap they wouldn’t see until it was too late. Because Loki had seen what the mirror bled.

And the God of Mischief leaves nothing to chance.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

Loki went out of his way to collect Nari after the lesson ended. He initially hadn’t intended to. That morning, he’d told himself there would be no time. That it would raise questions if he slipped from war councils and briefings just to fetch a child from the training yard. But now, as the sun slanted low through the golden arches of the western colonnade, Loki was already there.

Waiting.

Nari didn’t notice him at first—too caught up in thanking the instructor, too busy brushing dust from his training tunic sleeves and adjusting Fenrir’s position under his arm. But when he looked up and saw Loki in the archway, a small burst of surprise lit his face. Not delight. Not awe.

Just surprise. And then something softer.

He fell into step beside Loki as they began the slow walk back toward his temporary room.

“How did it go?” Loki asked, casually. Intentionally.

Nari looked up, his expression brightening. “I hit the target twice!”

“Did you?” Loki kept his voice neutral, but his gaze flicked sideways, sharp. Measuring.

“Mhm,” Nari nodded. “The first one was sort of a miss that still counted. The second one was better. And Sir Bjorn said I fixed my footwork all by myself. He says I have potential.”

Loki made a noncommittal sound. “Impressive.”

Nari glanced at him, as if to gauge whether the compliment was real. “He’s really good, you know. Sir Bjorn. I thought he was going to be mean.”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Loki replied mildly. “I paid him too much to allow for cruelty.”

That made Nari snort. “Is that how you get people to be nice? You just pay them a lot?”

“No,” Loki said. “But it helps.”

They walked a moment longer in comfortable silence, passing between high-glassed corridors and muraled halls (That mostly featured murals of Loki himself). The bustle of palace life drifted somewhere behind them—faint clinks of armor, the scuff of boots, a servant’s laugh hastily silenced. But here, in this narrow bridge between chambers, the world felt briefly still.

Nari’s footsteps slowed. He looked ahead, then tilted his head toward Loki.

“Do you know when my room will be done?” Loki didn’t miss the way he said it: my room. Not guest room. Not borrowed space.

He nodded. “Soon. Renovations may have been expedited, but perfection takes time, and I intend it to be perfect.”

“For me?” Nari asked. Hopeful.

“For you,” Loki confirmed. “Only the best.”

That seemed to settle something. Nari gave a small nod, his grip tightening on Fenrir. But after a few paces, his brow furrowed again. That same thoughtful look again. The boy opened his mouth as if he were going to say something, then closed it. Loki noticed immediately.

“Is something the matter?”

Nari blinked. “Huh?”

“You’re thinking something,” Loki said, more a statement than a question. “What is it?"

“Oh. Nothing.”

Loki arched a brow. “Try again.”

Nari hesitated. “I... uhm... was going to say something, but… I forgot. That’s all.”

Loki regarded him a moment longer—his gaze steady, unreadable. He could feel the tension building under the surface, the slow, inevitable pull of tomorrow’s game. Of the trap he’d spun thread by thread. But just for now, just for this moment, he let it go. “You can tell me when you remember later, then,” he said quietly.

Nari nodded, satisfied with that.

They continued walking. After a few paces, Loki spoke again, tone casual but edged with purpose. “You’ll see Bjorn again tomorrow. I expect you to attend.”

Nari glanced up at him. “Tomorrow? I thought I didn't—?”

“It will do you good,” Loki interrupted, smooth and final. “Give you a clear head and strong footing. And it will keep you from… wandering into places you shouldn’t.”

The words were wrapped in lightness, almost like advice, but the weight behind them was deliberate. Nari gave a small, reluctant nod, though the faintest crease lingered between his brows.

“Good,” Loki said, as though the matter were settled. “We understand each other, then.”

They walked on.

/ / /

That evening, Loki sat at his desk, a book half-read and abandoned beside him. Its pages fanned slightly from where his thumb had pressed too hard. The words within were unimportant. Before him, centered with the kind of absentminded care that suggested it had been touched more often than necessary, lay the parchment with Nari’s handwriting.

Loki Laufeyson, it still said.

(He shouldn’t have been carrying it with him all day).

(Because it shouldn’t have mattered).

(Because the boy himself shouldn’t have mattered—he was no soldier, no strategist, no asset. Only a liability. A weakness that would be exploited if given half a chance).

(And yet here it was. And it mattered.)

(He told himself it didn’t).

He was still staring at it when a flicker of movement in the doorway made him glance up. Nari stood there, sleep-ruffled, soft-eyed, and half-swallowed by an oversized robe. Fenrir hung limply beneath one arm, the wolf’s mended seams visible in the firelight. The boy blinked, then stepped forward without hesitation. Loki raised a brow. “Is everything alright?”

“I forgot something.”

“Oh?” He gestured faintly toward the desk. “I believe you left something already.”

Nari’s gaze dropped to the parchment. A small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth, and he giggled a bit. “No… I told you you could keep that! I meant…The thing I forgot to say. That something from earlier today. I remembered it.”

Loki said nothing. Just waited.

The boy took a few more steps in, peering up at him with that open, careful expression he always wore when something mattered. “It was important. I… can’t sleep until I say it.”

Loki’s voice, when it came, was calm and measured. “Then you may say it now.”

Nari hesitated. Then, quietly, “At the garden… When you promised to have my room finished faster— you also told me… that you wouldn’t disappear.” The words landed too softly to be a threat. But they still struck. “You said you’d never go without a reason. That I wouldn’t wake up and find you gone.”

Loki’s face did not change. But something in his shoulders stilled.

Nari hugged Fenrir closer, shuffling his feet. “I remembered that today. And… um… if you ever need something… you can tell me too.” He peeked up quickly, then looked down again. “I don’t know if I’d be much help, but I’d try. ’Cause… you’ve been really good to me. And I just… I wanna be good to you.”

Loki stared at him. Useless in war, powerless in politics, the boy could offer him nothing that would protect a throne or hold a realm together. And yet, here he was, offering all of himself as if that were enough. And gods help him, Loki found himself treating it as if it were.

Slowly—very slowly—he reached for the parchment, folded it once, and then again into quarters. He slid it into the pocket of his coat without a word.

“…Noted,” he said at last.

Nari nodded, satisfied. “Goodnight, Father.”

“Goodnight.”

The door clicked gently behind him as he left, and then Loki sat in silence again.

For longer this time.

He did not reach for the book. Did not look at the desk. Did not look at the parchment he had pocketed. His eyes had gone distant—not lost , just… elsewhere. As if listening for something that hadn’t arrived yet.

Tomorrow, Loki would lie with every breath to keep himself from bleeding. But tonight? Tonight he stayed seated. Still. Silent. A man with shaking hands—hands that shook not from rage, but from the disquieting truth that SENTIMENT could still move him.

/ / /

The throne room had been transformed.

Tall braziers lined the marble path in perfect symmetry, their flames dancing green-gold in enchanted stillness, casting long shadows that bent like whispering phantoms across the floor. The banners overhead fluttered softly—peaceful in theory, but too pristine. Too deliberate. The silence between their folds felt taut, like a held breath before a blade.

At the far end of the hall, the throne blazed with divine light. Carved from gold-veined stone and draped in authority, it sat elevated—untouchable—beneath a domed skylight that funneled the morning light like the eye of a god. The back of the seat rose like the sun itself, flanked by ornate armrests shaped like celestial sigils.

It was beautiful. Overpowering. Worthy. Intentionally so. And Loki sat upon it. One leg drawn across the other. One hand cradling his chin with absent poise. The other resting casually against his ornate, Chronovium-infused scepter. His cloak fell in green folds across the dais, a perfect match to the banners above—but his expression bore no warmth. No invitation. Only composure so precise it bordered on sculpted.

He had been waiting.

The guards along the perimeter stood motionless, ceremonial in placement but excessive in number. Their spears were polished. Their gazes blank. But they had not been positioned for mere display. Loki had arranged them. Every post. Every blade. Every visible angle a message. This was not a council. This was judgment dressed as diplomacy. The great doors opened without fanfare.

Sif stepped through first. Her armor had been polished, but not for vanity. It bore scuffs, subtle dents. A soldier’s shine. She walked with the air of someone who had no time for ceremony—but understood the game well enough to play it. Heimdall followed. He wore no sword, no helm. His gaze, golden and quiet, scanned every inch of the room before taking a single step beyond the threshold. He did not flinch at the guards. Did not slow at the sight of the throne. He merely walked, deliberate as time. And between them, Loki saw him: a smaller figure clutching something to his chest.

Nari.

He was in his training tunic—too informal for the setting, and his hair was gently combed back, though one piece still curled rebelliously by his brow. And in his arms, held with the reverence of something rare and hard-won, was a thick, leather-bound volume stamped in gold:The Tales of Vanaheim.

Volstagg’s promised gift. The sight of it landed like a blow, and worse: he looked excited to be here. Loki’s eyes narrowed just slightly. He had specifically arranged for Nari’s sword lesson to occur during the summit. Had praised Nari’s progress the previous day, had encouraged him to attend without distraction for the sole purpose of making him excited to attend. Everything—everything—had been built around that simple contingency: Keep the boy away. Keep him unaware. Keep him out of the way.

But now—Now Nari was beaming, standing in the middle of the hall like a misplaced kindness in a field of knives. He looked directly at Loki and waved, holding up his shiny new book as if it were the second most precious thing he ever had. Loki didn’t return the wave. Not visibly.

He simply dipped his chin in the faintest motion of acknowledgment, careful not to let his jaw tighten. But he felt it anyway—the heat rising behind his ribs. Not panic. No. Something colder. Something darker. Sif’s eyes met his. There was no triumph in her expression. Only an infuriating softness. A maternal sort of smugness that knew exactly what she was doing. She tilted her head—almost imperceptibly—and stared. Not at Nari, but at him.

It was the kind of look that said: He asked to come.

The kind that said: I didn’t bring him against his will.

The kind that said: What are you going to do now, Loki?

His hands stayed relaxed on the throne. His posture unchanged. His breathing steady. But deep down, something in him screamed.

Of course they bring him with them.

Of course they wouldn’t make this easy.

Of course the plan wouldn’t go untouched.

Nari was supposed to be at his lesson. Nari was not supposed to be here. And yet here he stood, proud and oblivious, murmuring something to Sif as he clutched his book reverently. She bent slightly to listen, her hand brushing his shoulder as she answered. The image of it—her hand on Nari, the concern she had for him—made something flash behind Loki’s eyes.

He would not flinch. He would not falter. He was the God of Mischief, a king of strategy, a tactician so thorough he had rewritten the boundaries of fate with sleight of hand alone. But... This was no longer the summit he had designed. This was no longer the play he had scripted. A wild card now stood at the center of the board, smiling like a child too young to know he had just stepped into a trap. Loki leaned forward slightly, fingers steepling as the guards announced the “esteemed guests” of the realm.

He did not look at Sif, but he would remember the shape of her smile. She will pay for this.

She and Heimdall exchanged a glance then stepped forward in unison, their movements deliberate, yet measured. Nari trailed between them, whispering something to Sif again—something innocent, no doubt—but Loki’s ears rang too loudly with anticipation to hear. Heimdall’s gaze swept the chamber again before settling on Loki. Their eyes met—briefly. Just long enough to acknowledge one another as opposing forces in a game neither of them had wanted to play. Heimdall did not bow. He did not smile, but he inclined his head—an old gesture, weighted with meaning.

And then Nari, caught between them, broke the tension without even knowing it. “This is the throne room?” the boy asked, eyes wide with curiosity. “It’s… so much bigger than I thought it would be.”

A few of the guards exchanged stiff glances. One even smiled, then quickly straightened. Loki said nothing, but his fingers tensed around the curve of his scepter.

“I told him he could attend,” Sif said lightly, already stating the obvious. Her voice rose just enough to be heard, yet delivered with mock-casual grace. “He stumbled across us in the hall and seemed curious. I didn’t think you'd mind.” Loki did not look at her. His eyes remained on the boy, whose attention had already drifted to the towering murals on the walls.

“Curious,” Loki echoed, voice flat.

Nari didn’t seem to hear the chill in it. Or if he did, he might have mistook it for something else. He was craning his neck toward one of the nearby braziers. “Is the green fire enchanted?” he asked Sif in a hushed voice, loud enough to carry. “It smells like cedar and… something else.”

“Basilisk oil,” Heimdall answered, his tone as calm as ever. “A ceremonial mixture. Reserved for binding oaths and royal rites.”

“What’s a basilisk?” Nari asked. Then he hesitated, his expression shifting as a thought struck him. His wide eyes lifted to Loki. “Wait... Is someone getting MARRIED?!”

A few stifled coughs echoed from the back of the room. One of the scribes blinked rapidly, unsure whether to be amused or horrified.

“No,” Loki said. The word dropped like an icicle. “No one is getting married.”

“Oh.” Nari tilted his head, puzzled. “Then may I ask what the oaths are for?”

“Nari,” Sif interjected gently, her voice low and warm—unable to be heard by anyone else but Loki and Heimdall. “You’re a smart boy, and we know you mean well, but this is a formal gathering. I know you’re curious, and that’s good, but in places like this, it’s important to listen first. Watch. Speak only when you are spoken to.”

Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder, and her tone—though soft—carried the weight of someone trying to protect, not scold. She glanced toward Loki, then back at the boy, offering a brief, reassuring smile. “It’s good that you want to be part of this, but listening is part of being brave too.”

Nari blinked up at her, absorbing the words. Then looked at Loki.

“I’d… like to stay here,” He said, stepping a little closer to the center of the floor. “If that’s okay?”

There was a flicker in his eyes—something that said he knew, at least a little, that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. That his tutor was still waiting for him, and that his lesson should be happening right now. But he hugged the book tighter to his chest, squared his shoulders, and added, more firmly, “I just thought… since I’m a… a ‘ prince’, I should learn what you do. By watching. Listening.”

The words landed not with arrogance, but with earnestness. As if he'd genuinely thought it through. As if this, sitting here quietly and learning how to rule, was the more important lesson.

Sif and Heimdall exchanged a long, long glance, their expressions breaking only slightly. But Loki’s expression didn’t shift. He could have sent Nari away. He could have snapped his fingers, summoned the Einjerhar, and had the boy removed immediately. And yet—he didn’t. He couldn’t. Because that was the game Sif had laid before him. She was using him. Using the weakness she had already named to his face: the boy he had once sworn not to care for, but now could not bear to see made a pawn.

If he dismissed Nari now, with half the court watching and scribes already whispering, it would mean something. It would suggest fear. Guilt. Weakness. And she knew it. She’d brought the boy as a weapon. Not of violence, but of optics. Not of narrative, but of SENTIMENT. And Loki had no defense against SENTIMENT. Not in this room. Not with that boy.

He gestured faintly—permissively, regally. “You may remain where you like. So long as you remain quiet.”

Nari nodded once. “I will.”

And he meant it. Loki could tell. He meant it with the full, solemn gravity of a child given responsibility for the first time. He held his book tighter, carefully padding toward Loki, and sitting himself cross-legged on one of the polished steps at the base of the dais, just to the right of the throne. Just there enough to be present, but not present enough to be in the way. But it was close.

Too close.

Loki's jaw flexed once, so subtly it could be mistaken for thought. But inside, he was re-calibrating. Rebuilding. One thread at a time. He turned finally to Sif and Heimdall, fixing them with a gaze colder than the wastelands of Jotunheim.

“You were not expected to bring guests,” he said.

Sif didn’t blink. Only raised a brow. “We brought no guests. Nari is kin.”

Loki did not rise. He didn’t need to. The weight of his presence was enough. “This summit is a matter of state. I had intended it to remain… precise.”

“Then perhaps you should’ve made your intentions clearer,” Heimdall replied. The room shifted with that. Just slightly. Like the lean of a ship before the wave breaks.

Loki stared at him, long and hard. And then he smiled. It was not a warm smile. It was the kind of smile one might find carved into a stone coffin—inscrutable, ornamental, and not meant for comfort.

“Ah,” he murmured. “But clarity, I’ve found, is often a luxury reserved for those not weaving lies.”

He rose at last. The motion was fluid. Effortless. But the air changed when he stood, as though the throne itself had released something it had been holding.

He descended one step

Two.

Stopped.

His gaze swept the room—briefly grazing Nari’s form before moving on. “Let us begin,” he said, voice smooth as silk stretched over glass. “Since we are all, unexpectedly, present.” And then, with the poise of a man who had prepared for every contingency but was already rewriting the rules, Loki spoke.

“My thanks to you both,” he said, lifting his gaze toward Heimdall and Sif. “For coming on such… short notice.”

He let the pause linger. It was not a genuine thank you. It was a test. A step into the snare.

“We live to serve,” Sif replied coolly.

“A dangerous thing to say in these times,” Loki mused. “When oaths mean less than actions, and silence speaks more than words.” He circled the base of the dais once, his footsteps echoing through the silent hall. “Which brings us to the reason you are here.”

He waved his hand, and a green shimmer swept through the air—subtle to most eyes, but heavy with power. Behind him, the braziers flared taller for a moment. A hum whispered along the floor as a veil—amplified by Chronovium itself—slid quietly into place. Not visible. Not obvious. But real. Enough to scramble even Heimdall’s sight. He could feel it settle like mist across the corners of the chamber. Just enough distortion to rewrite the truth. Just enough misdirection to turn prophecy into paranoia. Sif shifted, just slightly. She felt it. Not the magic, perhaps—but the trap closing.

He turned toward them again, his voice smooth. “There have been… movements. Unusual ones. Entire units, drawn from the outer fronts. The Crimson Hawks. The Valkyrior. Called back without order or cause.”

Silence. Sif didn’t flinch. Heimdall did not blink.

“Care to explain?” Loki finally said.

More silence. Then Sif stepped forward, her armor gleaming. “We recalled our own. We were not forbidden.”

“You did not inform the crown.”

“We did not intend to betray it,” she said. “Those warriors were dying. They deserved to return.”

“To abandon their post,” Loki said, sharply.

“To survive,” Heimdall countered.

There it was. The moment. Loki let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “And how long have you been organizing this effort instead of being at your assigned post in Vanaheim?”

Sif said nothing. Her jaw tightened. She knew he knew.

“I have records,” Loki said. “Summons—disguised as emergency reroutes. Messages sent in code from temple posts across three provinces. A pattern I painstakingly uncovered myself.”

He gestured again, and this time, an illusion sprang fully to life. Hovering in the air between them bloomed a soft Chronovium haze—projected illusions of the missives he’d painfully intercepted the morning before. Dozens of them, rendered in golden script, glowing faintly above the floor. Names. Orders. Times. Everything arranged. As if it had always been waiting to be revealed. It was not proof. Not truly. But it was enough to look like it. And that was all Loki needed.

Gasps rose from the scribes. Even some of the guards shifted in place.

Sif's jaw set. “You forged these.”

Heimdall spoke at the same time: “Clever.”

But Loki did not smile. He let the illusion hang. Let it sting. “I sought truth,” he said softly. “And what I found was betrayal dressed as mercy.”

Sif stepped forward—not rashly, not recklessly, but like someone stepping into fire on purpose. “And what of your alliances, Loki?” Her voice was steady, low. “Shall we speak of mercy there?”

Loki’s eyes flicked toward her. She held his gaze. “We know, Loki,” she said quietly. “We know who steadies your borders. Who you’ve given our lands to. Who made your enemies retreat without war. Who helped put you on that throne. Who helped you do away with Thor.” At the mention of Thor, a few scribes hesitated in their writing. One even paused mid-stroke, quill trembling faintly. The guards lining the chamber didn’t move, but something in their stances shifted—subtle, silent, like soldiers holding back a breath they didn’t know they were still taking. Not defiance. Not yet. But memory, drawn like a blade still sheathed. Thor's name still held weight in Loki’s Asgard.

Heimdall’s eyes remained fixed on Loki. “Even Death has terms,” he said. “And yet, you remain negotiating with her.” There it was. The name not said. The presence not named. A ripple passed through the chamber. No one else had known. Not the scribes, not the guards, not the councilors standing in their gold-threaded robes. The silence that followed was not just tense—it was stunned. Hela. That Hela . The one mothers warned of in nursery tales. The one whispered of in wartime prayers. And Loki—their king—had struck a bargain with her?

And still, Loki said nothing.

“There are whispers,” Sif said. “Too many to ignore..”

Loki’s grip tightened on his scepter, and behind him, just below the throne, he felt a shift.

Nari.

The boy had been silent, just as asked. But now he was watching—really watching. His fingers clutched his book tighter. His gaze flicked not toward the floating illusions, but toward Loki’s face. And Loki felt it: the weight of it. The quiet scrutiny of a child who really knew him. Really knew his name. Really knew how to write it. Really knew how to read him.

(More than anybody had ever put the effort into doing—).

Nari clutched his book tighter. His eyes didn’t leave him. And Loki knew what his son saw. Not a speech. Not a spell. Not justice.

Just Loki.

Loki Laufeyson. Cold, peculiar, monstrous, devious Loki. The real Loki. Dressed in green, gold, and midnight blue. Dressed in cedar-smoke and promises of betrayal. Dressed in mercy. Mercifully, Nari did not speak. Loki turned back toward the illusion, let the lights dim. His voice, when it came, was frosty and final. “Sif. Heimdall. For this treachery, I should see you both detained. Trialed.”

Sif’s nostrils flared, her gaze flicking between Nari and Loki. “For protecting Asgard? For refusing to bow to your fear? For doing what your brother would have done?”

The words hit like ice. A breath passed between them. But Loki smiled again. Cold and monstrous. “Thor is not your king.” And then, more softly, “I am.”

“No. You are not my king,” Sif said.

It was almost funny, the way she said it. No grand declaration. No sword raised. Just quiet, vicious certainty, like she'd been waiting to say it for years. Not just to the man on the throne now, but to the boy she once fought beside. The “friend” she’d never quite trusted. The monster she’d always feared he'd become. And now, with all the veils torn down, she wasn’t even pretending anymore.

(Good. Let her hate him honestly).

“You betrayed Asgard the moment you usurped the throne. You are the real traitor,” she continued quietly, hatred burning in her gaze.

Out of the corner of his eye, Loki saw Nari flinch. Just barely—but enough. His small hands curled tightly in his lap, eyes fixed on the floor as if trying to disappear into it. There was no defiance in him now. Only quiet confusion. Hurt. Like he was watching something he didn’t have the words for yet. Loki didn’t let himself look twice. Didn’t let himself feel it. This was necessary. This was what had to be done. The realm could not afford SENTIMENT. Not here. Not now. So he swallowed whatever cracked behind his ribs.

(Nothing. He feels NOTHING).

He turned and strode back toward the throne, letting the silence sit like iron. “Let the records show,” he said, “that treason is met not with execution, but with grace.” He slowly sat, his fingers resting boredly on his temple. “Your king is merciful, after all.”

It was the lie that sealed the scene. A mercy that wasn’t mercy at all. Just power. Pure, raw, worthy power. The golden doors opened with a soft groan, and the Einherjar entered—four of them, armor gleaming, movements rehearsed. Their spears did not waver as they approached. Sif and Heimdall didn’t fight. Didn’t resist. They stood in unison, regal in defiance, and allowed themselves to be taken. But as they passed the dais, from the corner of Loki’s eye, he saw Nari rise slightly from his seat.

Loki didn’t look directly at him.

(Couldn’t).

It was a small, startled movement. Like he meant to speak. Like he almost asked them not to go. He looked at Sif like she was being taken from him. And Sif—battle-worn, bound in shackles—smiled. Not kindly. But bravely. As if to say, Don’t worry. Everything is going to be okay.

That was the moment it must have hit him, because Nari’s lips parted. His throat worked around a question he didn’t ask. His fingers gripped the edge of his book, knuckles white. His eyes shined with unshed tears. Loki couldn’t bear to face it. Couldn’t bear to admit that this, not the accusations, not the illusions, not the audience—his reaction—was the cost he feared most. He had warned Sif. 

(And Sif, in turn, had warned him—)

Yet, she had let herself be taken anyway. She had let Nari accompany her, and now he had to watch her disappear behind the throne room doors like someone being erased.

Look what you made me do, Sif, he thought, with quiet venom that masked the ache beneath. You knew what I’d do. And you did it anyway.

(It was easier, somehow, to blame her). 

(To let the shape of the wound take her face instead of his own reflection). 

(Easier to believe this was her fault than to face the truth).

(That the boy was watching him).

(And beginning to see).

He let out a short breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. The plan had worked. The trap had closed. He had won. And yet—

From the corner of his eye, he saw Nari still sitting stiffly, too perfect. Too good. The book was hugged to his chest now, clutching it like a shield against the monster sitting close by.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

In the morning following the summit, Loki had been methodical. Efficient. Unrelenting. He signed off on a dozen new border reinforcements, personally rewrote the mandates that would bar any Crimson Hawk or Valkyrior from returning without direct clearance from the throne, found a replacement for Heimdall, and summoned the Keepers of the Northern Gates for re-oath. Sif and Heimdall had been placed in separate chambers deep within the dungeon, where daylight did not reach, and where silence echoed too easily. They were not harmed. They were not questioned. But they were, without mistake, contained. And so, too, was their accusation. What they had dared to speak of in the summit—the matter of Hela—was quietly branded a falsehood, a desperate attempt from traitors to fracture unity. Any further mention of it was pressed down beneath the weight of law, decree, and fear.

The Warriors Three had made noise, of course. Had stormed to Asgard with their collection of protests. Volstagg had roared about justice and truth and the sanctity of old bonds, but his protests were quelled swiftly. Not through violence, but through precision. Through power. Through the reminder that loyalty without discretion could be called treason under the right illusions. He hadn’t said anything afterwards.

Fandral had spoken next, albeit less loudly, but with sharper edges. A gentleman’s outrage, cloaked in velvet. He’d appealed to reason, to honor, to history. He had not shouted. But his words had cut, and for that, Loki answered not with rebuttal, but with evidence. A carefully conjured vision from the Mirror, showing how even charm could mask sedition. Fandral had left pale-faced and silent.

Hogun said little at all. Just one word, spoken low: “Coward.” Not in front of the court, but later, in passing. It had not shaken Loki. What shook him, though he would never admit it, was how the warrior didn’t linger to argue. Didn’t plead, didn’t fight. Just walked away, as if he already knew this path could not be altered.

By dusk, all three had fallen quiet and had promptly returned to their posts. Not in agreement. But in surrender. Or at the very least, retreat. He’d ensured it himself. And though the halls remained polished and the courtiers bowed low, something had shifted. Servants bowed longer now, too long. Eyes dropped faster. His name was whispered behind closed doors, always followed by silence. Even the Einherjar, those trained to obey without hesitation, had begun to hesitate when he entered. Only slightly, but enough.

He had gained newfound respect with fear. And though fear made kingdoms obey, it did not make sons sit closer at breakfast. It made them more silent than usual. Loki recognized Nari’s recent silences. After all, as he had once sat just as still. The first time had been accidental. A quiet morning when Thor had overslept and Odin, in rare form, had entered the dining hall alone. No pomp. No guards. Just a king and a boy, sitting five seats apart at an unnecessarily long table.

Loki had paused, unsure whether to speak first. So he didn’t. He simply looked down and ate in silence, waiting for his father to address him. To ask how his lessons had gone. To ask about the spell he had practiced the night before. To ask anything. Odin never did. Instead, he ate quickly. With purpose. Not unkind, not cruel. Just… inattentive. As though Loki were another goblet or plate. Something present. Not important. And something in Loki, something fragile and warm and reaching, began to cool.

It wasn’t only the silence that did it. It was the realization, slow and quiet, that much of what he’d been taught as myth—glory, conquest, honor—was written in blood. He had learned not by chance, but because he had sought it out. Thor had been content with tales of triumph, with songs that ended in cheers. Loki had gone further, down into the libraries, into the old scrolls with brittle edges and half-forgotten names. He had traced campaigns across centuries, battle after battle, whole realms swallowed in Odin’s march. Dozens of wars. Hundreds, perhaps. All carved into the golden age of Asgard. And he had borne that knowledge alone. He had not had the heart to tell Thor that their father’s crown was forged not by wisdom or diplomacy, but by blood. By war. By the same man who sat five seats away and said nothing. Odin, who had taught him that a king must never seek war, but always be ready for it. Odin, who had crowned himself the keeper of peace. Odin, who had wiped out entire realms to earn that peace.

So the next day, he did not tell Thor he had enchanted the practice swords to be slightly lighter when held. He did not volunteer a theory about the Ten Realms’ interconnection during breakfast. He did not joke, did not spark illusions, did not speak. He watched. He listened. And he said nothing.

No one noticed.

Frigga had smiled warmly, but didn’t ask why he was quiet. Thor had chattered on. Odin had read a scroll between bites of roasted apple and salted boar. So Loki tried something else. He didn’t finish his breakfast. He nudged the plate forward. Barely touched the mead. The day after, he moved one seat farther away. The day after that, he stopped bringing his notes from his lessons. He used to carry them tucked under his arm, hoping to be asked about them, because he usually was (by Frigga). Instead, he arrived empty-handed, sat straighter, and didn’t speak.

Still, no one asked.

So he made a game of it. How long could he keep the silence without anyone noticing? He went a week. Then two. Then a month. Until silence was no longer a game, but something woven into him. Until he stopped expecting to be noticed at all. Until he stopped trying. Until he forgot. And it wasn’t until Frigga found him late one evening, sitting alone in the corner of the royal library, copying a text on forbidden enchantments by candlelight, that she touched his shoulder and asked softly, “Why don’t you laugh at breakfast anymore?”

He had blinked up at her, startled. It had been weeks. He didn’t know what to say.

“I didn’t realize I had stopped, Mother,” he’d said.

Frigga had kissed his brow and told him he was clever. But she hadn’t said more than that. No one had gone back and filled the silence. No one had acknowledged the reason it began. So he had kept it.

And now, centuries later, he saw that same silence falling over Nari like frost. The boy no longer leaned toward him at breakfast. No longer asked about seiðr or if he could try pouring his own tea. He remained sitting at the same location he always sat, still within arm’s reach, but never reaching. He offered nods instead of questions. Smiles instead of stories. And when Loki asked how his day had been just as he always did—

(Just as he always tried to do, because Odin hadn’t with him—)

—the boy answered with brief one-word replies.

“Good.”

“Fine.”

“I don’t remember.”

Loki told himself it was nothing. The child was tired. Distracted. Perhaps sword training had exhausted him. Perhaps he was simply growing, shedding softness the way all children did eventually.

(But he knew it wasn’t that).

(He knew exactly what he had done to deserve this treatment).

(But he had to remind himself that he had no choice).

(That it was either this, or the destruction of Asgard. And he would rather this, as much as it pained him to admit).

The shift hadn’t begun with a missed meal or a childish tantrum. It had begun the moment Nari had watched Sif disappear in chains. She had been one of the only ones who never looked at him like he was supposed to already understand. Never measured him against his bloodline. Never watched him like he might become something dangerous if left unchecked. She had simply been kind. Firm when needed, but kind. She treated him like a child worth trusting. Not a shadow of his father. And Loki knew it. Had seen how Nari lit up whenever she was mentioned during the days following her departure. How seriously he considered her guidance at the summit. Which was why her absence now carved the first silence.

And since then…

Loki had started to count them.

The second silence came in the training courtyard. Sir Bjorn, dutiful as ever, had been finishing a sparring demonstration when Loki arrived. Nari had been standing at attention, arms folded behind his back, his wooden blade set neatly at his side. At first glance, nothing seemed different. But Loki saw it. The way the boy didn’t immediately brighten when he noticed him. The way his posture stiffened rather than relaxed. The way his lips pulled into a careful, practiced smile instead of the open, eager grin he used to wear.

“My King,” Bjorn saluted, stepping aside. The man had been stiff with him the day prior. Irritated, though too disciplined (afraid) to show it fully. Nari hadn’t come to their scheduled lesson on the morning of the summit, and Bjorn had taken it as a slight. “Respect is built in routine,” he’d said.

So Loki, later that evening, had paid him a nice little visit. He hadn’t apologized (kings didn’t apologize), but he’d spoken plainly of the boy’s potential, of his need for consistency. Of legacy. He’d even asked, quietly, whether Bjorn believed the boy worth training. Bjorn had answered with a nod and no further protest. Loki continued to pay him handsomely. And today, he made sure Nari showed up on time.

“The prince has improved his footwork,” Bjorn said. “Still favors his right side too heavily, but he’s learning to compensate.” 

“Is that true?” Loki asked, eyes sliding to the boy.

Nari nodded, but he wasn’t quite looking at Loki. “A little. I’m working on it.”

“Did you enjoy today’s lesson?”

Another nod. “It was fine.”

Fine. Not “fun.” Not “I liked when Sir Bjorn let me knock his sword away.” Not “ I’m good, aren’t I?”

Just… fine.

Bjorn didn’t seem to notice. But Loki did. He always did.

When Nari followed him, there was no small skip in his step. No glance upward. No idle tug at Loki’s sleeve to ask about what was for dinner, or seiðr, or stories. Just silence.

And Loki counted it. 

The third silence came in the library. Loki had passed by on his way to the Archive, pausing when he saw the boy curled in the window alcove, a thick tome spread open on his knees. Fenrir sitting almost protectively by his side. For a moment, it gave Loki hope. That Nari had retreated here, not in silence, but in harmless curiosity. But then he saw the book’s title.

“Foundations of Seiðr: A Primer.”

It was not the pictures he was looking at. Not the runes. But the footnotes. The annotations. Loki could just make out a page where a small scribble had been made in the margin, not by Nari, but by a former scholar, long dead. The note read: “Illusion must never be mistaken for deception. Intent is the only thing that separates a trick from a lie.”  Nari stared at that line for a long, long time.

He didn’t notice Loki at first. And when he finally did glance up, there was no startle. No wave. No scramble to explain what he was reading. Just a quiet, simple, “...Hi.”

And Loki said nothing. Just stood there, cloaked in shadows and silence. Watching the boy stare at a line he should never have needed to question. And for the first time, he couldn’t bring himself to lie about the validity of that annotation.

The fourth silence came at bedtime. It had been a fairly new ritual, one Saella had gently encouraged after Loki's quiet oust at Frigga’s garden with Nari. Saella had crossed his path on the way back to his quarters, as if she had known where to wait. She did not question him. She did not name what she had possibly bore witness to. She only pressed a cup of tea into his hand as if it belonged there and remarked—quietly, almost absently—that children thrived on routine. That rituals, even small ones, gave them places to stand when the ground shifted. Her gaze lingered a moment too long as she added, softer still, that kings sometimes needed the same.

Loki hadn’t argued then. Not aloud.  But since then, he would voluntarily walk the boy back to his temporary quarters, and Nari would invite him in. They’d speak of dreams and stars, and Nari would ask questions Loki didn’t always have the answers to; questions that usually went long the lines of:

“Do the stars move when we’re not looking?”

“If you could be any animal, which one would you be?”

“When will I be tall enough to reach the top shelf without climbing?”

“How many doors are in the palace?"

"What's harder: using seiðr, or using the sword? Is it possible to use both?"

And Loki, with the patience of someone who refused to admit it was patience, would always answer them as best he could anyway.

“Yes, but very slowly. And only when they think you’re not paying attention.”

“A serpent. They are elegant, underestimated, and can shed their skin when it no longer suits them.”

“Soon enough. Though you may find that once you can reach the top shelf, someone will invent a taller one.”

“Three hundred and twenty-three, not counting the hidden ones. And before you ask—yes, I’ve counted.”

“Neither is harder. Both are merely tools. It is the mind that wields them that matters. And yes, you can master both… if you’re clever enough.”

Most nights, their questions and conversation carried them past the hour until Nari drifted into sleep mid-thought, Fenrir tucked beneath his chin. When his breathing steadied, Loki would rise without sound, leaving as carefully as he had stayed. He told himself that the stir beneath his ribs at the sight of the boy sleeping was not SENTIMENT— only discipline. A routine. Nothing more. But that evening was different. Nari walked several steps ahead without looking back. At the door, he didn’t ask Loki to stay. He simply turned and said— without looking Loki in the eyes, “I... think I’m gonna sleep now. Goodnight...”

It was quiet. Not cold, but final. The door to Nari’s temporary room closed on him, and Loki stood there longer than he should have.

Four silences in one day. All small. All deniable. All invisible to anyone else— but not to him. He stood outside Nari’s door for a moment longer, his hand still loosely curled at his side, as if it might yet rise to knock. But it didn’t. The moment had passed, and he knew better than to chase it. Instead, he turned. Not toward the upper halls, nor the stairwell that led to his study, but down— downward through corridors long-forgotten and torch-lit only by his presence. The enchantments that kept the lower reaches of the palace warm and humming did not extend this deep. The walls turned from marble to rock. The air grew stiller. The silence sharpened. This was not the kind of silence one counted. This was the kind one drowned in. But Loki welcomed it.

He did not hesitate at the sealed archway at the very bottom of the vaults. He pressed his palm to the knot of stone at its center, let his seiðr surge cold and certain into its roots, and felt it open for him. And there it was. The mirror. Nestled in the cradle of Asgard’s buried heart, beneath even the bones of its earliest wars. The roots of the old world still coiled like veins around it, pulsing faintly with the last sap of a dying tree. And in the center, where the air itself felt taut with possibility, stood the device that was never truly meant to be seen by anyone but him. It shimmered in the dark, silver-veined and unstill, as though breathing in things not meant for mortal lungs. Loki approached slowly, one step at a time, the way one might approach a sleeping god. He did not speak. Not aloud.

But his thoughts reached forward as he pressed his palm against the glass. Show me what remains.

The mirror blinked open at his touch and bit him as it always did. A thin line of blood welled and vanished, absorbed by the glass. His seiðr, amplified by Chronovium, coursed through the stone beneath his boots. The hum returned, deep and resonant, like a memory trying to surface. And the surface came alive. Shadows flickered. Futures spun. Variants of himself bloomed and died in heartbeat intervals. The tyrant. The savior. The exiled. The worshipped. The one who fled. The one who stayed. The one who lived. The one who died. But Loki pushed past them all.

Show me the futures where he still smiles at me.

And it complied.

The first vision unfurled slowly, as if the mirror itself hesitated to show it. It unfolded in the hush of twilight. Not in Asgard. Not even close. The skyline was all wrong. It was soft, uneven, scattered with pine and low, wind-blown grasses. A cabin sat perched on a cliff’s edge, its wooden frame weathered by salt and sun, overlooking an ocean that stretched beyond the curve of the world. The waves below broke endlessly against stone, their rhythm as old as gods. Inside was warmth. Firelight. Simplicity.

Loki blinked, unsure at first what he was seeing. There were no banners. No Einherjar. No throne. No guards. No ornate horned helmet upon his head. Just… walls filled with books. A kettle steaming on the stove. A faded Midgardian sweater stretched across his shoulders with the words “See ya’ later, ALLIGATOR!” crudely plastered on it, and a pair of plain, loose trousers that did not belong to any royal wardrobe. He was sitting at a table carved from local wood–unpolished, scratched in places—tired, but less heavy, and laughing. Genuinely laughing.

Nari was there too. Older, but still very young. Dressed in a hoodie with the words “After a while, CROCODILE!” also crudely plastered on it, and mismatched socks too large for his feet. His hair had grown long, but it was braided neatly behind his back, and there was something relaxed in the way he leaned back in his chair, gesturing wildly with his hands mid-story, grinning without hesitation. Loki watched himself lean forward, resting a hand over the boy's wrist to steady him from spilling tea. Their fingers touched. Nari didn’t flinch, only smiled, asking when ‘Uncle Thor’ was going to come back because dinner was going to get cold without him.

The moment held. It was not glorious. Not mighty. Not divine. But it was warm. It was real. And Loki—this variant of Loki—looked at peace. The cabin shuddered faintly in the wind. Outside, dusk painted the ocean in pale flames. Somewhere nearby, gulls called out across the sky. He could almost smell it: the salt in the air. The old cedar of the doorframe. The faint spice in whatever Loki and Nari had tried cooking together. He could almost believe it. Almost…

But then—

He scowled and tore his hand away from the mirror’s surface.

“No,” he muttered.

Because Asgard was gone in that future.

Gone.

Its towers fallen. Its stories ash. Its legacy scattered among refugees and ruins. Loki didn’t know the name of the place they lived. Only that it was Midgard, in some wind-beaten nothing-corner of Norway, and that no one bowed when he passed. And yet…

He looked happy. That was what unsettled him most. He stood still for a long time, staring into his darkened reflection as the vision faded. This is what peace looked like? A cliff-side cottage and a peasant-like life? Laughter shared over mismatched mugs and crudely made meals?

No.

That was not peace. That was failure disguised as comfort. That was surrender. That was—

Unworthy.

Unworthy of the blood Asgard had spilled. Of the battles fought to preserve its legacy. Of Frigga’s teachings. Of Odin’s genocidal conquests. Of Laufey’s cold, monstrous blood in his veins. Of the crown.

Of glorious purpose—

Loki pressed his hand against the mirror again. After a brief sting, another vision rose from the mist with particular clarity. There was Loki, sitting on the throne. No Thor. No Hela. No war. No obstacles halting his domination. Except for one.

Nari.

Older now, with long black hair that cascaded over his shoulders and curled upwards into frost-tipped ends. His frame tall and lithe, encased in red, blue, and black armor etched with the runes of old Asgard. A cloak of black and silver snapped at his shoulders, steaming down into a nebula of stars and space-dust, and upon his brow sat a sterling helm, its horns spiraling upward like the branches of Yggdrasil, reaching for a sun that would never come. A crown in all but name. Regal, fearsome, and familiar.

Loki stared.

The boy—no, the young man who took so much after Loki—stood with a long, ornate sword pointed directly at him, and a grimoire floating effortlessly by his side. Both pulsed faintly with seiðr. His face was a mask of grief forged into conviction, and his voice, when it came, was low. Steady.

“You said it was for the good of Asgard.”

The sword didn’t waver. Only glowed brighter with a crimson and cobalt light.

“You lied.”

He lunged—

Loki recoiled, and the vision shattered before the strike could land.

Gone.

But before Loki could completely process it, the mirror began to blur. The visions fragmented. He reached out—

And saw it. A flicker.

Brief.

So impossibly fragile that he could not tell whether it was truly a future, or simply a longing made real by the mirror's mercy. Asgard stood. But not by his hand alone.

Thor was king.

He wore it better than he ever had in life. Mellowed. Older. The golden fool finally tempered by sorrow and time. And beside him, at ease—Loki. Not above. Not beneath. Beside.

(And wasn't that the lie they used to tell each other?)

(That one day, they'd rule Asgard together. As equals. Thor with his hammer, Loki with his spear. Brothers. Forever. Until the end of time).

(Thor believed it. Loki tried to).

The three of them—Thor, Loki, and Nari—sat at the edge of a warm shore beneath twin suns. Nari leaned against Loki’s side, laughing, his smile wide and unburdened. Thor was clapping Loki’s shoulder—probably laughing at his own joke. And Nari looked at Loki like he was safe. Like he was enough. Like he had strung the stars together with his own hands and made the sky just to make Nari smile. And Loki smiled back.

There was no crown. No throne. No war.

Just peace.

Just them.

Then it vanished. The vision collapsed inward on itself like a dying star. Loki staggered forward, reaching toward it, but the mirror had already gone still. The possibility was gone.

(No. Not gone).

(Rejected).

(A fluke. A fracture. A dream not permitted by the weight of the timelines. It had shimmered because he had wanted it too badly. The mirror had tasted that want in his blood).

He stood alone in the dark for a long time, breath tight in his throat.

“…It’s not real,” he said softly. “It was never real.” But even as he said it, his hands trembled. Because it had felt real. Because for one moment, he had seen what he might have been if only he had loved more properly. And because Nari had smiled at him in that vision, and Loki did not know if he would ever see that look again.

He turned from the mirror and walked away. The silence followed him.

/ / /

He did not return to his quarters. Nor to the throne room, nor the archive, nor the balcony where he could usually lose himself in wind and height. He found himself instead walking corridors without destination, trailing his own thoughts like shadow. There were no guards. No councilors. No interruptions. Only the pale hush of the lanterns and the sound of his own footsteps echoing through a kingdom grown too quiet.

Three days. He had two behind him. And one ahead.

He stopped at the door to Nari’s temporary quarters and did not open it. Just stood there, hand resting lightly on the handle, as if to prove he could. As if that alone might count for something.

(It didn’t).

He turned away, silently cursing himself for being so pathetic. And perhaps that would’ve been the end of it—another silence folded into the day—but then, as he passed one of the open sitting rooms, he noticed something small tucked along the windowsill. A drawing. The edges were slightly curled. One corner weighed down by a smooth river stone. Loki didn’t know why he stepped closer. But what he saw gave him pause.

It wasn’t elaborate. Just a child’s drawing—charcoal and colored chalk on parchment—tucked on the windowsill beneath a river stone, as if Nari hadn’t wanted it to blow away, but hadn’t wanted it seen either. Loki recognized the location as Frigga’s garden. The willow. The bright sun. The pink petals. Flowers too large to be real. And two figures in the center of it all: one small, hand-in-hand with a tiny blue wolf, the other tall, crowned with horns and wrapped in a sweeping green cloak.

Loki recognized them immediately. But what caught him, what made his breath catch just slightly, was that the larger figure had no face. None at all. Just a blank space beneath the helmet. It wasn’t laziness. Nari had drawn eyes for the wolf. A smile for himself. Even petals with little lines for veins. But Loki’s face? Empty.

As if Nari didn’t know how to draw it.

Or couldn’t.

Or… wouldn’t.

Not out of cruelty. Not out of anger. But out of something quieter. Something harder to name. A kind of not-knowing. A kind of distance. Perhaps even the quiet recognition that his father’s face was a mask—one Loki had worn so long that even a child who lived under the same roof could not see the man beneath it.

Loki stared at the drawing for a long moment, the edges of it fluttering faintly in the window’s breeze, and suddenly, he didn’t feel quite so tall. He remembered the boy’s words—not dramatic, not pleading, not spoken with any expectation—but offered simply, the way truth sometimes infuriatingly was.

“I think… maybe someday I’d like to know.”

Loki closed his eyes.

He had no time for SENTIMENT. No room for uncertainty. Tomorrow, Hela would expect results. Spine. Storm. She had said so herself. She would act, one way or another. He had to be ready. But as he turned from the drawing and walked back toward the dark, he whispered under his breath, so quietly it might’ve been mistaken for nothing at all: “…I’ll tell you something. Tomorrow.”

Whether it was a promise, a warning, or a lie, even he wasn’t sure. Only that the third day was coming, and it would not pass quietly.

/ / /

BONUS DOODLE REQUESTS!

(Thank you for supporting Sentiment!)

Chapter Text

/ / /

He didn’t go back to his quarters right away. He wandered—quietly and without escort—through the long, shadowed corridors of the palace, past locked chambers and mirrors tall enough to see all of him. It was one of these that caught him. A gilded full-length thing mounted at the turn of a marble stair, burnished from age and memory. He had walked past it a thousand times without stopping. 

But this time—

This time, he paused. And stared.

What stared back at him was not a king, but a shape: a figure carved with expectation and compromise. Pale skin, tired eyes, the weight of the horned helmet pressed into his skull. And behind all that—behind the silence, behind the control—he saw it. Not himself. Not really.

Odin.

In the angle of the brow. The stiffness of the shoulders. The cold in the gaze that wasn’t meant to be cold, but just… unsoft.

(Just like Saella had gently reminded him he didn’t have to become).

(Just like Hela had assured him he already was).

He didn’t look away. He wanted to. He wanted to walk past it, pretend it didn’t matter. Pretend he didn’t see it. But he did. He saw it. He saw Odin in the mirror, and the image broke him.

With a suddenness that startled even himself, Loki struck the glass with his bare fist. Not held back. Not careful. Hard enough to split the mirror from edge to edge, and hard enough that blood sprang from his knuckles on impact, bright, immediate and hot.

Sharp lines fractured outward in a spiderweb of splintered silver, and the reflection—Odin’s ghost—shattered into a dozen misshapen copies. He neither breathed nor moved for a moment. Just stared at the broken image, at all the different pieces of himself, all the versions that blurred together and left him unable to tell who was who anymore. The pain was sharp and pulsing now. He didn’t look down to inspect it. He didn’t need to.

(If this was the price of holding a realm together… was it really worth it?)

(If the only futures where Nari smiled without fear were the ones where Loki let it all go, then what was he doing this for? What exactly was he trying to protect?)

Loki gritted his teeth.

(Pathetic… He was so… pathetic).

He lowered his hand, blood now trailing faintly along his palm and wrist. And then, he turned away from the broken glass and did not look back.

/ / /

Morning in Asgard had not yet fully arrived. The sky was pale, still streaked with navy and silver where stars had not quite surrendered to the incoming day. No bells had rung. No petitions had yet been drawn. The palace, wrapped in shadowed quiet, slept.

But Loki did not.

He had risen well before the first watch bell, cloaking himself in midnight blue instead of green, wearing the kind of plain outer robe that draped lightly, without sharp lines or ceremonial weight. His hair was pulled back, though not perfectly. A few loose strands defied the braid at his nape, and today, he did not fix them. He had not slept. Not really. He had closed his eyes, yes, but rest had not come. The vision of Odin at the mirror, and the futures he saw still crowded in the forefront of his mind—the mirror’s visions flickering like flames across his thoughts—

(The future where he and Nari lived on Midgard wearing mismatched sweaters and holding colorful mugs).

(The future where Nari slayed him with a regal, ornate sword and seiðr that rivaled Loki’s own).

(And that other one. The lie. The dream. Nari, Thor, and himself by the sea. The laughter. The love. The peace. The worthiness—)

(He should have had it cast aside already, but for reasons he could not name, it lingered).

And now—now came the third day. The one Hela had promised. The one she had warned him about. By dusk, she would act. He did not know how. He did not know where. But the shape of her promise had coiled itself around his ribs like a snake, tightening with every passing hour.

He walked in silence. No one saw him. No guards. No servants. Not yet. His feet took him, inevitably, to the guest wing. Not the high eastern corridors lined with velvet and golden filigree, but the west side. Older, dimmer, filled with rooms that had once belonged to visiting dignitaries and children too small to attend court. He stopped outside one door. Familiar now. It wasn’t gilded. It wasn’t grand. It was still that same plain, wooden frame. Slightly crooked on its hinges. Its handle just a little loose. The room once used for those who didn’t trust nannies. And it held a boy.

His boy.

Narinder Lokison.

And Loki had not checked how it was decorated inside after finding out this was where Stella had taken him after he left him in her care. Had not sent servants to make it more princely after Nari had seemingly settled in. He had not done so because asking would imply caring. And caring was—

(—Weakness. Duty. Something. He couldn’t remember which name he was calling it today).

He did not knock. He did not call out. He stood. The wood was old. Slightly warped from a long-past winter, the grain scarred faintly with a rune carved into the lower frame. A harmless sigil. Protection. Defense. He stared at it.

Then, from within, he heard it: A soft shifting. The rustle of thin blankets. A small sigh, and then a voice. Not loud. Not clear. Just… “Do you think it’s normal, Fenrir? When someone’s only good to you?”

Loki froze. He did not move, but his head tilted slightly— just enough to hear better.

“Like… maybe it means you’re special? Or maybe it means they don’t like anyone else, and you’re just… kind of secretly a burden to them? Is that bad?”

The voice was softer now. Not uncertain—careful.

Still talking. Still tangled in the slow, warm hush of morning thoughts that hadn't yet learned to guard themselves.

“I know Father likes me. But I don’t get it. Because he never smiles at anyone else. Not even Sir Bjorn. Or Saella. Except a little. But not like with me.”  A pause, then the creak of bedsprings.

“Maybe I’m just good at being good. Or maybe it’s ‘cause I listen.”

Another pause.

“But what if I mess up? Then what? Would he… stop smiling at me? I don’t want that… Nobody else treats me as nicely as he does.”

The boy’s voice trembled just faintly on that last part. Not with tears. Not yet. Just confusion. Weight. The kind that shouldn’t live in a child’s throat. Loki’s hand flexed loosely at his side. He could see it in his mind’s eye. Nari, still curled under his blankets, hair tousled from sleep, Fenrir tucked beneath his chin, whispering into his button-eyed silence like it could help him solve the contradictions that even grown gods could not.

“So… I’ll ask again…  do you think it’s normal? To be good to one person but bad to everybody else?”

Silence.

Then, more quietly: “Is Father pretending to be good to me? Or with them?”

“...Or both?”

Loki exhaled through his nose. No sound. No breath escaped him beyond that narrow stream of frost-warm air, sharp with stillness. The question was simple. Childlike. But it was not small.

It was foundational.

The kind of question that split entire lives in two. Loki didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t. He wasn’t supposed to be here. But still—still he stayed. Still he listened. Just to hear what else the boy would say. Not out of attachment. Not because he cared. Not because it mattered. Just… curiosity. That was all. A king ought to understand what troubled his ward. Ought to anticipate what might make a child restless in the dark. It wasn’t SENTIMENT. It couldn’t be.

“Miss Saella says some people just don’t know how to talk nice. That they don’t mean it bad. But I think it still feels bad when they don’t.”

"Miss Ylva says that people's actions can stick like words, even when people don’t mean them to. Like ink on paper. You can’t rub it out like chalk so you gotta be careful."

“And Sir Bjorn says people show respect differently. That some kings have to be hard. That it’s nothing against me.”

“But why would you have to be hard?”

“What’s wrong with being… soft sometimes?”

The word left the boy’s mouth like it was foreign. Hesitant. Something he had tasted but never spoken aloud.

…’Soft’.

Loki’s hand flexed again.

“I would say that I’m more of a soft type of person. Being hard feels scary. And bad. I don't want to be bad. Do you think Father likes that I’m… soft?” Nari asked the plush.

“Or do you think he’s just waiting for me to stop?”

There it was. The one that twisted. That terrible, perfect question. Spoken to threadbare fur and mismatched button eyes. Spoken not to be answered, but because it couldn’t be asked anywhere else. Not to Loki. Not aloud. He knew that feeling. Knew it like a mirror knows a face.

(If I stop being so hard on myself, would I not be worthy to you anymore?)

The pause that followed was long. Long enough to make Loki feel like an intruder in his own shadow. And then—almost as if prompted by the ache in the silence itself—Nari whispered, very quietly, “I’m scared that if I ask, Father will think I’m… useless. Or just getting in the way. Or that I’m annoying him. And then he’ll go away. I don’t want Father to go away.”

Loki turned. Not away, but toward the door. His fingers touched the wood. Lightly, like it might burn. He didn’t push it open yet. He didn’t speak. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know which role he was supposed to play if he did.

The father?

The king?

The monster?

(The man with the weight of thousands of lives and a dozen doomed futures on his shoulders?)

(The only man with the power to hold it all together?)

Behind the door, the boy exhaled again and whispered, “He confuses me. I don’t know how to feel about him right now. I just… want him to be good to other people too. So that it doesn’t feel so scary when he’s good to me. It can’t be so hard, can it?”

Loki closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. And this time…

He knocked.

The knock wasn’t loud. It barely stirred the wood. But inside the room, Loki heard it land like thunder. He heard Nari’s breath catch. Heard the blankets shift. He could almost see it—the boy’s fingers tightening around the plush, his body freezing, eyes darting to the door. The soft scramble of bare feet finding the edge of the rug. The pause, then slow steps. Cautious. Not fearful. Just uncertain. The kind of slow children used when they didn’t know if they were in trouble, but suspected they might be. The handle turned, and the door cracked open just enough to show a slice of a face.

Nari stood there in his too-big sleep shirt, Fenrir tucked into his arm, hair a bird’s nest of soft raven-black tangles. One cheek was still creased from his pillow. His eyes, though bleary, did not widen with surprise. He blinked at Loki, as if he’d expected him all along. Or hoped, maybe.

“Good morning,” Loki said quietly.

Nari opened the door a little wider, but said nothing at first. His eyes dropped, not in shame, but avoidance. Not quite meeting Loki’s gaze. Not quite ready. The silence stretched between them.

Loki broke it after a beat: “I was wondering,” He said slowly, voice deliberately careful, “if I might join you here. For breakfast.”

Nari’s grip on the plush tightened slightly. Still no words. Just a small nod. Not eager. Not lit up with the wide, beaming smile of the first breakfast. He carefully stepped aside, and Loki stepped inside. He noted, absently, that the room remained mostly unchanged since the last time he entered.

There was the same table. The same rug. The same clumsily folded blanket lying nearby. Sunlight just beginning to filter through the same long, emerald drapes—yet near the corner, the toy chest had shifted, its lid left half-closed as though pressed down in haste. A few figures lay tipped on their sides in front of it, caught in a crooked line, the kind of disorder that hinted at quiet hands searching and then stopping halfway. On the table itself sat a single book, its cover worn from recent use: The Tales of Vanaheim, the gift from Volstagg. Its place there, open yet unattended, made it seem as though it had been set aside mid-thought.

Nari walked past him and sat down at the table without a word, grabbing his gifted book with both hands and setting it gently on the floor. Fenrir stayed clutched to his chest for a moment, then was set down gently on the cushion beside him—almost as if he were posing the plush to protect him should anything go wrong.

Loki said nothing, but the motion gutted him.

The first time, the boy had looked at him like the sun had risen a second time. Had nervously, but excitedly beamed at the invitation. Had asked to bring his wolf. Had worried about being ready. But now? Now he was quiet. Too quiet. He didn’t know Loki had heard him. That his words still echoed behind Loki’s ribs.

Is he pretending with me? Or them? Or both? 

He didn’t know that Loki had listened to him hesitate at the edge of belief and fear. He didn’t know how it made something cold and ancient twist inside the chest of the King of Asgard. Loki waved his fingers, using seiðr to summon an order for breakfast to Saella—less food this time. Smaller portions. Enough to suggest ease. Familiarity. Not tradition. And then, he carefully approached Nari as if he were a creature made of too many sharp edges. As if he were something that might frighten a child just by breathing wrong. And slowly, carefully—he sat down across from Nari, just as before. Same chair. Same angle. His hands folded neatly. He didn’t speak.

Nari fidgeted under the silence. He sat straighter. Then slouched and folded his legs under him. Then straightened up and sat cross-legged on the chair, clutching his knees like a fortress. Loki observed it all without comment. His eyes flicked briefly to the cushion where Fenrir sat, as if still standing guard beside his boy. Then he looked back at Nari, taking in the tired, dark circles under his eyes.

“Did you sleep?” he asked carefully.

Nari shrugged. “Sort of.”

A pause. Loki tilted his head slightly. “Bad dreams?”

Another shrug. “No. Just too many… thoughts.” Nari had said that last part with a wince.

Loki nodded once. He understood that well enough. “I find they’re loudest in the morning.”

Nari’s fingers tightened faintly around the hem of his sleeve. “Mine are loud at morning too.”

“Mm,” Loki said. “What do they say?”

Nari didn’t answer right away. His eyes darted to the window, to the books, to anywhere but Loki’s face. “Stuff,” he muttered. “They just say stuff.”

Another silence.

Loki allowed it. He watched the way Nari’s shoulders curled in defensively; the way someone sits when they’re not yet sure if they’re safe.

“You’ve been keeping Fenrir close lately,” Loki said, gesturing faintly to the plush. “Does he help?”

Nari nodded once, then hesitated. “…He listens.”

Loki smiled, just barely. “Does he ever talk back?”

(And he knew it was a foolish question. He knew the answer already, but he asked anyway, because Odin wouldn’t have. Odin wouldn’t have asked. Odin wouldn’t have lingered in a room like this, or listened at doors. Odin wouldn’t have tried).

(But he was trying. Gods, he was trying. Because he wasn’t Odin. He cared. He had to. That made him different).

(Didn’t it?)

(He wasn’t doing this for legacy. Or power. Or to preserve a world that had already rotted from the inside. He wasn’t doing this to mold the boy into something usable. He was here. He was asking. That meant something).

(...Didn’t it?)

(He was nothing like Odin).

...He kept checking just to be sure.

“No,” Nari said, pulling Loki from his thoughts, and for the first time, there was a flicker of amusement in his voice. “But I pretend sometimes.”

Loki hummed softly. “I used to pretend things talked back to me, too. A long time ago, before I knew better."

“With Jormie?” Nari asked. "You told me that he told you that he'd keep you safe."

Loki nodded.

“Is knowing better the same as not needing anyone?”

The question landed harder than it should have. Too big. Too sharp. Far too introspective for a child his age, and yet it came from Nari like it had simply been there, waiting. Loki didn’t respond. Not right away. He looked down at his folded hands. Long fingers, the barest stain of blood on the knuckle from when he had struck the mirror just hours ago. “…No,” he said eventually. “It just means… you forget how to ask. So you stop asking.”

Nari didn’t respond to that, just tucked his knees closer to his chest, his gaze thoughtful, but largely unreadable. They sat like that for a while.

Then, Nari broke the silence, “You’re… eating with me. In my room. Again. Like… that other time.”

“Yes.”

“Why? Is it because you eat where you choose?”

Loki’s gaze settled on him then. His expression didn’t change. But something flickered behind it. A shadow. A thread of thought that could not be spoken aloud.

(Why…?)

(Because I failed you).

(Because I lied in front of you).

(Because I saw your face when I imprisoned the person you liked and trusted. Someone who didn’t look at you or treat you differently because you were mine).

(Because you aren’t smiling at me anymore, and I want you to love and trust me so badly even though I know I don’t deserve it).

(Because I crave validation, and you are the only soul whose gaze doesn’t feel like judgment—only possibility).

(Because I’m trying—gods help me, I’m trying—but I don’t know if it’s enough. I don’t know if you would even want to call me ‘Father’ once all has been said and done).

“No,” Loki simply said. “Because I want to,” 

Nari’s brows furrowed. “Even if I’m… soft?”

The word again. Gentle. Small. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say it. Loki stilled. “Being soft isn’t a weakness.”

“You’re not soft. You're hard.”

Loki looked at him. Nari was staring at the table now, not accusing, just making a statement: “You don’t talk like... softly. You don’t… smile at other people.”

“I smile at you,” Loki said before he could stop himself.

Nari looked up, searching his face. "Yeah. I know.”

He toyed with the hem of his sleeve, voice even quieter as he added, “When I asked Fenrir if it meant you were pretending… he didn’t answer. But I think…” his fingers tightened slightly, his gaze flickering to the side, “...I think he agrees with me. A little.”

The sentence punched something inside him. Loki’s breath didn’t catch, but only because he’d learned how not to let it. “I’m not pretending,” he said a little more sharply than he intended.

“Okay,” Nari whispered, shrinking back. But it didn’t sound like an affirmation of understanding. It sounded like hope wearing a mask. Loki shifted forward. Not much. Just enough that his voice lowered, gentler, though he still didn’t reach out. 

“What would it mean if I wasn’t pretending?”

Nari blinked.

Loki tried again. “If I was only ever myself. Not to Saella. Not to Bjorn. Not to Ylva. Just… to you.”

“I don’t know,” Nari said. “It feels scary.”

“Why?”

“Because it means I’m the only one who gets to see that part,” Nari said softly. “And that means I can lose it. No one else would see it. Not Miss Saella. Not Miss Ylva. Not Sir Bjorn. Not the guards or the scribes or anyone who comes into the halls. They don’t talk about you or look at you like you’re… good. Like you care.”

The boy’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “They do it like… Like you’re something bad waiting to happen. Sometimes, they look at me the same way. And I keep thinking maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I made him up. That version of you. The one who sits with me and tells me that he won’t ever leave me. The one who fixed Fenrir. The one who says things without saying them, but I still hear it anyway. I don’t want to lose you. But I also don’t want to be the only one who ever had you, because that means I’m the only one who’ll miss you when you’re gone.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to smother. Loki stared at the boy—his boy—and saw in him every mirror he had broken, every truth he had bent. The resemblance was uncanny. Not in bone or shape or hair. But in the way he spoke around things. The way he asked without asking. The way he feared absence more than hatred. And gods help him, Loki had known that fear too. Had been shaped by it. Sculpted by it. Because what was worse than being hated? Being forgotten. Being left behind. Being nothing.

(Feeling nothing—)

And Nari—

Nari was afraid of that same thing. That if he stopped being good, if he stopped being soft, then Loki would go quiet. Would turn away. Would vanish. Just as Loki had feared for so long that if he ever let himself be soft—truly soft—then no one would love him at all. That if he stopped performing, he would disappear in the eyes of those he wanted to see him most. The boy feared abandonment. The father feared rejection. And both of them, in different ways, feared becoming invisible to the other. And in running from Odin, in doing everything not to become him, Loki had somehow… found himself looking at Odin in the reflection anyway. And perhaps worst of all—he had worn the mask so long that even here, even now, he wondered if Nari could truly see his face beneath it. He leaned forward, just slightly.

“That version of me. The one you think so highly of…” He started slowly. Not gently. Not forcefully. Just certainly. “You didn’t make him up.”

Loki’s voice dropped to barely a whisper; a broken, quiet, frosty whisper.  

“I did.”

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

Nari looked up, his unusual green eyes wide. But before he could say anything, the door creaked.

The scent of honeyed grains and fruit drifted in before Saella even appeared. She entered without fanfare, her steps practiced and light, with a tray in her hands. The door barely made a sound behind her. She did not speak at first. She just offered a polite bow of her head as she approached, but her eyes did not linger on Loki. In fact, she avoided his gaze entirely—purposefully, he thought. She kept her posture composed, her hands steady as she set the tray down with quiet grace. The dishes made no clatter. The tea did not slosh.

Not once did she look at him. But to Nari, who sat small and cross-legged and strangely still, she smiled. Not a wide smile. Just enough to soften her expression, to let him know she saw him. That she was still there.

Her hand brushed the rim of his cup, aligning it, and she whispered, just softly enough for the room to hold it, “Warm milk today. Just as you like it.”

Nari looked up, and that fortress of tension in his shoulders loosened a little.

“Th… thank you,” he said shakily.

Her hand lingered near his for just a breath, steady and warm, before she straightened. “You will always have someone to remember these small things, no matter what storms come.”

She smiled again. Not at Loki, just at the boy. Then she stood, gave a single courteous dip of her head toward the room in general, and left—but not before finally giving Loki a long, sideways glance. Not lingering, not dramatic, but deliberate. A look that said: I know what you’re doing, and what you’re not.

It was the kind of glance that carried no accusation, but no praise either. Only quiet observation. The kind that left behind the weight of expectation without saying a word.

Loki didn’t move. Not until the door clicked shut behind her, and even then, he didn’t speak. He didn’t have to, because Nari, who had been unwrapping a small biscuit, had stopped mid-motion, his biscuit hovering pointlessly over his milk.

Instead of dipping it, his fingers pressed lightly into it, and it crunched quietly beneath the force, the crumbs falling like sand into his milk.

“...What’s going to happen to Lady Sif?” he asked slowly, his voice barely above a whisper.

The question did not catch Loki off guard. But it still landed like a slow, deliberate stone dropped in the center of a still lake.

He had known it would come. Perhaps not today. Perhaps not like this. But it was inevitable. The boy had been too quiet for too long. And Saella’s smile—gentle, but guarded—had been enough to stir something inside him.

Loki set down his cup without drinking from it. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studied the table’s surface, traced the faint whorls in the wood with his eyes like they might offer a simpler truth than the one laid before him.

“She will stay where she is,” Loki said at last. “For now.”

Though the decision had already hardened within him. Let Sif and Heimdall linger there a while longer. It was not just punishment; it was performance. 

Proof.

Proof for Hela that he could hold the reins of power without flinching. That he could drag down even the golden-hearted if they stood against him. That he had spine and storm enough to match hers, to stand beside her rather than behind. And perhaps, in doing so, she'd finally stop circling him like a lion waiting to pounce. Let her think he was still pliable.

Let her believe the throne had been attractive enough to make him fold to her whims. He would give her the illusion of loyalty—until the moment came to rip it away.

“At the dungeons?” Nari asked.

“Yes.”

“But… she didn’t do anything,” Nari said. Not accusatory nor defiant, just quietly confused. “She didn’t hurt anybody.”

“No,” Loki agreed. “But she acted in ways that could’ve led to harm. To instability. She and Heimdall were calling back warriors from battle without my authority. Quietly. Without consent. That is not a small thing.”

(Liar).

“But… she just wanted them to come home.”

“And if they had?” Loki asked, voice still measured. “If the legions pulled back from Niflheim? If the undead were allowed to sweep across our borders? What then?”

Nari looked up slowly, his voice quieter than before. “But… don’t you work with her?”

“With whom?”

“...Hela.”

The name was a whisper. A ripple. And this time, it didn’t come from Heimdall at the summit. Loki’s silence deepened. The shadows at his feet seemed to thicken. His fingers tightened faintly where they rested on his knees, but his face didn’t change.

“She’s real… isn’t she?” Nari asked, still looking at him. “I asked who she was at my last lesson, but Miss Ylva didn't really seem to want to answer my question. All she said was that Hela was the Queen of Hel. She Lives in Niflheim and is the goddess of death. That she ruled over the dead who didn’t die in battle—who didn’t go to Valhalla… That she is ‘an enemy of Asgard’. That she’s powerful. And really, really scary. She wouldn’t say more. She told me to forget it. That it wasn’t important for our lesson... And... Sir Heimdall and Lady Sif said that you..."

He swallowed. His brows furrowed like he was trying to puzzle through something that didn’t want to make sense. “They said you made a deal with her. That you used her to… get rid of Thor. And Odin. And that’s how you became king. They said… you promised her land. And power. And something else…  And that you’re the reason her legions haven’t attacked us yet. That it’s not because we’re strong. It’s because you let her in.”

A beat.

“And I thought… that can’t be right. You wouldn’t do that. Not with her. Not if she’s so bad. You wouldn’t hurt people just to be king. You wouldn’t use someone like her…” His voice cracked there. “...Would you?”

Silence.

Nari’s eyes shimmered—not with tears yet, but with that terrible, tight pressure of not wanting to cry. “Th…That’s what they said,” he repeated, smaller. “That’s what Lady Sif said. And I want it to be wrong, but you… You’re not denying it.”

A long breath.

“Is it true?” Nari asked. “Did you really do bad things to become king?”

Loki stared at him, unblinking.

(There was no point in keeping it from him. Not anymore).

 “Yes.”

Silence.

“Wh…Why?” Nari whispered, the question trembling through him like it hurt to ask.

Loki was quiet for a long moment. Then slowly, he exhaled.

“I did what I had to,” he said. “Everything I’ve done—every alliance, every choice—it was to keep Asgard alive. To prevent its end. This realm… it is doomed to crumble. And no one else would do what needed to be done to save it. Not the court. Not the Council. Not Thor. Certainly not Odin.”

A pause.

Then, almost mechanically, he continued, “They wanted a hero. But heroes lose kingdoms, so had to be the—” He caught himself. Adjusted. “I had to be… I am playing the role no one else can. I am ensuring that Asgard survives, and,” he paused, pursing his lips, “...that you have a world to live in.”

Nari blinked. “…So you’re not the real king?”

“I am the real king. A necessary king."

(Necessary. Yes, necessary).

(Keep calling it that, Loki).

(Keep lying to yourself).

He meant it to sound strong. Measured. But something in the words betrayed him—too practiced, too vague. His gaze flickered to Nari, who was still watching him closely.

“Necessary…” Nari echoed.

Loki didn’t speak.

“That doesn’t tell me why.”

“I just told you—”

“No, you didn’t."

Loki stilled.

“You’re talking about thrones and roles and the realm,” Nari said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But that’s not what I asked. I didn’t ask about Asgard. I asked about you.”

A silence settled between them—tense and sharp. Their breakfast long forgotten by now.

“Why did you do those things?” Nari asked.

Loki's gaze drifted away—not from shame, but from the strange pressure of being seen too clearly.

Nari wasn’t angry. He wasn’t accusing. He was asking—the way only someone who still hoped for a kind answer could ask. And that, somehow, was worse. Because Loki could face hatred. He had lived with it. He had earned it. But fear? Disappointment? From him? He could not bear it.

“This throne… it does not allow me the comfort of intentions. It doesn't matter what I want . Or what I meant. The throne doesn’t run on good intentions, it runs on outcomes. And if I wait—if I hesitate—people die. The wrong choice isn’t punished by guilt, it’s punished by war. By collapse. So I do what works. Even if it’s cruel. Even if it costs me. Because if I don’t—if I choose softness over strategy—then all of it falls.”

Nari sat very still. His hands were in his lap now. He looked smaller somehow. Dimmer. Like he was dimming himself on purpose.

“And you think… that’s a good thing?” Nari asked.

“I think it’s necessary.”

“Necessary,” Nari echoed again. “Not… good.”

There was a quiet pause.

Loki’s jaw tensed. “Those words are not mutually exclusive.”

“But… don’t you want them to be?”

That made him falter.

It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t even a hope. It was just a question. One that made Loki feel like he was being asked to step into a mirror that refused to flatter him.

Nari stared at the table, his gaze tracing the faint whorls in the wood. “When you do things like… Arresting Lady Sif and Sir Heimdall, teaming up with Hela, and… sending Thor away… are you really doing it for the good of Asgard? Or just for you?”

Loki stiffened just slightly.

(And for a split moment, THAT vision flashed in his mind’s eye—)

(Nari. Older, regal, and brandishing his ornate blade against his own father).

(“You said it was for the good of Asgard.”)

(“You lied.”)

“…Or are you just lying to yourself?” Nari said with the same seriousness his older self had asked in that vision.

Loki didn’t answer right away. He looked at the boy sitting across from him—biscuit forgotten, milk cooling by the minute—and felt, not for the first time, that he was staring at something far too fragile for the kind of world he had built.

Nari wasn’t yelling. Wasn’t even raising his voice. There was no tantrum. No storm. Just quiet questions sharpened by confusion, and it pierced deeper than rage ever could.

“I’m not lying to myself. I am… being realistic with my decisions,” Loki said, though the words came out thinner than he intended.

Nari frowned. The word was too big, but the doubt behind it wasn’t. “You… didn’t answer my question.”

“I did,” Loki said sharply.

“No,” Nari said again, a little sharper. “You told me why you had to. But… you didn’t tell me if you did it for yourself.”

Something in him bristled. Loki stiffened, jaw tight. “I am doing what I am doing because someone had to. Because no one else would.”

Nari looked confused. “And… That makes it good?”

Loki leaned back, his arms crossing, defensive now. “It makes it necessary.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Loki’s gaze darkened, but he couldn’t look away.

Nari’s voice remained calm. But there was something different in it now—firm, unshaken. Like steel beneath velvet. “I asked if you did it for yourself. And why you wanted to do it.”

“I honestly didn’t want to,” Loki snapped. “But I did it anyway, because I had to do it.”

“But you chose it,” Nari said. “You keep saying no one else would. But that means you did. That means… it was your choice to do all those bad things. So… why?”

Loki’s temper flared—brief and involuntary. “Because I care!” he said, louder than he meant to. “Because I was born to rule Asgard! Because it was the only way to keep this realm alive! To keep you alive! I’ve already seen what happens when I don’t act. Asgard is nothing without ME!”

Nari stared, wide-eyed, but didn’t back down. He didn’t even flinch. And that was what caught Loki off guard the most. Because Nari was speaking to him in a way no one had in a very, very long time. Not Saella, not Heimdall, not even Thor. Not without fear. Not without flattery. Not like this. Not as an equal. A child. His child. Speaking to him like this—

(Like Loki had always wished he’d spoken to Odin—)

(Like someone unafraid. Like someone who saw through the silence and dared to question it. To do something about it).

(Like someone brave enough to say the things Loki had only ever swallowed).

“I didn’t ask you to do those things,” Nari said meekly.

“You don’t understand what you’re saying,” Loki bit back.

“I do! ” Nari’s voice cracked—but it wasn’t with fear. “I do understand! I understand that you scare people. And then you sit with me at breakfast, lunch, and dinner like that part of you just… goes away!”

“It does.”

“No! It doesn’t!” Nari snapped, and there it was again: that tone. That bold, clear defiance that sounded so unlike him it knocked something loose in Loki’s chest. “It feels fake now! It feels like you’re only nice to me because you have to be. And I don’t even know what that means!”

“Nari, I can assure you that I—”

"You’re scary to everyone else!” Nari continued over Loki, voice cracking. “You talk quiet and cold and they listen ‘cause they’re scared! And you—you don’t even care that they’re scared! But I’m just like you! And now they’re scared of me too!”

His hands clenched at his sides. “And I didn’t know why! I thought maybe it was my fault. That I wasn’t being good enough because you didn't do anything. I didn't know you did anything. So I tried. I tried so hard to be better. To be nice. To be quiet. To be the kind of kid people wouldn’t be afraid of.”

He looked up, eyes wide and wet.

“But it didn’t work. And now I think—” his voice dropped, small and shaking, “—I think it was never about me. I think it’s because you’re the one who’s not good. You... haven't been good to me all this time, haven't you?”

“That’s not what this is,” Loki said too quickly. Too harshly. “You think I want that for you?"

“I don’t know what you want!” Nari shouted. “You don’t tell me anything! You just… do things! You lie and do bad things and call it ‘necessary’ and you make deals with bad people and arrest Lady Sif and don’t even tell me WHY—

“Because it is NECESSARY! ” Loki roared, standing now, voice rising without his permission. “I claimed my birthright. I took what was meant to be mine. I did what no one else could! ”

“But it's not good! ” Nari cried, standing too, Fenrir fell to the ground with a thump.

"It is good!"

“No! It's not! You’re not good, and I don’t think you care about being good! I don’t know what you care about!”

"You don’t know what you’re saying, boy,” Loki hissed, low and dangerous, every syllable precise. “You think you understand the choices I make? You think you can judge them?”

“I’m not—”

“You are!” Loki snapped, eyes sharp with something too jagged to name. “You think this is simple? That I get to be soft just because you want me to be? I’m trying to keep the realm from tearing itself apart while you exist and be USELESS to me!"

Nari’s breath caught, his posture stiffening.

“And if I falter—if I let SENTIMENT decide what’s right—then I lose. Do you understand that? I lose everything." His hands shook with the force of the words. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a hiss meant to wound. “And you? You are nothing to me. I feel nothing for you. Do you hear me? NOTHING.”

There was a terrible silence after that.

Loki’s hands were trembling. His breath came sharp and tight, but he held his expression. He hadn’t meant it—by the Norns, he hadn’t—but the words were out, and they could not be taken back.

And Nari—he didn’t speak right away. The boy’s hands hovered at his sides, unsure of whether to clench or let go. And when he finally looked up at Loki, his eyes weren’t angry anymore, just hurt.

“Father,” his voice cracked a little when he spoke again, quieter, smaller. “Am I... really nothing to you?”

The question didn’t explode. It landed gently. Awfully.

Loki flinched. It was the kind of question that demanded more than power or command. It asked something from him that power could never give.

“…No,” he said. Too soft. Too late.

Nari continued to stare at Loki, his gaze unwavering. Eyes green—so green—but shot through with strange flecks of lapis blue and deep crimson, like someone had spilled both sky and blood into them and let it settle.

But still, Loki had seen those eyes before. In mirrors; in memories; in himself. But never like this. Never aimed back at him with so much confusion. So much pain. So much of himself. It was like looking into everything he feared he had passed on, and everything he hadn’t meant to.

(Is this what Odin had seen too?)

Then, Nari stepped back. Not running. Not scared. Just… hurt. He walked to the door. Paused. One small hand resting on the frame.

“Can you… please go?”

Loki didn’t move.

“Please,” Nari said again, not cruel. Not even cold. Just… tired. “I… I wanna be alone.”

It hurt. More than it should have. More than Loki knew how to name. Still, he rose—each movement deliberate, mechanical. He paused beside Nari. Looked down. Wanted to say something. But he didn’t. He walked past Nari, and the door shut softly behind him.

And in the quiet of the corridor, Loki stood frozen, one hand braced against the wall beside the door. He hadn’t even realized he was shaking. His shoulders were stiff—held too straight and proud—but the tension coiled in him had nowhere to go. His jaw clenched. His breath came uneven, shallower by the second.

He blinked once, twice, too fast. The tears didn’t fall, but they stung—burning behind his eyes, pressed back by sheer force of will. The silence from the other side of the door was complete. He had lost this battle, not through war, not through magic, not through betrayal, but through something far quieter. Far crueler.

Love. Or the failure of it.

He exhaled shakily, and something cracked open in his chest. A pressure he didn’t have a name for. Not guilt. Not shame. Not quite. His hand drifted, almost without thought, to the inside of his coat. And there it was. The folded parchment. Pressed flat between lining and silk. Still there. Always there. Not out of habit. Only… something.

Loki Laufeyson, written in uneven letters and surrounded by mindlessly doodled stars. A child’s attempt. A gift freely given. His name, offered not in fear or worship, but in hope. He stared at it for a long time. And then, almost angrily, he crumpled it in his fist.

He turned slightly, just enough to catch a nearby window overlooking the quiet stretch of Asgard below. But the city blurred.

His gaze didn’t linger on the towers or spires or the Bifrost. It lingered on the glass itself. And there, faintly reflected in it, layered against the morning-lit skyline, was a face. His face, but older, colder, and hardened by reign.

For a moment, he couldn’t tell if it was his reflection or Odin’s. But there was no point in pondering that. There was no difference anymore.

“…I really am,” he whispered, voice cracking on the last word, “just like Odin.”

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

There were many names for that war.

The Timestream Entanglement. 

The Collapse of the Lines.

The Chronoscatter Crisis.

The End of All Futures.

All of them born from the same absurd truth: that two versions of Victor Von Doom, one from his own age and one from a century yet to come, had torn open the seams of causality itself.

In their arrogance, they’d linked timelines that had no business touching, knotting realities together until every thread frayed. Cities from one age appeared in another. Versions of the same man met and fought or embraced. Some worlds were erased entirely. And no one could agree whether to fight side by side to stop them, or to keep on nursing their old rivalries until the end swallowed them all.

Loki had heard all these names. Had mocked most of them. Because in truth, none of the names did justice to what it was. No clever title could capture the sound of ten timelines dying at once, or the color of a sky where two realities bled together until the stars wept sideways.

He hadn’t joined the effort to save reality out of altruism. Please. Don’t be ridiculous. He’d joined the so-called "heroes" for a handful of far more practical reasons: To monitor any threats that might spill into his Asgard, to exploit chaos where it bloomed, unguarded and ripe for sowing mischief, and yes, to gather intel—because the end of time had a tendency to shake loose secrets that even gods weren’t meant to hear.

Loki hadn’t cared for the camaraderie. He hadn’t asked for a seat at their sanctimonious little table. But the timelines had been cracking like glass underfoot, and for a while, it was useful to pretend he could help glue them back together.

It was during this brief, absurd era of "cooperation" that Loki found himself questioned. Not by councils or kings, but by people he never thought would care enough to ask or say anything.

The first two came in the ruins of a depressing timeline where Ultron had won. Skeletons of Krakkoans stretched to the horizon. Rust in the rain. Smoke still curling from half-melted steel.

The Hulk sat on a chunk of fractured pavement, arms resting on his knees, silent as always, staring into the distance like he could out-stare the collapse of reality itself. Loki approached with the exaggerated poise of someone who wanted very badly not to look like he was seeking company.

“Ah. The legend himself,” Loki drawled. “The Jade Giant. The Taciturn Terror.”

Hulk didn’t turn his head. “Taciturn Terror, hmm.”

“You’re a man of few words, aren’t you?”

“Mhm,” Hulk grunted, and then added, without missing a beat: “Here’s three: You’re not funny.”

That drew a twitch of a smile from Loki despite himself. He chuckled, but it didn’t last long. He stood beside the silent, terrifying titan, arms folded behind his back, and let the quiet stretch.

There was something sobering about how the Hulk carried himself amidst this destruction. Less rage, more weight. Like the fire had burned so hot, it had finally calcified into stone. He didn’t know what he’d come to say. Or if he’d come to say anything at all, but something in the way Hulk stared at the dead horizon—unmoving, undemanding, yet entirely present—felt too much like being seen.

He didn’t like it.

The silence broke not with a snarl or a punch, but a question. Simple and bare. “…Worth it?”

Loki blinked. “Pardon?”

Hulk still didn’t look at him. “This. You. Playing hero. Is worth it?”

It wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t kind either. It was just… curious, like a mountain watching a fox set its own traps. Loki didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could. And when Hulk finally stood and walked off to help clear what was left of a fractured time-rift, he didn’t say another word, but the silence he left behind felt like one.

Loki’s gaze followed him only briefly. Then he turned to look at the horizon himself, and that was when he heard the familiar, metallic clink of repulsors behind him.

“Was that your idea of team bonding,” came a sardonic voice, “or are you two competing to see who can brood at the most dramatic angle?”

He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Tony Stark. The Iron Man. Of course. Loki tilted his head just enough to catch the glint of red and gold in his peripheral vision. “Careful,” he said mildly, “any more sarcasm and you’ll lose power to your flight stabilizers.”

“You say that like it hasn’t already happened twice today,” Tony muttered, smoke curling from a scorched panel on his right shoulder. “I asked for a good robot last Christmas, and all I got were these Ultron-mechs hitting me harder than the last IRS audit I survived.”

A sudden screech tore across the ruined skyline—half-mechanical, half-organic—as another rift spat out something jagged and screaming with too many limbs.

Hulk made a noise low in his throat but didn’t rush. Not yet. Stark tried to raise his arm to aim, but the servo jerked and sparked, refusing. 

“Oh, come on,” he growled. “Not now…”

Loki sighed and stepped forward without ceremony. A flick of green seiðr shimmered down Stark’s side. The smoke stopped. The panel reformed. The arc reactor hummed steady again.

“There,” Loki said, brushing his hands together as though dusting off crumbs. “Try not to be entirely useless this time.”

Tony blinked, then raised his newly repaired arm and blasted the abomination in the chest, sending it spiraling back through the rift with a shriek. It closed with a violent hiss behind it.

“Thanks Twilight Sparkle,” he said, not quite grudgingly.

“Don’t thank me,” Loki replied. “You’d do the same if our roles were reversed.”

Tony shot him a look through the cracked lens of his helmet. “Would I?”

Loki didn’t answer. They walked in silence through the crumbling street—past rusted sentinel remains, through puddles that shimmered with unstable memory. Hulk trailed behind, quiet as a shadow.

And then Tony said, “Well. You got your kingdom.”

Loki raised a brow.

“How does it feel?”

The question was flippant on the surface. Tossed like a coin into a fountain. But there was something pointed underneath it. Not envy. Not judgment. Just a dare. To say it aloud. To admit what they both already suspected.

Loki let out a dry breath. “You are living proof that even the most brilliant mortal is a fool, Stark.”

“Are you saying I’m wrong?”

“I’m saying,” Loki said slowly, “that you spent your entire life trying to surpass your father. So you, of all people, should understand what you see here.”

That gave Tony pause. The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of ozone and broken circuitry. Somewhere far off, the sound of a failing timeline screamed and folded inward.

Tony didn’t speak again right away. Neither did Loki. They kept walking, boots crunching over ash and glass. For a moment, the only sound was the hum of fractured space collapsing in on itself somewhere behind them. 

Then Tony spoke again, quieter this time, but not gentle. “You know, I used to think you were just playing the long game. Like you were gonna stab us all in the back the second someone turned around.”

Loki arched a brow. “Used to?”

“Well,” Tony said, gesturing vaguely with a freshly-repaired gauntlet, “either you’ve gone soft, or the stabbing is more metaphorical these days.”

Loki smirked. “Give it time.”

But Tony wasn’t laughing. “Seriously,” he said. “You’re not exactly clocking in for charity work here, and I don’t buy the whole ‘just keeping Asgard safe’ routine either. So tell me. Why are you really doing this?”

“Intel. Mischief. Potential leverage over unstable cosmic forces.”

Tony tilted his head. “That’s the joke answer.”

“It’s the honest answer.”

“It’s the deflecting answer.”

Loki’s eyes flicked sideways. Tony held his gaze, even behind the cracked lens. “You could’ve stayed out of this. Could’ve let the timelines rot and watched the rest of us scramble until the moment to take advantage came, but you didn’t.”

“I was bored,” Loki said coolly. “Apocalypses do that. Force even the most self-respecting gods to associate with men in tin suits.”

Tony ignored the jab. “You’re here because you’re trying to prove something. Aren’t you?”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.” Tony looked ahead again. “And I think I know what.”

Loki didn’t respond.

“You got your throne,” Stark said, repeating the earlier words with more weight now. “You got your name. The seat. The crown. All of it. But none of it feels the way you thought it would, does it?”

The God of Mischief went still. Tony slowed too, letting his words settle. “You’re not the first guy to claw his way into the shape of the man he thought he wanted to be,” he continued. “And find out the whole damn thing’s just an echo. You work so hard to prove you’re not your father, and then you look in the mirror one day and—”

“—and there he is,” Loki finished coldly.

Tony turned to him. “Exactly.”

Silence again, but it felt fuller this time.

“I used to think if I just built enough,” Tony said, voice quieter now, “if I saved enough people… if I made myself indispensable to the world, then maybe—just maybe—I could drown out the part of me that still sounded like him when I was tired.”

Loki was watching him now. Not mocking. Not amused. Just… watching. Tony exhaled, his breath visible in the cold ripple of unreality around them. “But it doesn’t work like that. Does it?”

“No,” Loki said. “It doesn’t.”

They stood there for a long moment. 

“I envy you, in a way,” Tony said finally.

Loki’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t argue. Tony looked back out at the battlefield, where Hulk was now lifting a piece of twisted scaffolding to clear another path. “Well,” he said, voice a little lighter now. “Therapy session’s over. Let’s go save the multiverse before the coffee wears off.”

Loki gave a soft, humorless chuckle. “Touching. Shall I send your invoice to your next of kin?”

“Put it in my will,” Tony muttered, walking ahead.

Loki didn’t move right away. His hand drifted briefly toward the inside of his coat; just the faintest ghost of a gesture, and then he let it fall.

“Echoes,” he whispered to no one, and then he followed.

The next question had been different. It had not been offered on a battlefield, but a web. The Spider-Islands—the Master Weaver’s domain—shimmered above the void like fragments of Tokyo suspended in dreamstuff.

Ancient pagodas and luminous temples clung to floating stone, connected by strands of threadlike silk that shimmered with unnatural tension—webs of fate, pulled taut between collapsing timelines. The air was dense with magic, almost viscous, humming with the quiet labor of the Loom. It rang when one stepped wrong. It whispered when one didn’t.

Loki wasn't here for the Master Weaver.

Loki was here for the one he’d cast aside.

He had heard Spider-Zero’s calls for help—not with fanfare or command, but with quiet urgency, threading her message through what strands of fate she could still reach.

The Master Weaver had been feeding the energy of a temporal rift into the Web of Life and Destiny, desperate to reinforce its design. But Zero didn’t trust that power. And neither did Loki.

However, Strange seemed to find it interesting enough. The Sorcerer Supreme stood beside a spiraling web of refracted probability, his hands behind his back and his cape idly drifting on a wind that didn’t exist. He didn’t look at Loki when he spoke.

“So,” Strange said, as though continuing a conversation they hadn’t started. “Thousands of futures. Countless timelines. Entire realities rewritten.”

Loki narrowed his eyes.

“And the only surviving Asgard in all of them…” Strange turned, finally meeting his gaze. “...is one you rule?”

“It’s true.”

Strange’s expression didn’t change. He took a slow step closer, the platform beneath his feet humming with cosmic tension. “Quite convenient for you, then,” he said softly. “That you are the sole witness to this future.”

Loki’s lips curled. “You are among the few mortals who could prove me wrong, Strange,” he said, folding his arms. “You’re welcome to try.”

“Oh, I’ve tried,” Strange replied, not rising to the bait. “And I’ve seen many things. Including a few where Asgard lives without you.”

“None where it survives long,” Loki said.

“Perhaps,” Strange allowed, “but survival isn’t the same as salvation. Or happiness.”

That struck something. A minor chord beneath Loki’s ribs. He tilted his head. “Happiness is a mortal metric. You should know better.”

Strange gave a small, tired smile. “I do. I also know when someone is bluffing.”

Loki’s gaze sharpened. “Do you?”

Strange stepped forward, fingers brushing the edge of one of the silken threads, not enough to disturb it. “Tell me something honestly, Loki. When you saw those futures… when you saw your kingdom and your crown… were you happy?” 

There it was. The question; dressed in silk but hiding steel. Not a question of righteousness nor strategy, but of happiness. The one thing Loki always told himself didn’t matter.

He stared forward, eyes tracking the motion of Spider Zero in the distance. “Happiness is for those who can afford it,” he said softly.

Strange didn’t look away. “And you can’t?”

“What I saw… was necessity. A reality held together by threads as thin as these. In every future where I let go, Asgard fell.” He looked at Strange again. “Is happiness worth the end of what’s important to you?”

“That’s not what I asked,” Strange said.

“No,” Loki admitted. “But it’s the only answer I have.” He stood quietly for a moment, his gaze going distant. “I saw a thousand endings. Most were fire. Some were ice. One or two were empty thrones atop mountains of ash. But only one … had a future where Asgard endured. With its people. Its name. Its meaning.”

Strange didn’t interrupt; he only waited.

“I didn’t choose that outcome because it was mine,” Loki added, tone clipped. “I chose it because it was the only one where something, anything, was left standing. The only one where I fulfilled my glorious purpose.”

“And yet,” Strange said, tilting his head, “you never stop justifying it.”

Loki’s hands clenched behind his back.

Strange stepped past him, toward a junction where a thread had begun to fray. “You may be right,” he said, facing away from Loki now. “Perhaps Asgard does need you. Perhaps the only way through this… is through you.”

Then he turned his head, just enough for Loki to catch the flicker of something behind his eyes. Doubt, sadness, or maybe just a kind of tired hope.

“But I wonder, Loki…” Strange murmured. “When this is all over—when the timelines are stable, and you have secured the power of your crown—will it have been worth what you lost along the way?”

Strange’s words hovered in the air like silk caught in the wind. Delicate, but impossible to ignore. He didn’t wait for an answer.

Instead, Strange turned and walked off across a thread-bridge with practiced ease, his cloak flicking out behind him like punctuation at the end of a sentence.

Loki remained. He didn’t move. Not yet. Because Strange had left something behind. Not in his hand. Not in spell or scar. But in his voice. An echo. One more.

Loki closed his eyes. The Web of Life and Destiny hummed beneath him, threads whispering to one another in a language older than time. He could hear it. He always had. But now, woven between the tones—between the voices of fates and futures—he heard the echoes.

Not spells. Not screams. Just echoes.

Carried on silk.

Carried in memory.

Carried through him.

He breathed out slowly, and when he opened his eyes again, he was already walking forward—toward another junction, another thread in need of repair, another silence waiting to become a question.

The next question came not from sorcerers or soldiers, but from something older than them both—and darker.

It came from teeth.

The Loom’s hum still clung to him when he stepped onto the fractured skybridge that connected one orphaned timeline to another. It was quiet here, the kind of quiet that presses against the ears. Then came the sound: wet, elastic, and unmistakably hungry.

“Hello, little god. We’ve been looking for you.”

The voice slid out of the dark like oil over glass and a shape detached itself from the shadows—black as the void between stars with white eyes that stretched into a grin too wide for the face that bore it. A jagged white emblem sprawled across its chest, and claws flexed at the ends of muscular, corded arms. Loki knew exactly who it was: Venom. 

He did not flinch, though his fingers curled against the haft of his scepter

“You,” Loki said softly, as if the word itself might stain.

“Me,” the Symbiote said, teeth glistening as they stalked closer. “Relax, we’re not here to bite. Not yet.”

Loki arched a brow. “An intriguing qualifier.”

“Everything’s a qualifier when the end of all things is gnawing on your heels.” Venom tilted their head, their host’s voice bubbling through like an echo beneath tar. “We know what stirs in the dark, godling. The one who birthed us from the shadow. The one the others caged. He hungers for more thrones. More power. Your Asgard isn't an exception.”

“Knull,” Loki said, letting the name linger like a poison on the tongue. “Still rotting in his living prison, I presume?”

“For now.” The grin widened into a grimace. “But cages break. Threads fray. And when the knots of time came undone, so did the locks. Chronovium…” the word oozed between fangs like sap from a rotting tree “...bleeds into the abyssal cracks of Kylntar. Power enough to slip a hand through the bars.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed. “And you came to warn me… out of altruism?”

Venom laughed. A slick, bubbling sound. “We came because we hate him more than you ever will. Because if he gets out, if he finds a host strong enough to wear his crown, every song of light dies screaming.”

“And you think that host might be me?” Loki’s voice was soft. Dangerous.

Venom leaned close, breath cold and reeking of ink and tar. “No. Not you. You’re too busy pretending to be the hero of your own story.” Their grin dripped wider. “But there are others… others who dream bigger than they should. Others who wear thrones like funeral shrouds.”

The words slithered between them, not accusation, not quite prophecy, just something Venom knew. “And when hunger calls, those kinds of dreams answer first.”

Loki’s brow lifted, ever so slightly. “Cryptic as ever,” he murmured. “You must be delightful at parties.”

Venom’s laugh was wet and low. “Parties end. Kingdoms end. We’ve seen it. We’ve tasted it. Everything rots eventually… but some rot faster when they believe decay is glory.”

The implication hung there, heavy and sharp-edged. Finally, Loki said, “You came a very long way to whisper riddles, Symbiote.”

Venom tilted their head, the white slash of their eyes glimmering faintly in the fractured light. “Not riddles. Questions. The ones you’ve been dodging every time someone hands you a mirror. I can see it in your eyes. The doubt. The cracks in the mask you proudly wear. The one you pretend nobody else can see.”

A slow step forward. The bridge beneath them shivered, threads humming under weight they weren’t meant to bear.

“Tell us, little god,” Venom purred, “when that mask falls… what will you have left to keep? A crown?” Their grin curled, feral and endless. “Or nothing at all?”

Loki’s fingers tightened on his scepter, though his voice stayed velvet-smooth. “I will have what I need.”

Venom leaned close enough for their breath to fog the air between them, and in a voice soft as the rip of silk, they asked: “Are you sure you know what that is?”

The quiet after was absolute. Then, without sound or ceremony, the massive, black creature folded into itself and slipped back through the seams of unreality, leaving Loki alone on the trembling bridge with a question that clung like tar.

The last of these questions came from the Hellfire Gala. Krakoa. A night stitched in mutant glamour and impossible lights.

The air shimmered with psionic music and the scent of blooming bioluminescent orchids. Gala gowns glittered like supernovas. Reality itself seemed lightly drunk on its own excess, but not all the guests were swept up in the dance.

In a quieter alcove, half-shaded by an enormous tree, four figures stood in conversation. It was the kind of corner people noticed only once they needed it. A place where the threads of power and memory could knot in private.

Loki was dressed for dominion, not spectacle.

His tailored green coat shimmered with subtle serpentine patterns, the collar crowned in thick emerald fur. A gold chain hung from his lapel, and runes traced his cuffs like whispered secrets. His horns curved above him like punctuation to a promise, and he held his serpent-shaped scepter loosely, a glass of something ancient in his other hand. Calm. Poised. Amused, as if he already knew how the night would end.

Luna Snow stood poised in monochrome silk, her hair swept like a brushstroke of night and snow. A faint shimmer clung to her as if starlight answered her presence.

Of the four, she was the only one who smiled easily. “I still don’t get how you know my songs, I mean, you’re from another world! I didn’t know my songs were played across the multi-verse!” she said with a bashful smile.

Loki inclined his head. “Your verses carry the weight of yearning and starlight. You remind me of the court bards of Alfheim, before the realms forgot how to sing.”

“Ah. I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be a compliment.”

“It’s rare,” he said, not quite answering.

Magik leaned back on one heel, her platinum bob haloed by faint embers. She wore crimson armor softened into couture, and her soul sword hung sheathed at her hip.

“Careful,” she said to Luna. “He gives out compliments like they’re puzzle boxes. You can’t tell if it’s a gift or a trap until you open it.”

Loki gave her a sideways look. “And yet, here you are. Conversing. With me.”

Magik shrugged. “I like dangerous things.”

“Dangerous,” Adam Warlock echoed. He stood in resplendent quiet, golden skin aglow beneath an elegantly minimal coat that looked like it had been carved from stardust and silence. “And yet, despite that, I can’t help but think that you are a curious one, Loki Laufeyson.”

Loki sipped his drink without turning. “So I have been told. By the All-Father and countless others.”

“There is such good within you,” Adam said, without preamble. “Why do you hide it behind a veil of darkness?” The question didn’t bite. It didn’t accuse. It simply… was. Luna’s brows rose slightly. Magik raised her glass.

Loki’s smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I play the role I must to prevail. And it seems the next act,” he said, swirling the glass and gazing into the distance where Emma Frost—the hostess of this spectacle—began flirting with Steve Rogers, “is about to begin.”

But none of the three followed his gaze. Adam tilted his head. “Is that the only reason?”

“No,” Loki said, with a kind of lazy gravity. “But it is the reason I will name aloud.”

Luna’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Wait… sorry, I’m still catching up. Are we—” she pointed between Loki and the group, “—all friends here? Or is this, like… dramatic ex-villain energy?”

“Pfft. Ex-Villain,” Magik smirked. “You don’t know who that really is, do you?”

Luna raised a brow. “Should I?”

“That’s Loki Laufeyson. King Loki.”

There was a beat.

“…Okay. Still not ringing a bell.”

Magik glanced to Adam, then back to Luna. “You know Thor?”

“Sure,” Luna said. “Big hammer, lightning. Tony Stark wouldn’t shut up about him.”

“Well,” Magik said with casual venom, “he’s missing. And Loki’s why. He overthrew his own brother.” And then, quieter: “He thinks he’s saving Asgard.”

Luna’s gaze shifted back to Loki, who was barely holding back a smile and studying a thread on his glove like it might reveal the future. “You overthrew your own brother?”

“I did not overthrow,” Loki said coolly. “That implies a lack of finesse. I usurped.”

“That’s not better,” Luna said.

“I disagree,” Loki replied.

Luna crossed her arms. “But what if you just… didn’t do… that?”

Loki blinked.

“You did it to save Asgard, right?”

“Yes.”

“And… you’re only doing it because it’s ‘the role you need to play’?”

Loki stared at her.

“Well, it seems like you have your kingdom now, but to be honest, you don’t really seem that happy to me. More… tense, if anything.”

Loki’s gaze sharpened. “You know nothing about me, mortal. But go on, do talk to me like you’ve completely figured me out. It’s amusing.”

Luna rolled her eyes, but didn’t take the bait. “I’m not trying to insult you or hyper-analyze you. I’m just… speaking as someone who performs for a living. I know what it’s like. What it looks like. You get so used to filling in your role. Every night, every moment. You start believing the version of yourself the world claps for is the only one that matters.”

She hesitated, then went on, her voice quieter now. “But there’s a line. And once you cross it, you don’t even know where the mask ends and you begin. It starts eating you alive. And if you don’t step back—if you don’t stop and ask what you need instead of what everyone expects from you—then you lose yourself.”

Her gaze softened, but her words cut sharper. “And when that happens, it won’t just be yourself you lose. You’ll find yourself standing on whatever throne you’ve fought for… and no one will be there with you. You’ll have won, but you’ll be alone.”

Loki didn’t respond. His expression didn’t flicker. But his grip on the rim of the glass shifted just slightly.

Then, Luna looked at him. Really looked at him. “Have you ever considered just… letting it all go? And if you did, would you even know who you are underneath?”

Magik let out a quiet, dry laugh. “Now that’s a question to be asking a supervillain you just met,” she muttered. “We’re not all built for masks coming off.”

“But we all wear them,” Adam said gently. “Even you, Illyana.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t.”

Loki spoke next. “Letting it go,” he echoed, voice calm but tight. “How quaint. You mistake me for someone playing a role. I am not pretending to be this. I became this. Because the alternative was to disappear.” 

A pause. 

Loki glanced up, eyes sharp. “If I let go, there will be nothing left to catch me. That is not freedom, Miss Snow. That is obliteration.”

They all went quiet for a beat.

The party noise drifted in like distant tides, laughter, dancing, psychic fireworks painting the Krakoan sky. Loki looked at his reflection in the rim of his glass. For a moment, it shimmered. Not his own face, but with someone else’s, flickering like a ghost in a window. He set the glass down. “Gods do not live long without stories to tether them.”

Luna looked at him. “Then write a new one.”

Magik raised a brow. “That’s cute,” she said. “You think he doesn’t know how.”

“I think,” Luna replied, eyes not leaving Loki, “he’s afraid of what it might cost.”

Adam studied Loki for a long moment. “Letting go is not the end of meaning. Sometimes it is the beginning.”

“That sounds like something the so-called perfect human would say,” Loki said.

“I never called myself that.”

“I hope you detected my… irony?”

Adam sighed, Luna raised a brow, and Magik disguised her laugh as a cough with her hand.

The four of them stood like that in silence. A god. A mutant. A pop star. A creation. All of them glittering in Krakoan light. Magik broke the silence first, tilting her head like she was measuring him against some unseen scale. “You know what your problem is, Loki?”

Loki arched a brow. “Enlighten me.”

“You keep acting like the crown makes you untouchable,” she said, her tone halfway between warning and challenge. “But nothing’s untouchable. Not people. Not kingdoms. And when you spend all your time bracing for someone to take it from you, you start pushing away the ones who might’ve fought to keep it with you.”

She swirled the drink in her hand, gaze briefly dropping to it before she added, almost lazily, “That’s how kings end up dying surrounded by gold instead of allies.”

Loki gave a faint, almost imperceptible scoff, as if to suggest her observation was predictable, beneath him, but the twitch of his brow betrayed his silent trepidation.

It wasn’t often that someone’s words found purchase past the practiced wards in his mind, but Magik’s had slipped through like a blade angled just so. 

“A charming little parable,” he murmured, though the words came slower than usual. “You’d do well in court.”

Magik hummed. “At least consider it.”

The gala’s distant music filled the space between the four of them. Then, after a quiet beat—long enough to make it seem like his next words had not been coaxed from him—Loki’s eyes flicked to Adam, Luna, and then Magik. 

“I will consider your words,” he said at last. It wasn’t a concession. But it wasn’t nothing either.

Luna smiled, Magik sipped her drink, and Adam inclined his head. “Consider them not as condemnation, but as invitation,” he said. Then, bringing his gaze to Luna and Magik, he added with quiet warmth, “It has been… illuminating to share the floor with you both. May your evenings be lighter than the weight we’ve just placed upon it.

His golden eyes shifted back to Loki, the faintest trace of a knowing smile there. “And may your choices find you before your fears do.”

For half a heartbeat, Loki’s unblinking gaze held his.Then something almost imperceptible passed through his expression: a tightening at the corner of his jaw, the briefest lift of his mouth that might have been a smile if it hadn’t vanished so quickly. The rim of his glass tilted slightly in his grip before he lifted it with a nod.

“Enjoy your evening, Warlock,” Loki said, the words level but quieter than before.

With a glance toward the gala’s distant shimmer, Adam stepped away to rejoin his companions: Mantis, who had already begun swaying to music only she could hear; Rocket, who snorted and handed him something in a flask; and Star-Lord, who offered a two-fingered salute as Adam approached.

Luna exhaled softly. “That one’s a walking proverb machine.”

Magik cracked a grin. “Yeah, but at least he’s polite about it.”  She glanced at Loki, then stretched. “Well, that’s enough soul-searching for one night,” she muttered, already turning. “I’ve got a gala to survive and about four more cocktails to interrogate. Come find me later, Snow. We’ll grab a bite and talk more about dramatic masks and metaphors or whatever.” And with that, she too was walking away.

Luna gave a playful salute behind the Queen of Limbo, then turned once more to Loki.

“Thanks for listening,” she said. “And… I hope one day you find something real enough to keep. Even if it’s not a crown.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. Soon, all three had drifted away. Adam back into cosmic company, Magik into the clashing laughter of mutants and cocktails, and Luna toward the glowing stage.

Loki remained where he was, a stillness at the edge of brilliance. But before he could mull on the newfound silence, he felt the pressure change before he saw the cloak.

“King,” said Victor von Doom, arriving the way inevitability arrives: already there and waiting. No telegraph of power. Just presence. The dark silver of his cloak read darker than Loki’s, the metal mask catching the evening light. Emma Frost had indeed invited him; Krakoa glittered harder for it.

Loki did not turn at once. “Victor. How gracious of the White Queen to seat you among the peacocks.”

“Peacocks preen. Predators select.” Doom’s gaze flicked across the party, then returned. “You are selecting.”

“I’m attending,” Loki said mildly.

“A distinction without a difference,” Doom replied, and produced a sliver of something that bent the light wrong: Chronovium caught in a Latverian lattice, a razor-thin shard that hummed just below hearing. “A coordinate. Not to a place. But to an interval.”

Loki’s mouth tilted. “I don’t barter at galas.”

Doom’s gauntlet rotated the shard once, its light bending like a broken prism. “This is not a gift,” he said evenly. “It is an equation awaiting balance. Should you ever speak the phrase Vector Null, Asgard, the lattice will open. To me. To Latveria. To more.”

Loki’s gaze lingered on it. He was not naïve. He was well aware that Victor von Doom had stood at the root of the Timestream Entanglement, the man whose hubris had stitched and torn timelines into knots that had not yet finished fraying. Doom’s fingerprints were on every catastrophe that had spilled since, but to say he wasn’t intrigued would have been a lie.

Loki let the silence hold, then quirked a smile. “And what would I owe, should I ever decide to use your little trinket?”

Doom inclined his head fractionally, mask impassive. “What you already owe. Every king owes it. The acknowledgment that sovereignty is never singular.” His voice dropped lower, the words intended for Loki alone. “When you are finished pretending that Asgard alone can stand against inevitability, you will find me waiting.”

For a long moment, they watched one another—two monarchs brought to power by the consequence of the Timestream Entanglement, balanced on the knife-edge between alliance and ruin. Then Doom turned, cloak dragging shadows across the floor. 

“We will see each other again,” he said, not as promise but as prophecy.

By the time Loki glanced down, the shard was already resting cold in his palm, humming like a wound that refused to close.

Loki’s fingers curled, closing around the shard until its hum pressed against his skin. A flicker of seiðr coiled over his palm, swallowing the lattice whole and drawing it into the folds of elsewhere—one of the hidden spaces he kept for things better forgotten.

He would never touch it again. Never speak the phrase. Never even think of it.

Because to do so would mean admitting Doom was right—that Asgard could not stand without leaning on another throne. Loki would not grant him that satisfaction. He found the Latverian’s presumption almost insulting, as if a scavenger had mistaken itself for an equal. Doom was a monarch of machines, masks, and magic, a tyrant who mistook inevitability for genius. Loki was more than that. He was necessity made into flesh, and he would not debase himself by answering to a man who dealt in the currency of chains.

Though the weight of Doom’s words still pressed at the edges of his thoughts, Loki refused to give them shape. Better to let them dissolve into the noise of the gala. So he lifted his gaze again, watching the currents of the room as if nothing at all had happened. Each thread of conversation and event unraveled before him, a tapestry in motion.

Magik was already at the bar, leaning one elbow on polished glass as she interrogated her first cocktail of the night, her smirk catching in the neon.

Adam had slipped into a knot of his cosmic companions, their raucous laughter pulsing like a foreign constellation in the crowd.

Luna had drifted toward the glowing stage, pausing to greet Logan with a clasp of hands and Wanda with a kiss to the cheek, their conversation folding into the music’s pulse.

Beyond them, Strange and Stark stood side by side at another table, glasses in hand, their laughter low and knowing, sorcerer and inventor united in whatever joke Loki was not invited to hear.

Across the room, the Hulk sat impossibly still for a creature of his size, holding his cards with delicate precision as he played poker with Hawkeye and Widow, the three of them lost in some private rhythm of wagers and quiet jabs.

In the farthest alcove, darkness pooled. A slick ripple of black, teeth flashing like a hungry crescent moon—Venom lounged against the wall like a living shadow. Beside them, Peter Parker sat stiff, hands twitching in restless shapes. They were engaged in some sort of bickering quarrel—one all sharp edges, the other all teeth—words lost beneath the music, swallowed by starlight.

Loki let the scene wash over him—the clink of glass, the warmth of chandeliers, the sharp tang of champagne in the air—and yet felt no closer to it.

These were the five who had cut through his armor with nothing but words, who had left him with questions he could not seem to burn away. And though the gala blazed in gold, emerald, and psionic starlight, their voices still echoed in his head

Is it worth it?

None of it feels the way you thought it would.

Will it be worth what you lose?

Would you know who you are underneath?

When that mask falls… what will you have left to keep?

Nothing is untouchable.

He stood a little longer than he meant to. A little quieter than usual. His reflection rippled again in the rim of his abandoned glass. This time, there was no ghost in it. No echoes.

Just himself. Alone.

/ / /

In the present, nothing had changed—Loki was still alone.

The corridors felt longer today, as if the palace itself was conspiring to make each step heavier. The silence in them wasn’t peace, more like absence. No light footsteps trailing behind him, no bright interruptions in the form of a boy with too many questions. Not once, through the entire day’s procession of duties, did he see Nari.

Petitions. Reports. Audience with minor lords. Decisions on troop movements. Edicts signed and sealed. All done with the same precision as always, but without the faint thread of warmth he had sometimes carried from their mornings together.

It made the hours run colder.

He kept his voice level when advisors addressed him, but his answers came shorter. He let his silences drag a little longer than necessary, the kind that made even seasoned courtiers hesitate.

Once, a steward stumbled over a line in the day’s orders, and Loki’s gaze alone was enough to make the man’s words dissolve in his mouth.

The mood clung to him.

Not once did he pass by the wing where Nari’s lessons took place. Not once did he ask Saella how the boy was faring. The thought crossed his mind only in quick flashes, and each time he cut it down before it could grow teeth.

By late afternoon, the sun had begun to sink, painting the high windows with streaks of molten gold. The palace quieted as scribes packed away their work and guards changed their watch.

Loki dismissed the last of his attendants with a flick of his hand and crossed alone to a balcony overlooking the city. From here, Asgard’s towers caught the dying light, their gilded tips burning against the deepening sky. The Bifrost bridge lay dormant in the distance, a ribbon of muted color stretching toward the edge of the world. The wind was crisp, cool against his face, carrying the faint tang of the sea.

He watched the sun dip, slow and deliberate, until its edge caught the horizon and the sky bled orange into violet. His fingers tightened loosely on the railing. The day had been nothing but decisions, but the evening held something heavier: his meeting with Hela in the catacombs.

He drew a slow breath, holding it for a moment before letting it go. Whatever he brought into that room, it could not be weakness.

Not SENTIMENT.

Not today.

The last sliver of sun sank beneath the edge of the world. The shadows lengthened, and Loki turned from the view, the mask already sliding back into place.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

Loki was fine. He has always been fine. What happened that morning—whatever words had been said, whatever look Nari had given him—meant nothing. It had to.

SENTIMENT was a trick of the nerves, a weakness dressed up as warmth. He had cut it out of himself long ago. Cut it out and burned what was left.

(And if something still throbbed under the scar, well… he would not acknowledge it).

There was work to be done. The catacombs beneath the palace breathed cold on his descent, their walls slick with age. He’d chosen this route before, it was the most direct path to the place where Hela liked to appear when they spoke without an audience. It was also the farthest from any corridor where prying ears might be.

The chamber was as it always had been: high-arched, lit by guttering blue flame, air dry as parchment. He waited.

Nothing.

A second candle burned halfway down. Still nothing.

He felt it then—an absence that wasn’t mere lateness. The place was wrong. Still in the way of rooms no one had walked in for years. A warning, maybe. Or a challenge.

He ignored both and reached for the Chronovium at the base of his scepter. The golden spark joined his seiðr, running through the rest of his scepter and flaring through the spell like blood through water. Reality folded, and when it straightened, Loki stood on Niflheim, on the black road to Hela’s fortress.

A procession found him shortly after he manifested—fallen Asgardian warriors in rusted armor astride skeletal mounts, their empty eyes fixed ahead.

As they turned to lead him on, their song began: a low, discordant dirge, the kind that might once have been a battle hymn before being hollowed out by death. It carried the weight of old dishonor, yet the pace was just slightly… wrong. A half-beat too quick. Like they were eager to be finished.

He followed.

The fortress rose from the dark as before, its gates yawning open like a jaw. The smell of old bone and older power rolled out to meet him. But something in the air had shifted—not emptiness, but an overlay. Power not her own, threaded through the stones like rot under gilding.

They took him to her throne.

Empty.

No illusions. No lurking in shadow to watch him fume. No games.

Which meant one thing: she wasn’t avoiding him. She just wasn’t here.

His eyes slid across the dais, cataloguing the room. The bones underfoot were rearranged—only subtly, but different from his last visit. More brittle ones, smaller. Bird bones, maybe. Not her style. And on the arm of her throne…

He moved closer.

A spiral. Not carved, but seared deep into the stone—its edges blackened and sizzling. The color was wrong too: a wet, glistening crimson that no Hel-born rune ever carried.

The sight tugged at him, but not like memory of an image. Like memory of a sound—a low, crawling murmur that had once followed him across a battlefield.

Yes. The stench of ash. The pulse of a living darkness. The whisper he had ignored on that crawling black world in the midst of the Timestream Entanglement.

He knew where it came from now.

Klyntar.

He didn’t touch the mark. Instead, he paced around the throne, retracing the angles of the power it emanated. He felt for what was missing—the wards Hela always kept coiled under its seat like blades under velvet. Half were gone. The rest… altered. Bound into something else’s pattern.

A pattern that wasn’t hers.

His lip curled. “Oh no you didn’t.”

A flick of his wrist sent Chronovium-light through the spiral, just enough to make it answer. The pulse came back—slow, thick, like something sleeping in a deep, cold place.

And then it spoke.

You are too late, Trickster.

It wasn’t Hela’s voice. The resonance was deeper than shadow, and older than the roots of Yggdrasill.

“Knull,” Loki said.

The name tasted like cold iron. The god of darkness. Creator of the crawling Symbiotes. Older than Asgard, older than Hela, older than all of them combined. A thing that had cleaved a Celestial’s head from its shoulders with the All-Black, and then worn the void it left behind as a crown. Even Loki—who had made allies of monsters—would never dream of binding himself to something like him.

She comes willingly. She reigns for me now.

He breathed once, slow. He’d always known she might betray him eventually—Hela’s alliances were handshakes made of smoke. But not like this. Not by kneeling to something older and hungrier than both of them were.

You starved her, the voice went on, smooth as oil. Gave her scraps when she wanted feasts. I offered her more. More power, more dominion, more of what you never would. Now, you will suffer for it.

For an instant, something cold threaded down his spine—too much like the first touch of a blade at his back. But his face stayed still, his tone unshaken as he said, “And you think that makes her yours?”

Knull’s chuckle was low and cold.

She was never yours.

The sigil cooled beneath his gaze, the presence fading until the mark was nothing more than stone again. He stayed a moment longer, looking at the empty seat. The fortress seemed smaller now, the silence heavier. She hadn’t just turned against him. She’d beaten him in his own game.

When he finally left, it was without a word to the escort. The road unwound behind him in bone-white lines, then folded away entirely as he stepped back into Asgard. The air here was thinner, but his mind was heavy—half on what Hela’s defection meant for the realm’s future, half on how this would affect Nari.

He told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself he felt nothing.

But the lie felt heavier now.

/ / /

Loki did not sleep.

Or if he did, it was the shallow, restless kind that left the mind gnawing on itself in the dark. Even behind the wards of his chamber, the quiet was too brittle. The air felt like it was waiting for something to break.

By the time the first light touched the spires of Asgard, he was already at his desk, hands folded loosely over the day’s first report, posture so still he could have been mistaken for a statue.

He told himself it wasn’t worry. Worry was for those without plans. He was a master of plans. Curve balls, betrayals, sudden shifts—these were merely opportunities for a better game. The courier’s seal cracked cleanly beneath his thumb.

The first message was from the northern front: the Crimson Hawks had broken formation mid-engagement the previous evening. At first, the scouts thought it was mutiny—battle-frayed tempers snapping after too many campaigns, but then came the description.

Armor warped as if half-melted and reforged on the flesh beneath. Skin that rippled like black water under torchlight. Mouths—too many mouths—where there should have been none, splitting open to reveal teeth that didn’t belong to any mortal anatomy.

Symbiotes. Knull’s mark.

Loki knew them well enough from the older stories, the kind buried in vaults and whispered of only in places where the light dared not reach.

Symbiotes were not beasts of flesh and bone in the ordinary sense, but a species of inorganic, amorphous parasites birthed from the “living abyss” by their god Knull at the dawn of the universe. Like all its kin, it craved to bond— rooting itself in the blood and mind of a host, knitting itself to every nerve, every thought. The bonded were never themselves again. They became part of the Hive-Mind: one will, one hunger, stretched across countless bodies in countless worlds.

These Crimson Hawks were no longer warriors in any meaningful sense. They weren’t even enemies that could be reasoned with. They were weapons—blades swung by a hand far from the battlefield. And all of them were far beyond saving.

He moved to the second dispatch.

The Valkyrior were gone. Not gone as in missing. Gone as in accounted for; every name scrawled in a neat, unbroken column, the ink still damp where the quills had struggled to keep pace with the deaths. Shieldmaidens, captains, squires barely old enough to have earned their wings.

All of them, cut down.

The report claimed they had bought time for the retreat at the eastern pass, but it was a thin victory at best. A few companies saved, a few more hours for the rest of the line to reposition. And for that, the cost had been measured in the lives of warriors bred for centuries to face anything the Ten Realms could throw at them.

Loki leaned back in his chair, the parchment crackling faintly between his fingers. Most rulers would have called it a tragedy. A staggering loss. He did not. Dead warriors were clean pieces in a game—noble on the surface, unburdened by the stubbornness or ambitions of the living. Martyrs could be polished into symbols. Symbols could be bent to purpose.

The Valkyrior had been among the best Asgard could field, but their absence meant fewer unpredictable variables in the board he now controlled. No sudden defiance. No inconvenient heroics. Only names on a page, and names could not contradict a king.

He set the reports aside, fingers steepled in thought, already tracing the web of possibilities in his mind.

Which surviving captains could be maneuvered into command without making the losses too obvious? Which fronts could be quietly abandoned without looking abandoned? Which rumors could be seeded in the mess halls and merchant courts to keep attention anywhere but where it mattered?

He could make this work. He always did.

By the second hour of the morning, the war council was assembled. Maps spread across the long table like a patient awaiting surgery, markers sliding under his hand with surgical precision. Orders were issued without pause, dispatches sealed and sent down the Bifrost to the edges of Asgard’s reach. Reinforcements shifted, reserves redeployed, weak points covered by the illusion of strength.

All the while, he kept the most dangerous truth to himself: Hela had turned. No one here knew the details, but whispers had already begun. The court had eyes—many of them—and it didn’t take a seer to notice the shift in the tides.

Loki, however, knew exactly what that union meant. Hela’s dead were already difficult enough to kill; Knull’s creations were almost impossible to stop. Together, they were not an army but a tide—black, endless, and patient—capable of sweeping away even the strongest defenses in a single night. Even without the whole story, they could read the gap in the mask. They could smell weakness.

And weakness was an invitation.

Loki could already see them in his mind’s eye: the pale-faced nobles who had never ceased measuring his every move, the ancient houses that had endured his rule only because his grip was powerful and it kept worse enemies at bay.

Now, the scent of weakness was in the air, and they would inhale it like perfume. Whispers would ripen into challenges, polite courtesies into calculated barbs, each one testing how far they could press before the crown slipped.

Let them: The same scent that drew carrion birds could be laced with poison, and he had never minded baiting a trap. He could do away with those who rebelled against him just as easily as he did Sif and Heimdall.

It was only when the council adjourned, the maps rolled and the dispatches sent, that the absence hit him. He hadn’t seen Nari that morning. Or for most of the day before. He told himself it was better this way—that the boy had no place among these shifting knives and poisoned goblets. That distance kept him safe.

But every time he thought it, something in his chest pulled tighter, like a thread wound too close to snapping. He ignored it. Buried it beneath lists and orders, beneath the shuffling of markers on the war table, beneath the voices of captains and advisors repeating their reports.

By midday, the defenses were moving again. The fronts would hold, for now. The court would whisper, would plot, would test the edges of his authority—they had done so before when Loki had first usurped the throne. He only needed to decide when and how they would see his teeth once again.

(And this time, there could be no doubt. No hesitation for them to seize upon).

(He was not some interloper playing king until “brother dearest” returned to claim what rightfully belonged to Loki HIMSELF).

(He was WORTHY. Because if he wasn’t, then all of it, every victory, every sacrifice, was nothing but smoke in his own hands).

Everything else—the symbiote-bound Hawks, the slaughtered Valkyrior, and Nari—could wait.

And unfortunately for him, the waiting did not last long.

By the next turn of the hourglass, the murmurs were already leaking through the marble like damp. Not shouted yet—oh no, Asgard’s court was far too civilized for THAT—but sly, glancing things traded in corners and under breath.

“The king has lost control of his pet monster.”

“Hela’s absence is more than telling; it’s damning.”

“Only a fool would chain Asgard’s true defenders while crawling into bed with his enemies.”

“Why else would Sif and Heimdall still rot below, if not to keep them from speaking the truth?”

They were careful not to say it within earshot, but Loki knew the scent of blood when it was in the water, and he heard almost everything that happened in his Asgard.

It was clear to Loki that Sif and Heimdall had become more than prisoners. They were symbols now: proud, defiant figures in chains, their silence heavy enough for others to fill with whatever narrative suited them best. Whispers painted them as martyrs, jailed not for rebellion but for truths the king wished buried. Every day they remained locked away, the stories grew teeth. Every day, those teeth sharpened.

Release them, and he risked them cutting him openly—rallying their allies, slipping poison into the ears of the wavering. Keep them, and he gave the malcontents a rallying cry. It was a choice between venom in the cup or a slow bleed.

He had survived worse. He would survive this. But survival was not the same as control. Control required spectacle—an answer so decisive it would burn the whispers out of the air. A public trial, perhaps, where their guilt could be crafted into something undeniable. Or an “accidental” transfer that saw them lost en route to exile. Or…

His mind sorted the possibilities like blades in a drawer, turning each one in the light. Whichever he chose, it could not smell of panic. The court could never see him flinch.

(He was WORTHY. And worthy men did not bend to the weight of lesser wills).

(Odin would have NEVER let something like this drag him down).

(Loki was better).

(Loki was smarter).

(Loki was stronger—)

He let the thoughts settle like a crown—cold, flawless, and heavy with the promise that he would not be moved. It fit because he willed it to fit, because to doubt it even for a breath was to give the whispers their opening. Outside his doors, rumor coiled through the palace like smoke seeking a spark.

/ / /

The boy kept his distance. Loki noticed, though he pretended he didn’t. 

In the corridors, Nari would pass without looking up, his eyes fixed on some far-off point that conveniently carried him in the opposite direction.

In the training yards, he stayed close to Bjorn, following each command with precise, almost mechanical obedience. If Loki happened by, Nari would keep his stance locked, his eyes fixed on the wooden blade or the ground beneath his feet, never acknowledging the shadow that fell over him.

At meals—where his attendance was mandatory—he took the same seat at the long table, far enough down the line that Loki would have to lean past two other courtiers to address him. Even then, the boy did not look at him. His gaze stayed on his plate, though his fork barely moved, and when it did, it was with the smallest, most obligatory bites.

As soon as custom allowed, he would set his utensils down, murmur something polite to no one in particular, and slip away. Always early. Always without a glance in Loki’s direction.

It was not defiance, not openly. It was absence; deliberate absence. The kind that carried its own quiet weight. The kind that said: I am staying out of your way.

Once or twice, Loki caught the faintest trace of the boy’s voice echoing from a side hall—muted, rising and falling as if in conversation—only to turn the corner and find the place empty.

Another time, he found him at a distance, cross-legged on the floor of a tucked away corner of the library. Fenrir sat beside him, upright and watchful, the mended seams of the wolf’s neck tilted toward the scene like a silent friend keeping guard.

In Nari’s hands were two wooden, carved figures—one tall, with a chipped golden crown, and another smaller, its face worn smooth from years of handling. Between them lay a scatter of other toys, but those two seemed to hold the weight of the moment.

He gave each its own voice. The taller one spoke first, in a low, imperious tone that made Fenrir’s button eyes seem to follow its every move. The smaller one answered in a voice pitched higher, sharp with accusation.

“I didn’t ask you to do those things!” the smaller said.

“You don’t understand what you’re saying,” the taller replied, the boy’s voice flattening into something cold.

“I do! I do understand! You scare people. You act like it doesn’t matter. But it does. It’s not… it’s not good!”

The taller figure tipped forward, as if looming. “It is good.”

“No it’s not!” the smaller snapped, jolting back in his grip. “You’re not good! You just… pretend to be with me. And I thought...” Here, Nari faltered, the voice he used for the smaller going quiet, “…I thought maybe it was my fault.”

There was a pause—longer than the others—before the taller figure spoke again, more cutting than before. “Then stay out of the way. You’re nothing to me.”

The smaller one stood frozen in his palm for a long moment. Then, slowly, Nari shifted it closer again—not all the way, just enough so it faced the taller one. His voice was quieter now, as if testing the words from a different, hypothetical angle.

“…Or you could just say you are scared too.”

The taller one didn’t move.

“You could say… I’m the only one left. That we’re the only ones left.” His hand trembled faintly, but he kept going.

“And I know you’re all I’ve got. And maybe I’m all you’ve got. And maybe you don’t like that, but it’s still true. You could tell me I make it harder for you, or that I get in the way, or that I don’t understand enough yet… but you don’t have to pretend I don’t matter to you. Because I do. I know I do. And I wish you’d say it, just once. Even if you don’t mean it. Even if you only say it so I don’t feel like I’m… like I’m nothing. Because I…” His lips pressed tight over the last word. And when he spoke again, the sound of it slipped out half-formed, more breath than voice, “I lo—”

He cut it off, letting the smaller figure drop its gaze instead. Fenrir stayed by his knee, still and patient, as if the wolf already knew the rest of what the boy meant. Then, his grip slackened, and both figures slipped from his hands, tumbling soundlessly onto the rug.

From the shadows of the archway, Loki felt the word strike him like a blade that never landed. A phantom wound, all the worse for being unfinished. His hands clenched behind his back, nails digging crescents into his palms. For a moment, something inside him lurched forward—an urge to step into the light, to say anything that might shatter the boy’s lonely little play.

Instead, he turned away. The air seemed colder as he left, the silence heavier. But the sound lingered, caught between breath and word, an unspoken thing that rattled like chains in his chest.

NOTHING. That was what he had called the boy. Words spat in anger, and now thrown back at him by silence, carved toys, and the half-formed shape of a confession the boy could not bring himself to finish.

It was Odin’s voice he heard when he replayed it. His own words in his own tone, yet Odin’s voice. Cold. Dismissing. Crushing. The thought made his stomach twist. By the time the library doors fell shut behind him, Loki’s face was already set in its mask again. His enemies would not see him flinch. The court would not see him bleed.

But alone in the corridor, his pulse drummed the unfinished word against his ribs, merciless as a war drum. He forced his stride to lengthen, his mind already reaching for colder matters— for iron bars, guarded cells, and the two traitors rotting in them.

The boy’s voice echoed after him anyway.

I lo–

Loki walked faster.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

The dungeon lights were always on. White and sterile, unchanging, they stripped away the hours until time itself felt like another chain. No shadows to measure by. No corner to hide in. Just walls, white and blank, humming faintly with the wards woven into them. The spell-wall shimmered faintly at the edge of each cell—translucent, faceless, yet impenetrable.

Sif was sitting on the floor when Loki entered, her knees drawn up, her hair loose around her shoulders. Heimdall was standing, as he always did, tall and unyielding even in a place designed to crush stature. Both looked up at the same moment—and though neither shifted, the air itself seemed to sharpen at his arrival.

Loki’s boots clicked softly against the stone as he stopped before their cells, hands clasped behind his back, every inch the poised king.

“How dreary you’ve made it look in here,” he said lightly, letting his gaze drift across the empty rooms. “No poems etched into the walls? No marks to count the days? A pity. I’m almost disappointed at your lack of creativity.”

His smile was thin, controlled, but there was a brightness in his eyes—like a blade catching light.

Neither answered at first.

Until Sif broke the silence, her voice low but edged. “You didn’t come here to mock us.”

Loki’s brow lifted, mock-innocent. “And why not? Kings may tour their dungeons as they please. Kings may speak as they please. This is my Asgard now. Not Odin’s. Not Thor’s. Not yours. Mine.” His voice rang off the white walls, steady and unflinching. “Every hall sings my name. Every oath bends to my will. You sit here not because you lost, but because I won.”

He expected her to flinch. She didn’t.

“You came,” Sif said, steadier than a drawn blade, “because you wanted to look us in the eye and not waver. To see if you could stand here and feel nothing.”

Heimdall’s stillness deepened, heavier than stone. “And you do not.”

Loki’s jaw flexed, though his tone stayed measured. “You overestimate yourselves.”

Sif rose slowly to her feet. “We don’t overestimate ourselves,” she said evenly. “We see you. The question is whether you can stand to be seen.”

Loki’s smile sharpened, brittle at the edges. “Do not flatter yourself, Sif. Your eyes hold no power over me. I do not come here seeking absolution, nor validation. I come as king, to look upon the defeated, and remind you of your failure. The future of Asgard is bright, and you will never see it.”

“And yet,” Heimdall said, his voice low, “you stand here. You, who claim all the halls above, all the oaths, all the power. You did not need to descend to these cells. You chose to. Kings who are certain do not waste their steps on the forgotten. They do not seek out the eyes of the condemned to test the weight of their crown.”

Loki’s chin lifted a fraction, his hands still locked behind his back. “I descended to these cells because I chose to. Because every word I speak here, every breath I take, drives deeper the truth: I rule. I am the one left standing, I have what I was born to possess, not you. That is all the measure that matters.”

Silence.

But Sif’s voice cut it like a blade, “Then why… do you sound like you are convincing yourself?”

Loki’s face remained poised, the mask unbroken, but his fingers curled tight behind his back, nails biting into his palms. He forced the smile back, thin as a blade. “Believe what you wish. It changes nothing.”

Sif studied him in the sterile light, before turning away with a long, long sigh.

“Enough of this,” she said, her voice quieter now, but stripped of all pretense. “I don’t care about your kingship. I don’t care about your victory speeches. Just… tell me this: how is the boy?”

Loki’s head tilted, the smile faltering for half a heartbeat. “The boy,” he repeated, tone light but edged with warning. “Narinder.”

She turned back to him. “Yes. Nari.”

She continued, “You strut down here to gloat, but I don’t want to play your games. Not anymore. How is he? Is he well? Does he eat? Sleep? How are his sword lessons? How much of the book that Volstagg gifted him did he read? Did he enjoy it? Or…”

Her voice faltered, dropping to something rawer, almost devastated. “...or did you finally do away with him?”

Loki’s lips curled into something sharp, but his eyes betrayed a flicker too quick to hide. “You dare suggest that I—?”

“I don’t suggest. I fear.” Sif said, stepping closer to the spell-wall separating them. “Because I know you, Loki. I know what you do when SENTIMENT touches you. You twist it. You smother it. You’ll use that child the way you use everyone else, until he is nothing more than another piece sacrificed for your throne. And if that doesn’t work, then I know you well enough to know you’ll do away with him yourself.”

Her gaze narrowed, sharp as steel. “And yet… Judging by your response, you haven’t… Why?”

The question rang harder than an accusation, heavier than judgment. Loki stared at her.

“Why did you keep him, Loki?” Sif continued, pushing harder. “Why has he not been cast aside, like every other weakness you claim to cut from yourself? …What holds your hand back?”

The silence that followed pressed down like a weight.

Loki straightened, shoulders taut, chin lifted. “You speak as though you know me, Sif,” he said smoothly, though the edges of his words were too sharp. “But if you truly did, you would know I keep what is useful. That boy is no exception. His presence lends me advantage. He draws loyalty from fools who would otherwise doubt me, and adoration from the people who see me as a caring ‘father’. That is all.”

Sif frowned, her expression etched with weary sorrow. “You lie.”

She stepped toward the shimmering wall. “You once claimed not every bond you forged was a weapon. I wanted to believe that. And from what I’ve seen of how you treat him, perhaps some part of me still does. But if you truly meant those words, then what is Nari to you, Loki? A weapon? Or the one bond you haven’t managed to break beneath your own hand?”

The words landed like one of Thor’s hammer blows.

The faintest flicker of something passed through Loki’s eyes before he aggressively buried it beneath ice. His voice, when it came, was soft and dangerous. “Be very careful, Sif.”

He stepped closer to the shimmering wall, so near that the wards hummed louder between them, his shadow cutting across her like a blade. His gaze met hers, sharp, unmoving, and burning with rage . “You presume far too much. One more word on matters beyond your business, and I will see to it you do not have the tongue left to speak them.”

The sterile light seemed to dim with the sharpness of his tone. Sif didn’t retreat, though her jaw set as if bracing against a blow.

For a heartbeat it looked as though he might strike the barrier itself, seiðr sparking at his fingertips where his hands curled. Then, with a sharp flick of his cloak, he turned. His stride was clipped, deliberate, boots striking hard against the stone as he made for the stairs without another word.

But Heimdall’s voice followed him, calm and steady, carrying the weight of inevitability. “Threaten her if you must. Silence her if you can. It changes nothing.”

Loki didn’t look back, though the rigid set of his shoulders betrayed the guilt roiling beneath the mask.

“You know it as well as I do,” Heimdall continued, his golden eyes unblinking. “The boy is the one bond you cannot cut away. And it will be the bond that costs everything.”

Loki’s steps quickened up the stairs, cloak sweeping like a storm behind him. The dungeon lights stayed white and sterile, but the silence he left behind felt heavier than stone.

/ / /

The dungeon’s white light was still etched behind his eyes when Loki emerged into the golden hush of the upper hall. It lingered like frost until even the warmth of Asgard’s sun seemed counterfeit. He told himself he had gone down there to show strength. To prove he could stand above his enemies without flinching. That their words had not pierced.

And yet his feet carried him here.

The hall curved inward, quiet and golden. A long slant of late-afternoon sunlight spilled across the polished floor, refracted through the tall stained-glass windows that cast violet and amber shapes onto the walls. He slowed before a door two down from his own chambers.

Carved with simple lines and laid faintly with silver thread. Not a prince’s door, but a child’s.

The wards hummed softly as he touched the handle, recognizing him. The hinges sighed open at a flick of his hand.

The room was still in transition. The ceiling dome had been freshly painted, though the constellations glimmered faintly unfinished at the edges, like a sky mid-birth. A rug had been unrolled across the center floor, stars and runes stitched into the weave. The bed—low, sturdy, and carved with wolves—had been set in its place, but the sheets were still crisp and unslept in. The window seat had its cushions stacked neatly, a row of books waiting untouched, their spines unbent.

He stepped inside, clasping his hands behind his back as though to remind himself this was not indulgence but inspection. A king’s duty, nothing more.

And yet his gaze lingered too long on the pillows—six of them, enchanted to never flatten. Too long on the painted constellations that mirrored the stars at night. Too long on the wolves carved into the bedposts, their eyes gleaming with quiet guardianship.

Ridiculous, he thought, the sharpness of his own inner voice cutting against the warmth in his chest. What did it matter if the boy’s bed had wolf-guardians carved into it? What did it matter if the window caught the Bifrost Garden at just the right angle?

But still, he crossed to the window, adjusting the latch so it would not rattle in the wind. Still he tested the mattress with one palm, ensuring the enchantment held its shape. Still he brushed his hand across the rug, as though checking its weave for flaws.

The door creaked behind him and he froze. A servant appeared at the threshold, bowing low.

“Your Majesty, the carpenters ask if you’ll approve the paneling for the wardrobe.”

Loki’s gaze slid toward it—dark wood, polished to a faint sheen, the grain running like ripples of water beneath the light. He took in the joins, the care with which it had been fitted, the small flourish of silver at the edge. His jaw flexed once, and then his voice came smooth, distant. “Yes. Tell them it will do.”

The servant bowed again, too quickly, but did not move. His eyes flickered toward the room before dropping back to the floor. “It is… a fine room, my king.”

Loki’s head turned sharply. His eyes caught the man’s, cold and cutting, and the servant went rigid. The mask of obedience never slipped, but his knuckles whitened where they pressed against his knees in the bow. Loki saw the fear there—tasted it—and for a heartbeat, he despised it.

“It is a room,” he said, voice like ice breaking. “Nothing more.”

The servant bowed still deeper, hiding whatever expression might have betrayed him, and withdrew quickly into the hall. Loki remained, caught in the slant of late afternoon light spilling across a child’s bed that had not yet been touched. He stood there for longer than he had intended, telling himself it was only for strategy. The boy would be easier to manage once tethered here. Easier to shape. Easier to keep from becoming a liability.

So why did it feel like the silence was accusing him?

The thought had barely taken form when the wards in the far corridor flared red. A sound unlike a thunderclap rolled through the palace walls, rattling the window glass and everything around him.

Loki’s head snapped toward the door as a shrill horn-call split the air. It echoed again, nearer this time. Not ceremonial, not the drawn trumpets of processions or feasts—this was alarm, raw and cutting. The sound that was only ever meant for one thing:

Attack.

Loki was already moving. The door slammed behind him, his stride long, cloak snapping sharp against his heels as he crossed the corridor. The wards in the walls flared again, their rune-light stuttering red with each pulse, carrying the warning deeper into the palace. Servants scattered ahead of him, some clutching each other, others simply frozen by terror. The smarter ones pressed flat against the walls and kept their eyes down as he passed.

“Report,” Loki barked as an Einherjar captain stumbled into step beside him.

The captain’s face was pale, his armor dented as if he’d dressed in haste. “My king, Bifrost defenses have been breached. A strike force of Symbiote-bound Crimson Hawks and undead forces—”

“Impossible,” Loki snapped. He hadn't seen any Symbiote attacks against his Asgard in any of his visions of the future. “The Hawks were reported to be realms away. They cannot have marched here unseen in such a short amount of time.”

“They did not march.” The captain swallowed, his throat working visibly. “They split. They... shifted. Poured through the air as though it parted for them. The Bifrost wards flared but… they slipped between them. As if they knew the timing.”

Loki’s teeth clenched. The timing. Symbiotes weren’t clever, not in the ordinary sense, but if Knull himself and Hela were guiding them…

“Where.” Loki’s tone was cold, absolute.

“The outer spire at the northern gate. They are… spreading.” The captain hesitated, then forced it out. “And multiplying.”

(Of course they were).

A ripple of horror rolled through Loki’s thoughts at the image of black mouths splitting across Asgardian armor, at Einherjar blades turned inward, at the hive swelling like a plague through his golden throne.

“Containment,” Loki said sharply. “Now. Deploy flamecasters to the northern gate, all reserves to the first spire. Sever the bridge to the gatehouse if you must, but do not—”

A second horn split the air, shriller, more frantic than the first. No—Not one horn, but three. The palace itself seemed to vibrate with it. The captain’s voice cracked. “They’re… inside the wall now, my king.”

Loki froze, just for the breadth of a heartbeat. Asgard’s walls were supposed to be absolute. Layer upon layer of runes older than Odin himself, reinforced with seiðr and power, unbreachable by any enemy. He had prided himself on them, on the knowledge that Asgard stood untouchable at the crown of the Ten Realms.

And now the walls were screaming.

He felt it then, anger like lightning through his veins, sharp enough to burn away even the sting of Sif’s words still echoing in his skull. His throne. His Asgard. Defiled by filth that crawled through its halls like a disease. He would not stand for it.

“Bring me to the breach,” he said, his voice like the crack of a glacier splitting. His scepter flared alive in his hand, Chronovium sparking like a star about to collapse. “Now.”

The captain fell in step, relief and terror mingling in his face. All around, the palace stirred like a hive struck with a spear—guards rushing, doors slamming, the shriek of frightened servants swallowed by the rising clang of steel.

Loki did not look back at the door two down from his chambers, at the silver-threaded carving of a child’s room. He did not need to. The thought of it—of the boy within reach of what now spilled through his gates—was enough to sharpen his stride until his boots struck the marble like thunder.

For the first time in many millennia, the great horns of Asgard’s walls did not sing of victory or of welcome. They wailed of breach. Of invasion. Of something black and endless clawing its way into the heart of the realm. And Loki Laufeyson, King of Asgard, marched into it with his teeth bared.

The northern spire rose like a jagged crown above the gatehouse, its gilded arches now slicked with shadow. Loki mounted the final steps two at a time, breath even, stride merciless. The air hit him first. It reeked of pitch and blood, a rot that clung to the lungs. And beneath it: movement. Skittering. The sick wet sound of flesh splitting.

“Form ranks!” the captain roared, but his voice was nearly drowned by the shriek that followed.

The Crimson Hawks had always been soldiers once, Asgard’s proudest kin, but what came through the breach was barely kin at all. Twisted armor fused to tar, wings and tendrils torn and dripping, faces gnawed into eyeless maws that gaped wide enough to swallow a man whole. Where one fell, two more clawed out of its carcass, splitting apart like maggots seeking flesh.

Loki’s lips curled. “Pathetic.”

And then he struck.

His scepter flared, Chronovium light searing white against the sludge. A wave of energy ripped the nearest Symbiote in half, its scream collapsing into the roar of fire as flamecasters let loose from the ramparts behind him. Heat washed over the wall, turning the dusk to glass and ash. Still they came. Claw over claw, black wings and tar-like tendrils tearing against the air, their bodies warping even as they fought.

Loki did not hesitate. He moved like a blade in his own right—sharp, ruthless, without pause. His seiðr carved through armor, through bone, through shadow itself, and each strike sent him deeper into the melee. The first fell, then the second, and then the tide seemed endless, the blackness churning against green and gold.

Above him, a Symbiote-Hawk shrieked, wings and tendrils splitting into four, body distending as it dove. Loki raised his free hand, seiðr twisting. Chains of green snapped around the beast midair, yanking it back with such force the spine snapped like a whip. He let it dangle a moment, thrashing and shrieking in pain, before ripping it apart in a rain of blood-like tar and rotting flesh.

Some of the guards faltered at the sight of his brutality. Some cheered, others stared, but Loki did not. He saw the edges, the places where black still seeped through, where the wards flickered red instead of gold. Every flicker was a warning: this was not a single strike. This was an invasion, a hive sinking its teeth into Asgard’s heart.

“Push them back,” he snarled, driving his scepter into the marble. The runes flared outward, a shockwave slamming into the symbiotes, breaking their ranks against the spire wall. “Burn every carcass. Do not leave even their ashes.”

And beneath his fury, the thought pressed like a thorn against his mind—the boy’s chamber, silver-threaded, two doors down. The boy who could not yet defend himself.

Loki drove the thought deeper, into the place where SENTIMENT became something sharper. If Asgard fell here, there would be nothing left to guard. If the hive spread beyond the gatehouse, no child’s room would stand untouched.

He raised the scepter high, light gathering at its tip like a second sun, and for a moment, the sky above Asgard split wide with fire.

Symbiote-Hawks shrieked, their black bodies seared into cinders midair, raining down in chunks that sizzled against the marble. The guards roared, the tide surged forward with renewed strength, and the wall barely held.

But Loki knew better.

Every strike, every kill, was nothing but pruning rot. The hive was patient. It learned. Already he saw them adapting—wings and tendrils pulling back from fire, maws stretching wider to spit tar that smothered flame. The corpses twitched where they fell, splitting open into slick, writhing tendrils that scrabbled for fresh bodies to bond with.

He would not let them take his walls. He would not let them take his throne.

His fury sharpened into focus, every thought honed to a single blade. He tore through them, scepter whirling, green chains lashing, his seiðr cutting bright lines in the dark.

Each strike was deliberate, surgical. Each kill a statement. He was Loki Laufeyson, King of Asgard. And no carrion god would take what was his.

But then—

The horn again. Not from the wall. From deeper within the palace.

Too close.

The sound jolted him harder than any blade. His head snapped toward it, pulse hammering with an echo of something far older than war: a pull, a drag low in his chest. Not the throne. Not the vault. Closer. The training yards.

(That was where—)

The realization hit like a blizzard.

Nari.

His grip tightened on the scepter until his knuckles burned. He flung the nearest Symbiote-Hawk against the spire wall with enough force to crack bone, then wrenched open a shimmering stream of seiðr with his free hand, the green flames of a teleportation spell engulfing him. The captain shouted something behind him, but Loki was already gone, the world folding in on itself as he stepped through.

The training yard slammed into being around him, and chaos with it.

The ground was slick with tar, the air full of shrieks. Symbiote-Hawks clawed through the archways, their warped armor glistening black, their maws gaping wide enough to bite a man in two.

The Einherjar fought to hold the line, but the yard was already broken—torches guttered, walls dripping with shadow that moved on its own. And in the center—

Bjorn.

The old swordmaster stood with his back to a wall, his body planted squarely in front of a smaller figure. Nari. The boy’s wooden practice blade had fallen to the ground, forgotten. His eyes were wide, fixed on the Symbiotes pouring toward them.

“Pick it up!” Bjorn barked, his voice strained but steady. “A blade is never useless in the hand of one who refuses to drop it.”

Nari’s throat bobbed, his small hands trembling. “But—I’ve never—I can’t—”

“You can,” Bjorn cut him off, parrying hard as a Symbiote-Hawk lunged. Blood-like tar splattered hot across his arm. He clapped the boy’s shoulder with his free hand. “You don’t have a choice. You must FIGHT! Fight for your life. For breath. For one more heartbeat. Do you hear me? FIGHT!”

Nari’s lips trembled, but he gave a tiny nod, quickly stooping to clutch the wooden sword like it was life itself.

“Good lad.” Bjorn’s sword swung, heavy and deliberate, cleaving a Symbiote in half. Another lunged. This time, he stepped forward, moving to parry again, but it countered—weaving to strike him full in the chest. The impact bent him double, blood spattering bright across the stones.

“No,” Loki breathed, but the sound was lost in the chaos.

Bjorn staggered, tried to rise again. His blade lifted, shaking, just enough to parry once more, but the Symbiotes had no honor. They swarmed, three, then four, the black tide closing around him. His sword fell from his grip, his body buckled, and with one last guttural, desperate shout, he went down beneath the weight of claw and tar.

“SIR BJORN!”

The cry tore out of Nari’s throat raw, broken. He lurched forward before instinct dragged him back, his hands shaking, his eyes locked on the place where his teacher had gone down. Bjorn’s blade flashed once, then vanished beneath a tide of claws and wings. The symbiotes swarmed, blotting him from sight. His shout cut sharp through the chaos, alive but strained, swallowed by the hiss and shriek of the pack. 

And then the symbiotes turned. Black maws gaped, dripping with their hunger. Limbs twitched, too many, reaching. They surged forward in a single, ravenous motion straight at Nari—

And Loki’s world narrowed to a single point of green flame and panic.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

The symbiotes lunged.

But Loki was faster.

The scepter roared alive in his hand, a sweep of green fire carving a wall between Nari and the black tide. Symbiotes shrieked, recoiling as seiðr tore through their tar-like flesh. Loki drove himself forward, every strike precise, every motion honed. But there were too many.

The air was a storm of teeth and claws, wings that snapped like broken bones. They clawed at him from every side, talons screeching across his armor, tar hissing where it splattered against his skin.

He moved like a man possessed—like the blade and shield of the realm itself. But beneath the fury, another thought tore through him, raw and unrelenting.

Why?

Why was he burning himself out, spilling every drop of power, every shard of strength—for this child? For a boy who wasn’t supposed to matter? He had told himself the boy was nothing, a tool, a pawn. Irrelevant. And yet…

Fear.

That was what he felt. Not for himself, but for the boy behind him, pressed against the wall, too small, too breakable. Fear that clawed deeper than even the thought of Hela, or Odin, or the throne slipping from his grasp. This was not strategy. It was something far worse.

And he hated it.

A Symbiote-Hawk’s maw clamped onto his shoulder, fangs sinking through metal. Loki screamed with pain and fury and blasted it apart with a surge that scorched his own skin raw.

Another leapt; he chained it midair with seiðr, yanking it down hard enough to shatter its spine against the ground with a sickening crack. Still another clawed at his leg, dragging him down, claws finding flesh and bone.

His blood hit the ground. Hot. Red. Mortal.

“FATHER!” Nari’s voice cracked high, terrified. 

It shattered whatever resignation had crept into him. With a raw scream, Loki pulled the Symbiote off him and hurled himself deeper into the fray, rage and seiðr burning together until the air itself seemed to buckle around him.

He fought harder—brutal, unrelenting, every strike a slash of fire and willpower. A seiðr-summoned chain lashed from his hand, dragging one shrieking Symbiote into another until both crumpled into black ruin. A blade of green light tore from his palm and cleaved through another’s neck, spraying blood-like tar that burned his face as it splattered.

But each kill slowed him. The motions grew heavier, costlier. His seiðr flared wide, wild, with no precision left—just force, just survival. He dragged symbiotes apart with his bare hands when the seiðr faltered, crushing skulls against stone until his arms trembled. His lungs burned, every breath a jagged rasp; his knees buckled more than once, forcing him upright by sheer spite. He could feel his blood soaking deeper into the ground, every heartbeat weaker, thinner, and still he struck again, and again, and again, and again, and again.

One by one, he cut them down. And still they came—until finally, mercifully, the yard fell quiet. Nothing remained but the stink of acid smoke, the sizzle of dissolving carcasses, and his own ragged, uneven breathing. He staggered. His scepter dipped, his body swaying. Pain roared up where the claws had gone deep. His vision swam.

So this was it, then, he thought.

The most worthy King of Asgard, felled not on some distant battlefield, not before an enemy worthy of song or saga—but here, in his own training yard, bleeding out before a boy who wasn't supposed to matter to him.

His knees hit the dirt, and his body met the ground.

“FATHER!”

The cry ripped out of Nari’s throat, frantic, raw. He scrambled forward, raising his wooden sword against a Symbiote that hadn’t fully died and was dragging itself toward Loki.

Nari let out a strangled shout and swung. The wood cracked against its black body, again and again, until the thing lay still. Only then did he drop it and fling himself at Loki’s side.

The boy’s hands were small but shaking hard, pressing against the wounds, trying to hold back the blood like he could will it to stop. Tears streaked his cheeks, his voice breaking apart.

“No—Nononononono—” His throat hitched, and then he screamed, voice carrying with a raw, desperate force that startled even Loki. “HELP! Somebody, please! Somebody, anybody— HEEEEEEELP!”

He kept shouting, again, and again, and again, even as his palms slipped slick with blood that wasn’t his own. His voice cracked but didn’t stop. “Guards! Saella! Ylva! Anyone—HELP!”

Then quieter, broken, pressed against Loki’s shoulder as if that alone could bind him here, “Please don’t. Please—”

Loki tried to speak, but his throat seized on the effort. His breath rasped shallow, every drag of air thick with iron and tar.

He had never been so unsure of rising again, never so certain that this might be the end. His lips parted, trembling around words that refused to come, but he forced them anyway, the syllables ragged, scraped raw out of him. 

“Na... ri... I’m... Sor–ry. For... everything." Barely sound, barely more than the breath it rode on, but enough.

The boy’s eyes widened through tears, and Loki’s gaze, blurred and burning, fixed there. Green. A mirror of his own.

Nari’s face hovered above him, pale and blotched from crying, desperate in a way no child should ever look. He saw himself there: his jawline, his eyes, the sharp angle of his brow, reflected back not in accusation, not in fear, but in something far worse: SENTIMENT.

He didn’t deserve it. The boy was not supposed to mean anything. A pawn, an accident of fate. Nothing. And yet—undeniably, unbearably—he meant something. No—not something.

He meant everything.

Loki felt wetness cut down his temples before he realized it was his own tears, hot against skin gone cold. He clenched his jaw, straining to fight for his consciousness, but his vision swam. He instead focused on the feeling of Nari’s small hands pressing desperately against him, trying to keep him in this world by sheer force of will.

“Sorry?” Nari’s voice cracked around it, disbelief warring with terror. He shook his head violently, curls sticking damp to his temples. 

“Don’t—don’t say that. You don’t get to say sorry, not now. You can’t—” His hands pressed harder against the wounds, slipping, trembling, desperate. “I don’t care what you said before. I don’t care if you ever meant it. Just don’t—don’t leave me. Please.”

His voice fractured, rising raw and small all at once. 

“You’re all I have left—” His throat locked, and the rest broke into a sob that shook his whole body. He bent low, pressing his forehead to Loki’s shoulder as if he could anchor him there by sheer nearness.

“I don’t need you to be good right now. I just need you to stay. I need you here. With me.”

(And oh gods—gods help him—)

Loki realized through the blur of tears that it was true in both directions. His hand twitched, a feeble, instinctive reach toward the boy. But the strength bled out of him faster than he could hold it.

The world tilted, sound dimming to a distant rush before everything went white.

/ / /

There was laughter. Not the strained or hollow sort he had worn like armor these past years, but true, unburdened laughter. It rang through the golden hall like sunlight on glass, filling every corner with warmth. Loki blinked, disoriented, until he realized the sound was his own.

The feast table stretched wide before him, candles flickering in jeweled holders, goblets brimming. Thor sat at his side, face ruddy with mead and joy, pounding the wood in helpless amusement.

Across from them, a servant shrieked and nearly toppled the tray she carried—because the red wine in the tray she was holding had writhed and twisted, reshaping itself into three wriggling serpents. Their scales shimmered like liquid garnet, tongues flickering as they slithered over the table.

The poor girl’s eyes bulged, and she dropped the tray with a clatter. Thor slapped his knee, booming with laughter. Loki’s grin stretched wide, sharp and delighted as the illusionary serpents coiled and hissed.

“Brother!” Thor gasped between laughs, waving a massive hand. “Quit scaring her so much!”

Loki flicked his wrist, and the serpents evaporated into curls of green light, leaving only the wine goblet behind, sloshing and spilled. The servant scrambled away, whimpering with fearful mumbles, and Loki threw back his head, laughing. “You see?” he said, “All in good fun, brother!”

Thor swiped the goblet, examining it as if it had personally betrayed him. “Now that,” he declared, “was just a waste of good wine!”

“Hardly wasted. Did you not see her face? Worth every drop.”

Thor wagged a finger at him. “One day your jests will earn you a slap rather than a laugh.”

“One day,” Loki countered smoothly, “your thick skull will manage to grasp subtlety.”

“Subtlety?” Thor barked, affronted. “That was no subtlety, that was sorcery plain as daylight!”

“And yet,” Loki leaned back, smug, “it fooled her perfectly. Which makes me the master of both subtlety and daylight.”

Thor groaned theatrically, rolling his eyes. “By the Norns, you’re insufferable.”

“Insufferable, yes,” Loki agreed brightly, raising his cup in mock salute. “But amusing. You cannot deny it.”

Thor tried to look stern, but the grin broke through anyway, wide and uncontainable. “Aye,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Amusing. Infuriating. Both.”

Thor clapped him on the back, nearly jostling the cup from Loki’s hand. “Come then, if you are so clever, match me in drinking! Let us see if sorcery can steady your head when the mead takes hold.”

Loki arched a brow, lounging back with practiced disdain. “Must every contest with you involve tankards and burping, brother? Have you no imagination?”

“I’ve imagination enough to picture your pale face after the third round,” Thor said, grinning wickedly. “Collapsed under the table while I stand victorious!”

“Collapsed?” Loki scoffed. “Please. I would sooner turn every barrel of mead into frogs than suffer such indignity.”

Thor’s laugh thundered through the hall. “Frogs! You would curse the feast itself to avoid losing?”

“To avoid wasting time,” Loki corrected smoothly, sipping his wine with deliberate calm. “Besides, the frogs would make better company than half the louts who attend these gatherings.”

A few nearby warriors bristled, but Thor only howled louder, slapping the table until the goblets rattled. “You hear him? Insults fall from his tongue like rain, yet still he thinks himself charming!”

“I don’t think,” Loki said with a sly tilt of his head. “I know.”

Thor shook his head, laughing so hard he nearly toppled from the bench. “A menace, through and through!”

“That I am, but you’d be booooored witless without me,” Loki replied, clapping his cheeks with both hands and gazing at Thor with dramatic mock sadness.

Thor raised his goblet high, eyes bright. “Aye. That I would.”

And they drank together, at once, laughter ringing louder than the clink of their cups, the hall shimmering with warmth that felt, for a moment, endless. The hall eventually dimmed into a quieter hum, torches guttering low as the revelry ebbed.

Thor and Loki found themselves outside the golden doors, side by side, the cool air brushing against flushed cheeks. Their boots struck the stone in easy rhythm, no need for words when the silence itself carried ease.

Saella passed them in the corridor, steady as ever, a pitcher of water in hand. Her gaze lingered briefly, knowingly, the corners of her mouth curving as though she saw far more than what they showed. Without comment she pressed the vessel into Thor’s hand. 

“For balance,” she said simply, before inclining her head to them both. Then she was gone, her steps whispering down the hall.

Thor chuckled, lifting the pitcher. “She has looked after us since we were babes. Yet still thinks me in need of tending.”

“She is not wrong,” Loki murmured dryly, though his lips curved fondly.

Thor drank deep, then lowered the vessel with a sigh of contentment. For a moment, he studied Loki in the flickering torchlight, his expression shifting—less boisterous, more searching. He slowed his pace. “Brother.”

Loki tilted his head, wary at the sudden gravity in Thor’s tone. “What now?”

“You are my best friend,” Thor said, voice steady, unflinching, and possibly influenced by the mead. “And you are my brother. Never deny my love for you. Not with words, not with silence, not even in your own heart.”

The words landed heavier than any blow. Loki faltered, caught between scoff and ache. “Wh-Where is this coming from?!”

“Ah,” Thor simply said, shrugging. “Nowhere in particular. Just... something that I had to get out.”

Loki’s throat tightened, but Thor pressed on, clapping a broad, warm hand to his shoulder.

“One day,” he said more quietly, as though testing the words. “One day... we will rule together, in whatever way fate allows it. Perhaps not side by side upon the same throne, but side by side all the same. For what is a throne without SENTIMENT? Without a brother to share it with? Empty throne. Empty crown. Empty me.”

He gave a short laugh, shaking his head, before becoming uncharacteristically sober. “You and I may take different roads, Loki. But they will always bend back toward each other. That is what it means to be bound—not by birth, not by blood, but by choice. By love. And love is never easy. It breaks, it mends, it tests us until we would rather cast it aside. But that is what makes it worth holding on to.”

Loki stared at Thor with wide eyes.

“Oh—and one more thing.” Thor’s grin returned, boyish but sharp. “Do not think being adopted spares you from my affection. You’re still my brother, frostborn or not. And I’ll keep saying it until you believe it.”

Loki’s lips parted, a dozen retorts hovering at the edge of his tongue, but none found breath. Thor’s head turned sharply. Down the corridor, Saella had paused, her arms struggling with a tray piled high with linens and half-toppled goblets. One slipped, clattering to the floor, water spreading across the stone.

“By the Norns, Lady Saella!” Thor boomed, instantly striding away. “Why do you carry so much alone? Let me—here, give it here!” His voice was full of warmth and laughter again as he moved to relieve her burden, the two of them fussing over the scattered mess.

And just like that, Loki was left behind.

The torchlight wavered. And perhaps it was because of the mead, but he found his breath shuddering, and before he could steel it away, tears pricked his eyes—hot, unwanted, yet unstoppable. Thor’s words replayed in him, relentless: You are my brother. Never deny my love for you.

For all the years he had been told—by others, by himself—that he was different, wrong, cursed, a monster… this was the first time in longer than he could recall that someone had spoken with such unshakable certainty.

Loki pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, but it did little. The tears slipped free anyway, staining his cheeks. He hated the sound of his own breath catching, hated the fragility of it, yet he could not stop. Because for a single, impossible moment, he believed Thor.

He believed he was not a monster.

He believed he deserved love.

/ / /

(Of all the memories his mind could cling to in these last moments, it had to be that one…)

(Monster).

(That’s all he was, and all he’d ever be).

(Unworthy of love, undeserving of warmth).

(He had told himself that for so long it had become truth).

(Yet now, as he laid on the dirt, bleeding out with a child’s hands shaking against his wounds, doubt crept in).

(Could it be wrong?) 

(Could he be more?)

(He almost believed it). 

(Almost). 

(But it was too late to let himself believe it). 

(Because it was too late to matter). 

(It had taken dying to see the truth behind his own lies, and the tragedy of what he had lost behind the mask).

(And gods...)

(He hated that most of all).

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

His eyes fluttered. For a long, impossible heartbeat, he thought the whiteness was the dungeon light, or worse, the formless void that waited beyond the last breath. But no—this was softer. Not sterile nor endless. Sunlight filtered through high windows, fractured into gold by curtains half-drawn. The weight beneath him was familiar, too: his own bed.

(...Wait).

A sharp inhale caught in his chest.

He was alive.

(But how–?)

His body felt heavy, unmoving. Each breath dragged pain through his ribs, deep and burning, though the wounds themselves had been bound and salved. The air carried the faint bite of herbs and seiðr—healing wards layered over him, holding him tethered. He shifted, only slightly, but the effort sent fire through his side. He swallowed a curse and let his head sink back into the pillow.

This was wrong. He had felt his life bleeding out, strength draining with every heartbeat until nothing was left but white. He had been sure. Certain. No trick, no spell, no clever turn could have saved him. He was supposed to be dead. And yet…

His gaze slid sideways. For a moment, it blurred, his vision still struggling to focus, but then it sharpened, and his breath caught in his throat again. At the edge of the bed, slumped forward with his arms folded on the coverlet, Nari slept. His cheek pressed against his forearm, his curls tumbled loose, and his small frame curled like he’d fought to stay upright until sleep claimed him as if he had been keeping watch.

Loki lay still, silent. His mind warred between disbelief and the aching, dangerous warmth that threatened to rise in his chest. He should not have been alive. Yet here he was, and there—mere inches away—was Nari: the boy who clearly had not left his side for however long he had been here.

His lips parted, but no words came. Only breath. Only the weight of realization pressing down, heavier than any blade: Somehow, impossibly—he was still here. Loki didn’t know what to do. His mind, still fogged with pain and disbelief, reached for a response, a thought, anything, yet nothing came. He only stared, silent, at the boy slumped beside him.

The moment didn't last long.

Nari stirred. His lashes fluttered, curls shifting as his head lifted groggily. For a moment, his eyes were bleary and unfocused until they landed on Loki, and then they widened.

“F–Father?” The word cracked, raw, and in the same breath the boy broke. A sob tore out of him so suddenly it startled even Loki. Nari scrambled forward, his arms flinging tight around him before Loki could brace. Pain flared sharp in his side, but he hissed only once and then bore it, letting the boy cling. Nari buried his face against his chest, voice unraveling into a flood of broken cries.

“I thought—I thought you were gone—I thought I lost you—I didn’t know what to do—” His words tripped over sobs, collapsing into incoherent fragments. “There was so much blood—I tried—I tried to stop it… but it wasn't—And you weren't–"

Loki froze, every instinct demanding distance, composure, denial. But the boy shook against him, small hands clutching fistfuls of his tunic as though they alone held him tethered to this world.

“I thought you DIED!” Nari wailed, pressing his forehead hard against him, as if trying to prove he was solid. 

“I don’t- I don’t know how but– I just wanted you to stay and it– it worked! I kept you alive until help came! I didn’t let you go! I didn’t let you go!” His voice hiccupped then collapsed into another sob.

Loki’s hand twitched at his side before rising, tentative, to the boy’s back. He pressed his palm there, steadying. The warmth of it seared more than the wounds. And then, he felt it. Faint but undeniable. The pulse of seiðr—crimson and cobalt—raw and untrained, clinging to him. A thread woven, fragile but burning with desperation. Loki stilled.

(…This wasn’t his seiðr).

(This was Nari’s).

The realization struck harder than the pain. The boy’s seiðr had manifested. It had bound and sustained him long enough for help to come. That was why he still drew breath. That was why he had awoken at all. 

This child… his child… had saved his life.

Nari clung tighter as if to banish even the thought of losing him again. “I didn't let you go,” he whispered through his tears, broken and small. “I didn't let you go…”

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Loki felt the weight of words caught in his throat—not the sharp ones meant to cut, not the lies meant to guard, but the type of words he was terrified to say aloud. He closed his eyes, jaw tight, his hand pressing a fraction more firmly against the boy’s trembling back.

Alive. Because of him. The thought should have filled him with pride. Or shame. Or rage. Instead it hollowed him, left him raw, stripped bare in a way battle never had. Loki swallowed hard, his throat dry, his voice rasping like stone dragged across stone. “You…” His lips parted, the words barely a sound. “You kept me alive. With seiðr...”

Nari sniffled, pulling back just enough to look at him, his eyes wide and swollen red with tears. “I didn’t let you go,” he whispered again, fierce even through the tremble in his voice. “Even if you hate me, I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to let you go. No matter what.”

The words struck like an arrow. Loki’s breath caught. Hate? Was that what the boy believed? Something deep inside him cracked. His hand curled tighter at the boy’s back, instinct pulling him close when every part of his mind screamed for distance. He should not feel this. He should not want this. And yet…

Loki’s breath rattled, shallow and uneven.

Hate… That was what the boy believed—because of his words. Because of that morning. Because of his cowardice. He had carved that belief into Nari with his own tongue, and now, after everything, after being dragged back to life by those small, shaking hands, it rose between them like a wall he could no longer bear.

“No,” he rasped, his voice breaking before it even left him. His hand lifted, trembling, to cup the boy’s jaw, turning his tear-streaked face toward him. Green eyes met green, wide and shining. Loki forced his next words out, ragged, desperate.

“No, Nari. I don’t hate you. You were never nothing. That was a lie. A coward’s lie. I said it because I was afraid—because I thought if I pushed you away, you could not be taken from me. Or worse—see me for what I am and turn away yourself.”

Nari’s brow furrowed, the tears not stopping, but his gaze was fierce, holding steady, demanding. Loki swallowed hard, breath catching as though the confession itself was tearing free pieces of him. 

“All my life, I wore a mask because it was easier to be the monster than to risk being unloved. So I lied. I betrayed. I hurt everyone who ever dared to care for me—my brother, my father, my mother. I broke them before they could break me. I knew what I did, and I knew exactly why I did it,” His voice cracked, trembling against names he had buried like wounds. “When I told you that you were nothing to me, it was the same. Another mask. Another cruelty. Because I thought if you meant nothing, then it would hurt less to lose you.”

His throat locked. Tears stung, unwanted, burning down his temples. He forced his eyes open, clinging to Nari’s as if they alone kept him tethered. “But it was never true. Do you hear me? Never. You are not nothing. You have never been nothing. You are everything, and that terrifies me.”

For a heartbeat, silence pressed between them. The boy’s breath shuddered, his lips trembling as though he didn’t know whether to cry harder or cling tighter.

“I don’t care,” Nari whispered at last, broken but sure. “I don’t care what you did before. I don’t care about masks or lies. You’re all I have, and I don’t want anyone else. Just you.” His small hands fisted tighter in Loki’s tunic, as though afraid he might vanish if he let go. “So don’t make me nothing again.”

The words lanced him—cleaner, crueler—because they were true. Something in Loki shattered. The mask, the distance, the practiced sneer he had wielded like armor; it all crumbled before the child who refused to let him go. He drew a shaking breath and pulled Nari closer, his lips pressing briefly to the boy’s curls in a touch that felt foreign, terrifying, and unbearably real.

“You are not nothing,” Loki said again, fierce and breaking all at once. “You are everything I cannot name and everything I could never bear to lose. Do you hear me, Nari? You are not nothing. You are my son.”

The boy sagged against him, sobbing anew, but with a different tenor now, relief tangled in grief and hope flickering against despair. Loki held him, every part of him screaming with pain, but for once he did not retreat. For once, he let himself feel it.

“If I live through this,” he whispered, voice hoarse with something dangerously close to hope, “I will be better. Not perfect—never that. But better. For you. For all of us.”

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, those words were the truth.

No crown. No mask. No walls. No lies.

Just a father and a son, broken and bound together, refusing to let go.

/ / /

For a while, neither spoke. Words would have been too small for the weight of what hung between them. They stayed like that—Nari curled against him, Loki holding on as though sheer will could still the shaking in his own hands—while sunlight crawled slow and pale across the wall. The quiet was not ease, but it was the first time in what felt like centuries that Loki let the silence stand without reaching for the mask.

When it finally broke, it wasn’t with words at all, but with the muted scrape of the door and the soft murmur of healers, voices threaded with caution. Nari’s head lifted first. His eyes—swollen and rimmed raw—fixed on them like a cornered animal, and for a heartbeat Loki thought he might snarl at them to leave. But instead, after a long, brittle pause, the boy peeled himself away with visible reluctance, fingers dragging like anchors as they slipped from Loki’s sleeve. He stood there, small and rigid, exhaustion etched so deep it hollowed his face, watching as if a single blink might undo what little he’d salvaged.

Loki allowed them in, allowed the spells to wash over him like a tide he could not fight if he tried. He didn’t remember what happened after that. Only the blur that followed: hands prying away bandages to replace, the tang of metal and herbs, the burn of salves drawn across torn flesh, voices slipping in and out like smoke—

“He’s stabilized now..."

“Gods, the blood loss..."

“Keep him awake—no, not yet, get the runes layered and—”

—Before the darkness settled from the corners of his vision, and the day vanished into the dark.

He awoke to a hushed chamber, steeped in the pale light of an hour he could not name. Nari was there, folded in a chair beside the bed, asleep with his chin on his arms and close enough for Loki to touch him. He remembered reaching—a clumsy, half-conscious man—and brushing dark curls from the boy’s brow. Nari stirred, and then shot up, gazing at Loki with wide, surprised eyes. He meant to speak. To say something— anything —but the darkness surged up again before the words could take shape.

Nari’s voice came, and then sunk into the nothing.

Three more days vanished into the dark.

/ / /

When Loki woke the second time, there were no horns or screams—only stillness and light pooling gold across his chamber floor. The pain was muted now, dulled beneath layers of poultices and seiðr, but his body felt heavy, rooted by the weight of too much blood spilled and too little strength left. He shifted once, testing his own limbs, and the sharp protest of his ribs warned him against further folly.

The healers had not lied: his injuries were grave. The Symbiote’s fangs had torn through muscle and bone, and the infection they carried would have devoured him had the wards not burned it out in time. They told him, when he could finally listen, that he had come within a breath of death—kept there by a thread of magic that was not their own, clinging stubbornly to life until the healers arrived. 

Or rather… when someone refused to let go.

The truth settled like a brand in his chest. It was Nari. When they had found them in the training yard, the boy’s seiðr was flaring raw and wild in a terrifying yet beautiful light, lashing itself to Loki’s soul like a lifeline woven from sheer will. A manifestation born not of training, not of calm incantation, but of terror—the kind that could either burn a child hollow or forge them into something stronger.

Without it, Loki would have been a corpse in the dirt.

The thought cut two ways: pride and fear, sharp as twin blades. Pride that the boy bore such power in his blood—Loki’s blood—and fear of what that power might cost him if left untamed. For now, the cost was simpler: Loki lived. 

He would recover, the healers said, if he obeyed their orders and endured the indignity of being confined to bed for a little more than a month: A sentence he might have raged against at any other scenario. But this one? He only closed his eyes and let the breath leave him slow, the weight of exhaustion too absolute to fight.

Later, after the healers had left him to rest, the door opened soft against the hush. Saella stepped in, hands folded, the gold thread of her mantle catching the light.

“Your Majesty. You’ve been out for quite some time,” she said, her voice as even as the silk she wore. She moved with quiet purpose to where he lay, setting a tray on the table beside his bed—steam curling from a bowl of broth, a cup of water catching the golden spill of morning light.

“How long?” Loki rasped.

“Four days.” She studied him, eyes sharp beneath their calm. “You woke twice, but only for a breath of time. Long enough to frighten the healers and reassure the boy before slipping away again.”

“The boy,” Loki echoed, his throat tightening. “Where is he?”

“Asleep.” A flicker of something—fondness? sorrow?—crossed her face. “You should know, Loki. He… did what was asked of him.”

Loki’s brows drew together. “What was asked?”

Her lips curved—not quite a smile, not quite grim. “The council panicked when word spread you might not wake. They needed a face for the throne.”

Loki stilled. “No.”

“Yes.” Saella moved closer, lowering her voice. “They sat him in the high seat, put the quill in his hand, and fed him words he barely understood. He signed decrees and gave orders in your stead.”

Loki turned his head sharply toward her, ribs screaming in protest. “He…”

“He did not cry,” she said, cutting gently across him. “Not there. Not in the hall. He held himself like a worthy prince, Loki. You would have been proud.”

The words landed like a blade between his ribs, deeper than any Symbiote fang. Loki could only stare at her wide eyed.

Saella continued, “The court has tasted what it looks like without you. I have heard their whispers.” Her tone was carefully neutral. “That a boy who bends is easier to guide than a king who does not. Even from the dungeons, Lady Sif rails vehemently against it.”

He closed his eyes. 

“Idiots,” he whispered, the word scraped raw. “He is only a child.”

“Yes,” Saella said. “And yet tonight, there are those who sleep sound because that child played his part.”

Silence yawned wide, filled only by the low crackle of the hearth and the rasp of his own breath. He saw it too clearly—the image she had painted taking cruel root in his mind. Nari in the high seat, dwarfed by the weight of it. Scrawling his name where Loki’s should be, nodding through decrees he could not possibly understand, overseeing an Asgard reeling from an attack within her walls, playing at sovereignty while Loki lay useless, bleeding into sheets. His son carrying a crown’s shadow because he could not lift his own head.

Shame coiled hot and merciless in his chest. This was his doing. His throne, his war, his enemies—and now, his boy’s burden. It was that thought—the ugliest truth—that made him notice the shift in her gaze. That quiet glint, too soft for court, too sharp for comfort.

“Do not look at me like that,” he murmured, letting his head fall deeper against the pillows. “Whatever notion you have, banish it.”

Her mouth curved barely. “Notion?”

“The one burning behind your eyes,” Loki said, his voice thinning to something between a hiss and a sigh. “The same look you’ve worn since the day I first brought Nari to Asgard. The same look you had when you were thinking about him. And me. I know it well now, Saella.”

“And you listened to my thoughts anyways,” she said simply.

“I did nothing of the sort,” Loki countered, lashes lowering. “You give yourself too much credit if you believe your counsel ever swayed me.”

Saella’s breath left in something that might have been a laugh, soft and incredulous. “You lie.”

His gaze cut to hers, colder than ice—but it faltered on the knowing in her eyes.

“You’re wrong,” he said finally, though the words lacked their usual bite. “I do not lie.”

“Then let’s say you tell yourself prettier truths than most,” Saella replied, lifting the tray from the table and setting it across his lap with practiced ease. Steam still curled from the broth, carrying the scent of herbs and bone. “But they are still lies, Loki.”

His jaw flexed, lashes lowering like a blade drawn slow. He hated that his hands trembled when he reached for the spoon—hated more that she saw it. But Saella said nothing, only took it from his fingers without ceremony and stirred the broth, testing the temperature as if he were a child with a fever. Then she offered it to his lips with a quiet steadiness that stripped the act of condescension and made it—somehow—worse.

He opened his mouth because refusal would cost too much breath. Swallowed once, twice, the warmth sliding down a throat gone dry as sand. Humiliation pricked sharp under his skin, but it dulled against the fact that it was Saella— only Saella. With anyone else, he would have shattered the bowl over their head and stabbed them in the heart.

“And what truth,” he said at last, voice scraped raw around the taste of salt and ash, “would you have me drink instead?”

She did not hesitate, lifting the spoon again as she spoke. “The one sitting in the high seat while you bleed through your bandages. The boy who bore your crown in your shadow because the court could not stomach a throne left empty.”

A muscle ticked sharp along his temple. “Enough.”

“Enough?” The word was soft on her tongue, but the look she gave him was not. She tilted the spoon toward him again, and he drank because it was easier than speaking. “Would you truly have me believe that this is what you want? For no one to speak of how close you came to leaving Nari an orphan? Of how he now presides over Asgard as her 'king'?”

“I would have you remember to whom you speak, Saella.”

“I have never forgotten,” she said simply, spoon pausing midair before lowering to the bowl. Then, quieter: “Can you say the same?”

A silence opened between them—wide, brittle. Loki let it stretch until it cut.

“And what,” he said, each word dragged like a chain, “do you think you know of me?”

“I know what he is to you. And what you are to him.” Her tone did not rise; it didn’t need to. She set the now empty bowl aside, movements as precise as her words. “And I know you’re clever enough to see what the court is doing—what it will keep doing if you let them. They will polish him into a mirror of your making and call it mercy. They will call him king long before he knows what it means to be a child.”

Loki looked away then, vision fixed on the shallow glow of the hearth. His voice came low, like breath slipping between teeth. “He should not have been touched by this. Any of it.”

“No,” Saella agreed. “But he has been. And every time they were done parading him, he came back here.” Her voice softened, though it did not break. “Sat by your bed. He would not leave until the healers shooed him away, and they had to swear on their craft you would wake each time they tried to.”

For a long, fraught moment, there was nothing but the hush of fire and the rasp of Loki’s breathing.

He thought of the words she had once spoken to him, in another chamber, on another night when his armor had come off too slowly and her gaze had lingered too long. 

“You think he would be safer away from me,” he had accused her then when she had dared to point out that he had let Nari stay.

“No,” she had said. “I think you will one day wish he had been.”

At the time, he had dismissed it as needless caution. He had even told himself—bitterly—that he would rather Nari learn to hate him up close than from afar. That keeping him near, under his eye, meant control. Safety. Strength. 

And gods, looking at the empty space beside his bed where he guessed Nari had sat waiting for him to wake, Loki felt the weight of it now. He should have sent the boy away. To Vanaheim, to Alfheim, to Midgard, anywhere but here. Out of reach of daggers and Symbiotes and the hunger of old gods. Away from a purpose that would grind him down before he had learned how to laugh without fear.

Yet he had kept him here—selfishly, foolishly—because he could not bring himself to let go. And now the boy had been dressed in a crown’s shadow, carrying burdens that should never have touched him.

“I… had a thought,” Loki said, his voice low, almost musing. “A frightening thought.”

Silence. Saella watched Loki, waiting.

“Not that I might have died. But that if I had… he would have had to learn how to be worthy before he learned to be a child.”

Saella’s answer came soft and certain, “Then let him be one while you still can.”

Loki shut his eyes again. For the first time in days, the tightness in his chest eased—but not by much; never enough.

/ / /

BONUS DOODLES!

(Thank you for supporting Sentiment!)

(In which ideas were entertained, and Pigzl doodled them!)

Loki third wheeling at the hellfire gala (Chapter 18)

Chapter Text

/ / /

The chamber was quiet.

Too quiet.

Evening had only just begun to press in at the windows, the light thinning to amber and shadow. Loki had counted every knot in the carved beams above him, traced every line of the stonework until they blurred together, and still the silence pressed down.

The healers’ wards hummed faintly at the edges of the bed, a cage of gold runes woven to keep his body tethered. Beside his right hand, a tasseled bellrope to call Saella hung from a brass hook within easy reach, its green silk cord coiled like a patient serpent. He had not pulled it.

He loathed that it existed to be pulled on his behalf. He loathed the way pain stitched through his ribs when he so much as shifted a finger. He loathed the indignity of being confined to pillows and poultices.

There was nothing to do but lie still. No schemes to set in motion, no court to outmaneuver. Just him, his thoughts, and the constant ache that reminded him how close he had come to dying.

The door creaked.

His head turned sharply, half-expecting another healer with bandages, or Saella with more broth and water. Instead—he heard quick steps, lighter than most, carrying the faintest hurry in them. A small figure slipped in, curls mussed as though sleep had barely been tamed into order.

Nari's eyes widened when he saw him awake, and for a moment he froze in the doorway as if unsure whether he was allowed.

Then he crossed the chamber in a rush.

“You’re really awake!” Nari's voice cracked with the force of it, relief spilling over into urgency. He came to the bedside quickly, almost tripping over his own feet. “I—I wanted to come sooner, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

Loki raised a brow, ignoring the stab of pain as he shifted his head a fraction. “Couldn’t?”

The boy nodded earnestly, twisting his fingers together. “I had to do… things. Important things. They made me sit on the throne. With papers and quills and—and all the boring stuff. Everyone—all the grown-ups who forgot how to blink—kept talking at me.” His face scrunched in indignation. “I was doing king stuff.”

The corners of Loki’s mouth twitched, though the expression was too thin to be called a smile. “King stuff,” he echoed dryly, his voice rasping with both pain and amusement.

The boy nodded harder, curls bouncing. “Yes. King stuff. All day. That’s why I couldn’t come.” His voice softened suddenly, sincerity slipping through. “I’m sorry.”

For the first time in hours, Loki felt something other than pain or weariness: the faint, disarming warmth of being missed. He exhaled slow.

“It is quite all right. You needn’t apologize for being… busy.” His mouth shaped the word with faint distaste. “I am not going anywhere anytime soon. Not for the rest of the month, and potentially longer, if the healers have their way.”

Nari blinked at him, tilting his head as though to puzzle through it. He chewed his lip for a moment before asking, “So… you’ve just been here? All day? Doing nothing?”

Loki’s gaze flicked to the ceiling beams he had memorized, then back to the small, curious face watching him. “Yes. Precisely.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, “That must’ve been soooooo boring.”

The word stretched out of him like a complaint too big for his little frame. His nose scrunched, his shoulders hiked, and he gave a dramatic little sigh, as though the very idea of being trapped in bed with nothing to do was more terrible than dealing with the combined forces of Knull’s Symbiotes and Hela’s legions.

Loki arched a brow, caught between offense and reluctant amusement. 

“Boring?” he repeated, his tone dry as frost.

Nari nodded solemnly, curls bobbing. “Booooooooring.”

“Then what,” Loki asked, “do you propose I do instead?”

The boy’s eyes lit. “Play something! It’s what I do when I’m bored.”

Loki gave him a long, incredulous stare. Then, with a faint gesture to his half-bandaged body, he deadpanned, “Look at me. What could I possibly be able to play?”

Nari’s brows furrowed in deep thought. He glanced at the empty pitcher on the table, then at the curtains, then at the high beams of the ceiling, and finally let his gaze wander around the chamber. His small face brightened. 

“I know!” he blurted suddenly, turning back toward the bed. “Let’s have a competition.”

“A competition?”

“Mmhm. Whoever makes their paper fly the farthest wins!” His grin widened. “Miss Ylva showed me how to fold them. Paper planes.”

That sounded suspiciously Midgardian. Of course it would be one of Ylva’s lessons; she had always had a reputation for smuggling in little oddities from the Bifrost, treating them as though they were just as valuable as ancient sagas. And now here it was, reaching him in the form of a child’s wide-eyed challenge.

Loki blinked once, twice. “Paper… planes.”

“Yes! They fly just like birds.” Nari's curls bobbed with his nod. “I’ll get some paper, wait here!” And before Loki could reply, the boy dashed from the chamber with quick, hurried steps. Loki sighed, leaning back against his pillows, but some small glint of curiosity stirred beneath his ribs.

Moments later, Nari returned clutching several sheets of parchment. He hopped up onto the low stool at Loki’s bedside and smoothed one sheet across his knee before offering another toward him. “Here. You have to fold yours too.”

Loki accepted it between two fingers, studying the paper with mock seriousness before setting it aside at his lap. “Very well. Proceed.”

Nari bent over his parchment with grave focus, tongue caught at the corner of his mouth as he folded. First one crease, then another, then carefully aligned edges.

Minutes ticked by.

Then more minutes.

Loki watched with something like incredulous amusement as his son fussed over each angle, pinching corners flat, adjusting folds again and again. Ten whole minutes passed, until at last, he straightened, holding up the result with a beaming smile. It was, Loki admitted silently, the most elaborate paper plane he had ever seen.

“Done!” Nari declared proudly. Then he noticed Loki’s untouched parchment. “Wait… why aren’t you folding yours? Aren’t you gonna make one?”

Loki’s shoulders lifted in a slow shrug. “I’ll watch you.”

Suspicion crossed Nari's face, but he seemed too proud of his creation to linger on it. With a determined breath, he moved to the middle of the chamber. He took careful aim, wound back his arm, and let the plane fly.

It soared gracefully for several long moments, angling across the chamber with surprising elegance before dipping down and landing neatly on the far side of the rug with a light thud. He spun on his heel, grinning wide, cheeks flushed with triumph.

“Hah! Did you see that? It almost flew to the window!” Then his grin turned impish. “And you didn’t even make yours. Are you already giving up? Admitting defeat, Father?”

Loki’s lips curved dangerously. “Hardly.”

He lifted the untouched parchment, crumpled it leisurely into a tight ball, and with one flick of his wrist sent it flying across the chamber. It smacked against the far wall with a dull thunk before dropping to the floor. His smirk sharpened. “I made my paper fly farther than yours.”

The look on Nari's face was priceless: wide-eyed, slack-jawed, halfway between outrage and disbelief.

For a heartbeat Loki held his composure. Then the laughter broke—rich, sharp, and unstoppable. He doubled slightly with the force of it, pressing a hand against his ribs as pain flared bright and hot, but it only made him laugh harder, gasping between fits.

“Wh—Bu—You—” Nari stammered, face red with anger and confusion. “That’s not—? You can’t just do THAT?!”

“Oh yes, I can,” Loki wheezed between his laughter, eyes glittering. “I just did.”

He lifted a finger, gesturing toward the crumpled ball still resting against the far wall. “Your challenge was to make the paper fly the farthest. You never said how it had to fly. And you should know better than to offer a loophole to the God of Mischief.”

Nari sputtered wordlessly, caught between indignation and the reluctant tug of a smile. Loki only laughed harder, the sound shaking the chamber warm, pain and all.

“That’s cheating!” Nari declared.

“Cheating?” Loki repeated, his smirk widening. “No, my clever little wolf. That is winning. You’ll find the two are often mistaken for one another.”

“That’s not fair!” he huffed, stamping one small foot against the rug.

“Life,” Loki said smoothly, still chuckling as he adjusted against the pillows, “is very rarely fair. And oftentimes, the simplest solution is the best one.”

Nari scowled at him for a long moment—then scooped up another sheet of parchment. “Fine. Then I’ll beat you at your own trick.”

Loki arched a brow, curiosity sparking. “Oh? And how do you intend to best me?”

Nari crumpled his paper into a ball with deliberate slowness, eyes never leaving Loki’s. He wound back his arm, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth, and hurled it across the room. It sailed lopsided, smacked the rug halfway, and rolled to a stop pitifully short of Loki’s own throw.

He froze. His lower lip wobbled. Then—

“...It was supposed to go farther.”

For a moment, Loki held his tongue. Then laughter struck him again, sharp and helpless, though gentler this time. He pressed his hand to his ribs, hissing at the flare of pain, but the sound kept spilling through anyway. 

“Oh, little one,” he said between breaths, “you cannot simply mimic mischief. You must understand it.”

The boy pouted, folding his arms. “Then teach me.”

Loki stilled at that, the laughter cutting off in his throat. The request was so earnest, so unguarded, that it landed heavier than any jest. He blinked, studying the small, expectant face gazing up at him.

“Teach you?” he echoed slowly.

Nari nodded. “My seiðr manifested. If you’re the God of Mischief, and I’m your son… then I should know how to do it too.”

For once, Loki had no clever retort. His smirk faded into something quieter, stranger—something dangerously close to fondness. 

“Come here,” he said, his voice low. He shifted with effort, wincing as pain lanced through his ribs, but he beckoned the boy closer with two fingers. Wide eyes blinked at him. Then Nari scrambled over and leaned near the bedside.

Loki lifted a trembling hand. For a moment it looked empty—just pale fingers cupped in the slant of torchlight. Then a spark bloomed, green at first, then shifting. The shimmer curled upward, bursting into tiny, shimmering fireworks that blazed violet and gold before fading into harmless motes. Little flowers of light, soft enough not to startle, but bright enough to widen the boy’s eyes into wonder.

“See?” Loki murmured, watching the reflection of the sparks in his son’s gaze. “Illusion must never be mistaken for deception. Intent is the only thing that separates a trick from a lie. Sometimes… it is simply… light.”

Nari reached up instinctively, small fingers brushing through one of the fading sparks as though to catch it. “Whoa…”

Loki’s lips curved faintly, but his voice dropped softer, almost conspiratorial. “My mother taught me this, once. She said that if you can imagine it clearly enough, if you put your whole mind to it…” He let another spray of sparks bloom from his palm, trailing like a comet’s tail before fading. “...you can make anything real.”

Nari’s gaze shot to him, wide and shining. “Anything?”

“Anything,” Loki said, the word warm and dangerous all at once. He closed his hand slowly, the last glimmers fading into the quiet chamber. “That is the first lesson of mischief: the world is far more pliable than it appears. All you need is will… and the nerve to use it.”

Nari's mouth parted in awe, then tugged into a grin as mischief crept into his wide eyes. “Does that mean… I could turn all the grown- ups’ wine into ink like you did?”

Loki blinked, then gave him a look—half incredulous, half impressed. “You remember that?”

Nari nodded. “You said you did it once.”

Loki’s lips curved into the shadow of a smirk. “An entire cask of fine Asgardian red—ruined, replaced with ink so potent it stained the teeth of all who drank it. My mother did not let me near the feasts for a fortnight after that particular trick.”

Nari giggled mischievously. “I want to do that too!”

“You should aim higher than soiling wine,” Loki said dryly, though the fondness in his voice softened the words. He extended his hand again, coaxing another shimmer of sparks to dance above his palm. “Start with light. With fire. The simple things. Try.”

The boy’s brow furrowed with sudden seriousness. He lifted his own small hand, palm out, eyes narrowing with determination. His lips pressed tight, his breath caught, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then came a flicker. A faint, trembling spark. Crimson shot through with cobalt and stuttered in the air before dissolving into smoke.

Nari gasped. “I did it!”

Loki’s chest tightened with something he dared not name. He leaned his head back against the pillows, exhaling slowly. “Yes. You did.”

Nari beamed, cheeks flushed with triumph. “Next time, I’ll make it bigger.”

“Patience,” Loki murmured, watching him with a gaze sharper than the smile he let slip. “Even mischief must be sharpened before it is wielded. Sparks before fire, fire before storm. One step at a time.”

Nari nodded solemnly, as though the words were sacred law, but his grin quickly returned. “And then the wine?”

Loki closed his eyes, a soft chuckle breaking through the pain in his ribs. “And then—perhaps—the wine.”

For a moment, Nari looked as if he might ask for another trick, but instead, his gaze drifted toward the hearth. The grin lingered, but thinner now, as though something tugged at its edges. Loki noticed. He always noticed.

“What is it?” His voice was quiet, not a demand but an invitation.

The boy hesitated, rocking back on his heels. “...Nothing.”

Loki tilted his head, eyes narrowing with the kind of patience that felt heavier than any command. “A poor lie,” he said softly. “Try again.”

A puff of breath escaped Nari—half sigh, half surrender. His small fingers fidgeted at the hem of his tunic, twisting the fabric until it wrinkled.

“King stuff… it’s… really hard.” The words tumbled out like pebbles loosed from a hand. “Everyone kept asking me what to do. And I didn’t know. I just said what they told me. I tried to sit up straight like you do, and I tried not to cry, but…” His throat worked. “It didn’t feel like a competition like the paper planes. It felt… heavy. And tiring.”

He stopped, biting his lip, then added in a rush, “And Sir Bjorn… He hasn’t woken up yet.” His voice cracked, small and uncertain. “The healers said he was in ‘critical condition’. What if he… never wakes up?”

Loki drew a breath, steady despite the ache. “Bjorn is strong, stronger than most give him credit for. He fought because you mattered to him, and men who fight with that kind of will… they do not fall easily. The healers will do their part, and so will he. Hold on to your hope.”

The boy’s lip trembled, but he nodded. Loki’s gaze lingered on him—too small to be carrying worries of healers and courts, too young to know words like critical condition. The ache in his chest deepened.

“The throne was not meant to be yours to bear,” he said softly, each syllable careful as glass. “Not now.”

(‘Not ever’, he wanted to add, but that would have been a lie).

Nari nodded quickly—almost too quickly—as if to outrun something else pressing on his tongue. His hands curled tighter. When he looked up again, his green eyes were bright, not with mischief, but with something raw and uncertain.

“Father,” he whispered. “I need to tell you something, but… will you promise not to get mad?”

Loki studied him, the silence taut as a bowstring. “That,” he said, “depends on what you have to tell me.”

Nari's lip caught between his teeth. His next words came even softer, almost swallowed by the hush between them. “It’s about Lady Sif. And Sir Heimdall.” His throat worked. Then he swallowed. Then he spoke: “I… let them out.”

Silence.

Loki did not flinch, though the pain in his side turned sharp and bright. “Explain,” he said, the word a steady blade.

Nari’s hands twisted in his tunic again, small knuckles pale. “Even though I don’t know much about what kings do, I… do know what a seal means.” His chin lifted—barely, bravely. “So I used it.”

“On whom.”

“Lady Sif and Sir Heimdall.” The words came in one rush, as if saying them faster might make them smaller. “I wrote a release and told the guards it was under royal order. My order. I said the King is hurt and we need our strongest, and that mercy isn’t weakness. I said… you would have allowed it.”

Loki’s breath drew in, slow. “Would I.”

Nari swallowed again. “I hoped so.”

The hum of the wards seemed louder for a heartbeat. Gold runes thrummed like held breath. Loki let the beat pass, then another. When he spoke, his voice did not rise—not in question, but statement. “What happened then.”

“They didn’t run,” Nari said quickly. “I thought they might. But they didn’t. They found me and asked who freed them. And I said—” He glanced up, as if the answer might be written on Loki’s face. “I said I did. They looked… surprised. Not happy. Not angry. Just… surprised.”

A corner of Loki’s mouth tilted, not quite mirth. “That sounds like them.”

“I told them you were hurt. I told them I was doing king stuff now because you couldn’t be.” His voice wavered and steadied in the same breath. “Lady Sif knelt so we were the same height. She said I shouldn’t be sitting there. That it wasn’t fair. That grown-ups were making me a shield because they were scared.”

“And what did you say.”

“That you’re my father,” Nari said, hardly more than a whisper, “and you were hurt and not waking up because you fought to protect me and someone had to sit on the throne. And I can. Even if it’s hard. Even if I’m little. I can.”

Something in Loki’s chest shifted at that—pain that wasn’t pain. He kept his face smooth. “And Heimdall.”

“He said I had to learn to say no. Even to them. He said I should not be used.” Nari’s jaw set, a small mirror of Loki’s own. “I told him I wasn’t being used. I was trying.”

“Mm,” Loki’s gaze flicked to the ceiling, then back. “And then?”

“They argued. Lady Sif and Sir Heimdall,” Nari said truthfully. “Lady Sif said she would not turn my kindness into a weapon. That she was ‘above using a child.’ She said you had already risked your life for me, and it would be wrong to strike at you while you were bedridden.” His fingers twisted tighter. “But Sir Heimdall said Asgard is a people, not a throne. That you being king did not erase what the people needed. He said leaving you in power—just because you protected me—would be 'no true mercy'.”

Nari shook his head a little at the memory. “They were both talking so loud, Father. I didn’t want them to fight. So I said you were hurt, and the people were scared… and I was doing what I was doing because I wanted to do it. They should go or stay—but not choose whatever because of me.”

Loki’s eyes softened in a way he did not permit often. “And they decided…?”

“They decided to go.” The words landed small and heavy. “They wouldn’t say where. They said it was safer if I didn’t know. Before they left, they told me to tell you something.” Nari drew a breath, collecting syllables he’d memorized like bright stones, the same way he had when he was memorizing phrases for his lessons. When he spoke, he was careful and precise, as if each word were a precious rune:

“We will not war with a child to wound a usurper. Asgard is not a crown—she is a people. When he is ready to guard his own virtue rather than his own reflection, he may send for us at the Bifrost at first frost. If he will not, then we will one day return with the storm he sent away.”

Silence again. The kind with weight.

Loki let the message settle like snow over stone. The phrasing was theirs—Heimdall’s greatsword, Sif’s blade. And ‘the storm he sent away’… The word landed like a name.

“Thor,” he said mildly. “Of course.”

Nari flinched at the name he did not yet know how to hold. “Are you… mad?”

Loki’s answer came without heat. “No.” He watched the boy’s shoulders loosen a fraction, then added, because truth should not limp: “Not at you.”

He reached for the bell-rope, stopped, grimaced at the pull in his ribs, and let his hand fall. “Come closer,” he said instead.

Nari obeyed, edging to the bedside. Loki reached for his wrist lightly. “Listen to me. You will never be punished for mercy.” He let the words be firm, like a plank over water. “Only for cowardice. This was not that.”

The boy blinked as if something unsprung inside him. “I… I thought maybe you’d say I was bad.”

“Mm,” Loki’s mouth curved, not unkindly. “You are many things. Bad is not among them.” He released the wrist and gestured toward the writing table by the hearth. “Bring me my signet and the black ledger.”

Nari fetched both, careful as if carrying live flames. Saella would have scolded any other hands for touching the King’s seal; Loki only took it and turned the metallic ring in his fingers as if testing a familiar weight. He pressed the signet to a blank sheet, the wax cooling under his thumb. “What you’ve done,” he said, eyes on the imprint, “I now order.” He angled the wax so the crest caught the light. “A Writ of Vigilant Grace. Nine days’ safe passage for Sif and Heimdall. No pursuit. No ambush. No chains.”

Nari’s gaze flew up. “You—”

“If I do not claim the decision,” Loki said, voice low, “they will use you to undo it. Or worse, leave it yours so they can burn you with its smoke—the weakness it threatens.” He lifted the signet and set it back on the tray. “There. Now it is my burden, as it should be.”

He took the quill, wrote in a tight, painfully elegant hand, and signed with shaky, practiced finality. Then he reached for the bell-rope again. Pain sang; he rang it anyway.

Saella appeared with the quiet speed of someone who had been waiting outside the door for the sound she knew would come. Her eyes took in the ledger, the seal, the boy’s face. Something like relief threaded through her composure, though she masked it with a respectful bow. “Your majesty.”

“Summon Captain Eirik,” Loki said, more breath than thunder. That Eirik: the Einherjar captain who had fought beside him on the day of the attack. He had only just bothered to remember the man’s name. “And a raven. I don't care which.”

Saella inclined her head in acknowledgement.

“And Saella,” Loki added as she turned, “remove from the throne room any courtier who thought it a good idea to set a child in my throne as a shield. Reassign them to the western granaries. If they must feed their fear, they may do it with sacks of grain.”

A flash of something—approval, perhaps—quickened her gaze. “Of course.”

When the door closed, the room’s humming hush returned. Nari stood very straight, as if bracing for some blow that had not come.

“We are not finished,” Loki said, softer now. He nudged the black ledger toward the boy. “You manned a throne. You will learn what that really means now.” The ink was still fresh in places—his son’s uneven hand beside the scribes’ steadier notes. “Read each. Decide what you would do. Write your name, then under it, write one sentence beginning with ‘because’. Not what or how or when—why.”

Nari stared at the pages like they were cliffs. “What if I choose wrong?”

“You will,” Loki said. No cruelty in it; only fact. “And then you will choose again. Intention first. Then craft. That is how mischief becomes art. It is also how a realm survives.”

Nari nodded slowly, the weight real but sized to fit his hands. He clutched the ledger to his chest like a shield he had chosen rather than been handed. Then came a tap at the door. Captain Eirik entered, took in the ring and writ, and bowed low.

“You will carry this edict,” Loki said, passing the now sealed parchment. “Announce it at the gates and in the halls: Asgard extends Vigilant Grace to Sif and Heimdall for nine days. Any hand raised against them before then is a hand raised against me.” His gaze sharpened. “You will also lace the out-realm thresholds with watch-wards—not snares. I want to know where they step, not hold their ankles.”

When they were alone again, Loki set his head back and let the ache ebb. He would have paid a great deal for the luxury of anger; calm cost more and bought better.

Nari had not moved. He was watching Loki with the grave, hopeful look that made him look even younger than he actually was (Which, truth be told, wasn’t that old at all, Loki reminded himself with a flicker of something perilously close to fondness).

“What will you write?” his son asked.

Loki considered. Then, aloud, for the boy and for himself, he spoke the words he would set in ink: “Heimdall. Sif.” The names left his tongue without tremor.

“Hear me. At first frost, the edge of the Bifrost will stand open. If you would come as counselors, then bring your wisdom and be heard. If you would come as storm, then come in full. I will greet neither half-measures nor shadows.”

He let the words settle, knowing full well he had no intention of standing on that bridge. Let them believe the door would be open—it cost him nothing to name the hour, and everything to see what shape their defiance would take.

Nari’s mouth made a small ‘O’. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“It is an address,” Loki said mildly. “A door opened is not a dare. It is a choice.”

Nari looked at his shoes, then back up. “Lady Sif and Sir Heimdall promised me that the sky would stand still when they came back.”

“It will,” Loki said. “And when it does, you will be nowhere near the Bifrost. Or the throne room. Or the palace.”

Nari shifted, unhappy. “But—”

“Because I said so,” Loki replied, and this time there was frost under the velvet. “And because I will not make you a shield again.”

The boy’s eyes flicked—hurt, then relief, then the stubborn line of his mouth returning to its notch. He didn’t argue further. Instead, he climbed back onto the stool and set the ledger on his knees, flipping to the first ribbon with a seriousness that made Loki’s throat tighten.

“'Petition for timber allotment to repair the east wall,’” Nari read aloud, slow, lips shaping unfamiliar terms. “‘Denied on grounds of prior overspending.’” He frowned. “But the wall fell because of the Sym-beeb-otes. That’s not over… over… wh… what’s the word again?”

“Oversight.”

“Right.” He chewed his lower lip. “If the wall falls again and people get hurt, that’s worse than someone being mad about money.”

“Write that,” Loki said. “One sentence. Because…”

Nari dipped the quill, tongue peeking out at the corner of his mouth. The feather scratched, and he read as he wrote in the best handwriting he could muster: “Because the wall keeps people alive and coin doesn’t bleed.”

Loki’s breath hitched without his permission. He covered it by shifting, hissing at his ribs. The door opened a crack, and Nari visibly brightened when he saw who stepped in. Saella: carrying a small satchel with a raven perched on her wrist, midnight feathers oil-slick in the light. “From the High House,” she said. “He remembers you.”

Nari tipped forward on his toes. “Hello, Miss Saella!”

Her eyes flicked over him—ink on his knuckles, smudge on his nose, the stubborn lift of his chin. She pressed a folded cloth into his palm. “Wipe,” she murmured fondly, then, drier: “If you mean to sign a signet on your father’s behalf, best they not see their prince marked by his quill.”

Nari scrubbed at the smudge. “Does he peck?” he whispered, nodding at the raven.

“Only fools and liars,” Saella said, soft enough that it could be a joke. Her glance slid to Loki, unapologetically fond, and back to the boy. “You are neither.”

Loki eyed the raven. Munin. Of course. Once, Thor had plucked the poor creature nearly bald in a fit of boyish mischief, and Loki—ever the one to shoulder blame—had bent the raven’s memory until the crime dissolved. Yet here he was still, feathers sleek again, eye bright and unblinking, none the wiser.

Munin cocked his head, feathers shifting with old magic. He had once perched on Frigga’s shoulder and stolen grapes from her palm, earning her rare ire until Odin, guilty and fumbling, gifted her a plethora of flowers for her secret garden.

Loki lifted a hand, and Munin hopped lightly to him, claws careful against thin skin.

“Carry,” he told Munin, and spoke the message again, slow and clear. As he did, the raven’s pupils widened, drinking the words like ink. When he finished, he touched two fingers to Munin’s beak. “Go.”

Munin launched in a sweep of dark wings that stirred the curtains and sent a brief, cool wind across Loki’s face. For a heartbeat, it felt like standing on the Bifrost again, the cosmos rolling beneath his feet. Then the raven was gone.

Saella set the satchel down—a new pitcher, a bundle of clean bandages, and a small wrapped pastry she pretended not to place where Nari could very clearly see it. Her gaze moved from king to boy and back, cataloguing what had changed and what had not. 

“Eat,” she told Nari without looking away from Loki. “Bravery is not an answer to hunger.”

“I’m not—” Nari began, then his stomach answered for him. He flushed, took the pastry, and unwrapped it with all the subtlety of a raven at a feast. “Thank you.”

Saella adjusted the fall of his collar with two deft fingers. “You’ve done enough for one hour, my prince. The rest can wait the space of a bite.”

“Don’t—” Nari mumbled through a mouthful, crumbs flecking his lip, “—call me ‘prince’. I told you not to.”

“And I told you not to speak with your mouth full,” Saella returned evenly, brushing a crumb from his chin as if it were part of the same lesson. The boy ducked his head, cheeks warm, but he was smiling as he chewed.

“You heard?” Loki asked without looking at her.

“I heard,” she said. “And I heard you.” A pause. “The granaries will have excellent new staff by noon.”

Loki’s eyes closed briefly. “Good.”

“There will be talk,” Saella said, tone neutral as a scalpel.

“There is always talk,” Loki said. He was tired down to his bones. “Let them crack their teeth on it.”

Saella’s mouth tilted. “As you wish.”

She bent, smoothing Nari’s hair back from his brow. He caught her wrist, suddenly solemn. “You’ll come back?” he asked, voice small.

Her gaze softened. “Always.”

Nari let go, but not without reluctance. “Goodbye, Miss Saella,” he said, quieter than before.

“Goodbye, little wolf,” she murmured back, and then she moved to leave. The door clicked softly shut behind her, leaving behind the faint scent of parchment and pastry.

The room seemed smaller without her—warmer too, in a way Loki could not name. Nari sat very still for a moment, as if listening to the silence she had left. Then, almost sheepishly, he bent over the ledger again, the last flakes of pastry clinging to his fingers.

He wrote his second sentence without being asked, and read it aloud: “Because the widow in the fourth row asked for bread, not praise.” He looked up, almost shy, to see if he had overstepped.

Loki nodded once, slow—a small, amused smile playing on his lips. Nari lingered over the page, chewing the quill’s end as if the ink itself might give him courage.

When he finally set it down, the quiet stretched—until his next thought tumbled out, unguarded. “Can I… come back tomorrow?” he blurted as if it had been pressing on him the whole time. His gaze flicked between the ledger and Loki’s bandaged ribs. “Not for king stuff. To play again.”

Loki arched a brow, tilting his head with exaggerated solemnity. “To be defeated twice in a row at paper competitions? Bold of you.”

The boy huffed, though a grin tugged at his mouth. “I almost won.”

“Almost,” Loki echoed, letting the word curl with wicked amusement.

Nari’s eyes glinted with mischief. “But it doesn’t have to be paper planes again. I’ll think of something else so you don’t get too bored.”

“Mm. A bold claim,” Loki said, eyelids half-lowered. “Boredom is a formidable opponent.”

“I can beat it,” Nari insisted, chin up.

“Very well.” Loki’s tone turned mock-ceremonial. “You may present proposed amusements after noon, accompanied by reasons beginning with ‘because.’ No projectiles aimed at my ribs, no wine transmutations until your sparks stop sputtering and you gain better control of your seiðr, and you will defer to the healers should they attempt to bully you on my behalf.”

Nari nodded solemnly, then spoiled it with a grin. “So… that’s a yes?”

“It is a heavily qualified yes,” Loki said, mouth tilting. “Do not be late. You should know that kings detest boredom.”

“I won’t,” Nari whispered, relief loosening his shoulders. “I’ll make the game a good one. You won’t be bored.” He hesitated, then added in a smaller voice, “And… will you teach me more? About using seiðr. Not just the sparks. About mischief too.”

Loki regarded him for a long beat. “One lesson, then,” he said at last. “Light and breath—nothing that throws, explodes, or stains. You will also keep your hands still when I tell you to.”

Nari straightened, fierce with promise. “I can do that.”

“We shall see,” Loki murmured.

Nari hesitated again, fingers worrying at the edge of the ledger. “Then… can I stay a little longer? Just here. I don’t mean talking. I just…” He trailed off, then admitted in a rush, “I just want to feel that you’re still here.”

For a heartbeat, Loki said nothing. Then, with a quiet gesture, he shifted his arm the smallest fraction away from his side, enough to leave space.

Nari understood at once. He set the ledger aside, slid carefully up, and leaned—cautious at first, then less so—into Loki’s side, mindful of the bandages, careful of the pain. He rested his head where he could hear a heart that had almost stopped.

Loki did not move him away.

On the table, the signet lay cooling beside a seal. On the sill, a feather trembled where Munin’s wing had brushed it. Far away, a path was already being chosen, and a storm was already turning its face toward home.

In the chamber, the wards hummed, low and even, and the ink dried on ‘BECAUSE’ until the word looked like a promise.

/ / /

Chapter Text

/ / /

Nari had stayed curled against Loki longer than he ought to have. At some point in the night, Saella had appeared—quiet as falling snow—and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Bath. Bed. Tomorrow will be a long day, little wolf.”

Nari resisted with the stubborn silence only a child could wield, clinging to Fenrir. But eventually he slid away, careful not to jar the bandages, eyes never leaving Loki’s face.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he whispered, and the words clung to the air even after he padded out with Saella at his shoulder.

The chamber had grown very still after that. Loki lay back against the pillows, ribs aching, the place where the boy’s warmth had been marked more sharply than any wound. Sleep came slow, unwanted, yet unavoidable.

And now—morning.

It came thin and colorless, the kind that made sound feel louder.

The wards still purred along the bed’s edges, a patient cage of rune-light. Loki stared at the coiled bellrope, then past it—past the pitcher, the folded cloths, and the careful, suffocating mercy of stillness.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

The motion cracked his breath. Pain stitched quick and bright across his ribs; the wards shivered, runes flaring from gold to a warning white before settling again. He held, teeth bared, palms flat to the mattress until the world steadied.

The door eased open.

Saella walked through it, of course. She had a way of arriving at the exact moment one could most resent it.

“Your Majesty,” she said, which almost sounded like: You shouldn’t be doing this alone, you little bundle of trouble I once rocked quiet!

Loki ignored her. He set his feet to the rug, and stood.

The first heartbeat upright was a blade.

The second was a blade with a handle.

By the third, he had a grip on it.

He leaned one hand on the bedpost as if considering the carving there, nothing so common as bracing.

Saella’s gaze flicked once to the glow of the wards, once to Loki’s face, and settled on the space just above his shoulder—respectful, immovable. “We will do this, but we will do it properly.”

“Which is to say, slowly,” he rasped.

“Efficiently,” she corrected. “Stand tall. Shoulders back, but not foolishly so. Breathe into the lowest ache, not the brightest.” She moved light as a feather, setting a chair three measured paces away and angling it as if it were a step in a dance. “From bed to chair. That is today’s map, Your Majesty.”

“An insultingly small map,” Loki said, observing the distance. He set out. Three steps; each a war wrapped in linen and salve. The wards fluttered a thin halo of protest at his edges—he could feel their hum against his skin like static.

The second step wobbled. The third faltered altogether. Saella did not touch him, which was both mercy and refusal. He reached the chair. Sat. The relief was nearly violent. Somehow that made him angry at it.

Saella produced a sandglass from the table—slender, brass-framed, full of pale grit that looked like powdered frost. “We repeat the journey until this runs empty,” she said. “Then you lie down. Then you hate me quietly for an hour. Then we repeat again with less hatred.”

“Your bedside manner grows ever more lyrical.”

“Hm.” She set the glass where he could see it without pretending not to. “You may swear once each lap, provided it shows imagination.”

Boot-steps thumped from the corridor—quick and eager—and then Nari squeezed through the half-open door, hair wild, Fenrir tucked beneath one arm. He took in Loki sitting upright and made a sound that was almost a laugh but softer, like a wingbeat.

“You’re up,” he breathed, as if witnessing a trick he hadn’t meant to hope for. Then, to Saella, in a conspiratorial whisper that was not quiet at all, “Is this a walking game?”

“It is not a game,” Loki said.

“It is absolutely a game,” Saella said at the same time. She passed Nari the sandglass with solemn ceremony. “You know what to do, little wolf. Make sure he doesn’t curse.”

Nari’s chin lifted, his lips quirking up into a tiny smile. He tucked Fenrir under the crook of his opposite arm and squared his shoulders like an Einherjar. “I formally appoint Fenrir as walking inspector,” he announced gravely. Then, to Loki, “Because kings shouldn’t fight boredom to death.”

It should not have warmed him the way it did. Loki angled his gaze downward to disguise the betrayal of it. “What a cruel fate, death by tedium.”

“Worse than Sym… symb-bib—” Nari frowned, then abandoned the word for certainty. “Worse. Worse than worse.”

Loki reached for the bedpost and pushed to standing again. The room did its best to tilt; he ignored it with a grit of his teeth. Saella took half a step closer and then remembered herself and took none at all.

“From chair to chest,” the old woman said, nodding at a carved coffer three paces distant. “Three crossings. Then you have earned gloating rights.”

“Over whom?”

“Me!” Nari said promptly. “And also Fenrir.”

Brandishing Fenrir like an Einherjar’s sword, he barked, “Ready, set—walking!” Then he flipped the sandglass, watching the trickle with ferocious attention.

Loki moved.

The first pace cut hot. The second tugged something deep and mean under the bandages; the wards flickered again, hum sharpening. He breathed as Saella had ordered—through the lowest ache, not the brightest—and put his palm to the coffer. The wood was cool, iron-bound, steady. He rested there, no longer than it took to claim victory without looking like he needed it.

“One!” Nari declared. “And you didn’t even use a curse!”

“I am saving it,” Loki said.

“For the stairs,” Saella murmured.

“For your retirement,” Loki returned, and saw the pleased corner on her lips that she pretended wasn’t there.

He turned. The journey back was worse in the way one has to look at where they began. Halfway, his breath hitched. The room narrowed to a corridor drawn with pain and pride.

Nari drifted to his left—too near; Loki almost told him to move away—then stopped at the exact edge of the wards’ glow and didn’t cross it. He lifted Fenrir so the plush wolf’s shiny button eyes sat level with Loki’s hip.

“Inspector Fenrir says you’re doing very excellent,” Nari said, as if this were a matter of formal record. “And that if the ache is louder than the fear, you’re going the right way.”

Loki’s mouth twitched despite itself. “Is the inspector qualified to offer medical advice?”

“He has button eyes. They see everything,” Nari countered, as if that settled the matter of all qualifications ever.

Loki reached the chair and sat. The sand hissed on. Saella exchanged the bandage roll for nothing in particular and occupied herself briskly with what looked like a ledger but had no ink.

“Two more,” she said without looking up. Her voice had a thread of approval through it.

Nari crouched in front of Loki’s knees, elbows on the chair’s rung, Fenrir propped between them like a second listener. Up close, the boy’s lashes were still clumped with sleep. He looked at Loki the way one looks at stars in cold weather: with reverence, and a secret fear of rain clouds.

“Does it hurt very much?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” Loki said, equally softly. He had no use for a lie here. “But I have known worse pains that were pointless. This one… is at least from good purpose.”

Nari thought about that, looking down at the rug as if the fibers could explain it, then back up. “Then I’ll help it have more gooder purpose.” He angled the sandglass toward Loki. “When the sand finishes, I’ll tip it again. I can do that very fast. It can’t beat me.”

“Time is difficult to defeat,” Loki said. “But I endorse the attempt.”

The second crossing pulled something low in his side like a fishhook. He swallowed a sound that would have given Nari new, inappropriate vocabulary and made it to the coffer. The wards flared bright—sharp enough that even Nari could see it, eyes widening.

“Is that bad?” the boy asked quickly.

“It’s the wards being dramatic,” Loki managed. “They learned that from me.”

“Then they’re doing it wrong,” Nari muttered, fierce in a very small way. “You’re better at dramatic, Father.”

The third crossing betrayed him. His knee buckled. The world lurched; the chair’s arm wasn’t where it should be—no, it was, he had just misjudged. A flare of pain stripped the room of detail.

Two things kept him from falling: Saella’s voice—“Breathe, Your Majesty”—and the brush of Nari’s knuckles not quite touching his sleeve, hovering there like a promise that would not presume itself to be a handhold.

He sat hard, air leaving him like a coin dropped into a well. For a moment none of the faces in the room had names. Then Nari said, with monumental seriousness: “I think we should award you your curse now.”

Loki wheezed. It became a laugh, or the ghost of one. He mulled his options and settled on a word in a language so old it had dust on it. He said it. The wards sighed in sympathy.

Nari’s lips quirked upwards. “I’m going to ask Miss Ylva what that means!”

“Absolutely not,” Saella and Loki said at the same time.

Nari’s grin cracked through, sudden and bright. He set the sandglass on the chair arm so Loki could see the last fall of pale grit. “You did all three,” he said, as if Loki might have missed it. “Inspector Fenrir says excellent again. And… I say it too.” The last words come out shy.

The ache had a habit of thinning Loki’s temper into wire. It also, perversely, thinned his armor. He reached out and, with two fingers, booped Fenrir’s nose. “Then we accept Inspector Fenrir’s findings,” he said. “And yours.”

Nari’s shoulders loosened as if a belt had been undone across his chest. After a second—seeking permission in the space of a glance—he climbed onto the very edge of the chair, careful not to jostle bandages, careful not to touch unless invited. Loki moved his arm a fraction, leaving a deliberate piece of space that was not a mistake.

Nari noticed. He always did. He leaned in, warm, tentative, and without weight. Fenrir ended up awkwardly wedged between them, one button eye peering at Loki’s ribs like a sentinel.

Saella busied herself at the far table with linen and ointment that did not exist. “Two hours,” she said lightly, as if to the window. “Then we repeat. I’ll return with broth you cannot possibly enjoy and praise you will pretend not to need.”

“Your poetry is stunningly savage and bold this morning,” Loki said, eyes half-closed.

“Mm,” the old woman replied indifferently, and slipped out

The chamber settled. The wards’ hum soothed from bright to low. Outside, a gull cried once—thin and far.

Nari’s voice, when it came, was the tiniest vibration. “I was… afraid to sleep in case you stopped.” He didn’t name what he meant—breathing, being, staying. He didn’t have to.

Loki watched the last grain of sand fall. “I am not so easy to stop,” he said. That was the old, iron line; smooth, cold, meant to reassure. Then—before it could become a lie—he added, quieter: “And if I had, it would not have been your fault.”

Nari nodded against him, a small, sharp motion like swallowing pain. “I know. I mean—I almost know.” He pulled Fenrir’s paw up so it rested lightly over the edge of Loki’s knee. “Inspector Fenrir says you have to keep walking until outside has snow. Because we have a plan for a game when that happens.”

“A plan,” Loki echoed, indulgent and wary in equal measure. He closed his eyes.

Nari’s whisper sharpened with secret importance. “When it snows, we go to your mother’s garden.”

Loki’s eyes half-opened, the correction leaving him before he thought better of it. “Your grandmother’s garden.”

The boy blinked, surprise flickering—then he nodded quickly, as if catching a gift mid-air. “Right. Grandmother’s garden.” He said it again, softer, testing how it fit in his mouth. “I’ll show you the way. You follow.”

A draft slipped through the shutters then, faint but edged, carrying the scent of winter air. Loki noticed it, though he said nothing; the first frost was drawing near, as inevitable as breath.

Nari glanced up, a tentative grin threatening his mouth. He straightened his shoulders as if imitating court ritual. “And we’ll play a good game. There are rules. No seiðr to melt the snow. And every step needs a ‘because’—” he tipped his chin up, mimicking Loki’s cadence, “—because you said so. I'll tell you more when we get there.”

Loki let his eyes close, not from weakness this time, but from a tiredness that felt almost like peace. “Very well,” he said. “I will try not to cheat.”

“You won’t,” Nari said promptly. Then softer, as if he was bargaining with archons of chance, “But if you do… I’ll forgive you.”

“Magnanimous.” Loki shifted, careful, until the ache settled into a shape he could carry. He tipped his head so the world narrowed to boy, wolf, and the slow, stubborn rumor of strength returning. “Flip the glass again, little wolf.”

Nari did. Pale sand leapt, fell, began again.

They counted it together, not by numbers, but by breaths, and early afternoon pressed in before either of them noticed. The sandglass had been turned and turned again and again, the wards purring softer now, Loki sitting straighter in the chair than he had hours before. But Saella, punctual as bells, returned with the measured tread of someone who always knew what hour it was.

“Enough,” she said gently, though her gaze went first to Nari. “Little wolf, the throne room waits. Courtiers do not know patience.”

Nari’s mouth pulled tight. He hugged Fenrir to his chest, curls wild, eyes darting back to Loki. “But—”

Loki cut him off with a dry arch of brow. “You heard her. Even kings obey summons.”

The boy’s shoulders bunched. For a moment it looked as if he might argue. Then he straightened, lips setting with a determination too big for his frame. “Then I go because I want to,” he said firmly. “Not because they make me. Because I choose it.” His chin tipped higher, as though daring Loki to contradict him.

That sharp little declaration struck Loki sharper than any blade. He let his silence be permission, though every inch of him wanted to forbid it. Still, he could not leave the boy without a weapon.

“Remember,” Loki said, voice curling with faint mischief, “boredom is your fiercest enemy in court. Outsmart it. And when the problem looks impossible…” His gaze sharpened, recalling parchment crumpled into a ball. “…the simplest answer may be the best one.”

Nari’s eyes lit with recognition. He repeated it under his breath, once, twice—boredom is your fiercest enemy, outsmart it… the simplest answer, the best one—as though fastening armor. Only then did he let Saella guide him toward the door, glancing back three times before the wood shut behind them.

The chamber dimmed without him. Loki leaned into the hush, ribs aching, the sound of gulls faint beyond the window.

Days blurred together after that—marked by crossings from chair to coffer, by Saella’s merciless pacing, by the sandglass spilling grit like pale frost.

And Nari came and went: sometimes with ledgers, sometimes with sparks of seiðr, sometimes with little wooden soldiers that the two of them played with, sometimes with crumpled scraps of parchment that they either folded into planes or doodled on, sometimes with pebbles he swore could be dice if Loki would only play along.

One day it was a riddle contest, the next it was Fenrir appointed to investigate dust motes as if they were spies. Every now and then, Loki let slip a fragment of guidance—how to tilt a rule without breaking it, how to notice what others overlooked, how to make seriousness lighter by turning it sideways. They were never lessons spoken like lectures, but sparks of mischief tucked into the marrow of play, small enough for a child to grasp yet sharp enough to hint at deeper arts and intention.

Each ‘game’ was a proposal offered earnestly with the word ‘because’, his answer to the promise he had made—that boredom was the fiercest enemy, and he would help Loki outsmart it. But one thing always remained consistent: Fenrir would always be appointed to some new office. Inspector, Steward, President, Lord, Prime Minister, Chief, Doctor. Each title seemed to make Nari walk straighter.

And beyond the chamber walls, the city shifted.

Captain Eirik posted the Writ of Vigilant Grace on the great gates of the hall, the seal of the king pressed deep into red wax. He read it aloud before the gathered court, voice carrying across stone and snow-chilled air. The words spread quickly, like water down cracks.

Some courtiers whispered it was weakness: "Mercy for traitors, mercy that would break Asgard’s spine. Even those who once and still doubted Loki now recoil—how can he willingly issue a pardon to such a thing?"

Others murmured it was cunning. “A rope of grace, binding Sif and Heimdall more tightly than any chain could. What kind of king plays so dangerously with pardon? What could Loki possibly be scheming?”

A minority—uneasy yet hopeful—lowered their voices further still: “If Loki dares mercy after everything, could there perhaps be hope for an Asgard under his rule?”

But their murmurs were drowned beneath the louder tide of suspicion. Fear carried more easily than hope, and it colored the faces of merchants, scribes, and nobles alike. A handful of Einherjar gave stiff nods of approval, but they were outnumbered by those who muttered in corners. Division spread sharp and brittle through the palace, with loyalty a thin thread lost in a sea of doubt. 

Nari, meanwhile, took the throne each day with as much grave seriousness a child could muster from sheer, determined will. At first the courtiers treated him as a novelty—a child in a gilded seat—one who could be easily steered and manipulated into action without all the sharp edges his sire bore. But he listened more than he spoke, asked simple questions with disarming bluntness, and wove Loki’s lessons into his conduct as if they were laws carved in stone: when boredom threatened, he invented some small diversion to cut through it; when disputes tangled into knots, he reached instinctively for the simplest thread to pull free.

There was mischief in the method, but it was clean mischief—childish, earnest, and almost guileless. One could dare even call it: “Good”.

The courtiers began to whisper that the boy was his father’s son after all: not in hauteur or cruelty, but in the way he could tilt a problem sideways and see through it. Where Loki’s cunning was a blade, Nari’s was more like a butter knife—less sharp, but carrying the same glint of inheritance.

To the surprise of many, the boy’s small judgments stuck. He settled petty disputes with plain fairness, turned aside flattery with an earnest shrug, and once dismissed an entire debate over precedence by asking, “Which of you was here first?” and declaring that one the victor. It was childish, yet curiously unassailable.

The people of Asgard began to grow fond of him. Market-sellers spoke of the “little prince”—the “youngest king in Asgard’s history”—who sat tall on the throne. Mothers whispered their children should be as bold. Even the guards at the gates caught themselves smiling when the boy passed, Fenrir tucked under his arm like a talisman of sincerity.

Loki, hearing these reports through Saella and Eirik and whoever else he could hear them from, felt the ripples keenly. It was one thing for his son to sit in his stead as pretense. It was another to watch Asgard’s heart begin, however tentatively, to beat fondly for him, and for Loki, bound by bandages and wards, to be able to do nothing but listen and wait.

And beneath all of it, the first frost crept closer.

/ / /