Loki remained hidden in the shadows, envious eyes watching his brother and his friends. His friends, not Loki’s. Loki had no friends, only a few very uneasy allies he didn’t trust further than a mortal child could throw them. They were talking, laughing. Nails pierced his palms, drawing blood, when he heard his name.
No doubt they were mocking him again. It was always so. He was slim, effeminate, a magic user, and unable to sire proper children. His nails dug deeper at the thought of his children, lips curing in a silent snarl. No, do not damn their Jotun mother – the monster from children’s tales – damn their magic-using father! Damn the younger prince of Asgard, the one too dark, too thin, too womanly to please anyone…
… except his lover, brother, and mother.
Maybe.
All emotion left the young man’s face, and a wordless spell healed the wounds in his palms, a follow-up one removing the bloody evidence that they had ever existed. He stepped from the shadows, a mocking smile that pulled at his stitches forming when the others at last noticed him.
“Brother! You are late!” Thor cried, and dragged him into an embrace that threatened to rebreak his ribs yet again, and definitely left him even more bruised than he had been. Loki merely shrugged, grinning all the more fiercely, feeling the pull become too much, tasting the blood. “Come! We shall have a most enjoyable practice!”
The younger prince rather doubted his part of the practice would be ‘most enjoyable’, and as usual, was quite correct. His injuries and deprivations ensured he was not in peak form, and the stitches kept him from being able to breathe properly or use any spells requiring words. So limited, he made easy prey for the others, especially after their blows did rebreak his injured ribs.
Still, he fought on, fought until he was so dizzy and lightheaded that he collapsed. He woke in the healing room, alone, and slipped back to his room as soon as he had summoned his clothing. He went straight to his bath, and eased his aching body into the hot water.
“Little idiot, what were you thinking?” Fandral, already stripped, joined him in the bath and began a tactile examination. “I got a full detailing of your injuries. Tell me, Loki, do you know how long you were in the healing room?”
Loki shook his head.
“Two weeks.” Fandral sighed, and pulled him into a firm embrace. “I’ve not been able to feed you well enough, Loki. Even your brother seems to finally understand just what this punishment has done to you. He has sat at your bedside each night for hours at a time, and both he and your mother have tried – well, I cannot use the word ‘reason’ for Thor – but they have tried to convince your father to end this.”
Loki shook his head.
“If I did not know better, I would think you a masochist,” Fandral complained and pushed him back.
Loki sneered, winced, and whimpered. Fandral pulled him close again, and began washing his back. Content with this, Loki relaxed against him. Fandral would never understand, even if Loki could speak the words to explain it – the reason the young mage was determined that this sentence not be shortened.
Fandral was a warrior, after all. He cared only to ensure that Loki become the best warrior he could be. But Loki was a mage, and the magical binding on his mouth – despite his increasing physical weakness – was falling to his increasing magical strength.
It was his magic keeping him alive now, a year into this wretched punishment; his magic that bolstered every tiny bite of food or sip of drink Fandral could fit between the tight stitches. Every ounce of excess fat was gone from his skeletal frame, and only his magic kept his body from eating away at his muscles more than it already had.
Fandral would never understand that he would gladly forsake the chance to become a great warrior in order to become the strongest and most skilled sorcerer mage Asgard had ever seen, to prove that he was the best at something.
He had long since given up the dream that he would ever surpass his brother in mere physical strength, but if his magic was strong enough, perhaps his endurance? Loki whimpered again as Fandral scrubbed a little too hard on a spot still a little too sore, distracting him from his thoughts.
Fandral gentled his touch immediately. “I am supposedly entertaining myself with a chambermaid this evening. The one with the squint.”
Loki nodded, obeying the implied command. A copy of his lover exited the room and strode away as Fandral took them to his bed. A copy of himself appeared peacefully asleep on a reclining chaise as they passed through his receiving room.
His meal, such as it was, would come first. Tonight, it was to be pomegranate seeds. Fandral fed him carefully, pushing the seeds through the stitches with a thin stick he had whittled for just that purpose. It was a slow, careful process; for the stitches the vengeful dwarves had used were not those of a surgeon, and crossed over and tied through each other to ensure his mouth stayed closed.
Fandral was patient, though, and eventually helped Loki eat an entire pomegranate’s worth of seeds. Next came a thin, hollow bit of clean straw inserted into a drinking horn of honeyed mead. Loki sipped at it carefully, knowing he could not have too much.
Fandral drank what he did not, and brought the horn back filled with warm honeyed milk. Loki sucked this down with more enthusiasm, knowing it would help him sleep and that it somehow strengthened his magic.
When he had been fed, Fandral curled around him in the bed, used his body gently for the purpose Loki had long ago learned was its primary function. He had been fourteen when he had given himself to this man, and he had never once in their many years regretted that decision.
No, his regrets were not who he had chosen, nor why he had made that choice. He had only one regret: that he could never publically acknowledge the man as his chosen. That he would never be more than a dirty secret.
Two weeks passed before Fandral decided he had missed quite enough practices, and told him he had to attend at least two a week. Loki ensured he went to them, but spent the majority of his time holed up in the library or his room studying all the magical tomes he could find, practicing the spells he could do, or attempting to learn to do those he had not yet learned to do wordlessly.
His mastery over his magic improved, his repertoire of spells increased. His frustration enabled him to create new, wordless spells, some that did not have any tell-tale movements to give him away. And always, always, his magic vied against the magic on the stitches that had taught him a far different lesson than the one he was to have learned, and solidified his determination to become the best sorcerer mage in all of Asgard’s history. Ever. Always.
So he studied, and he practiced, and he made Asgard an uncomfortable place to live with the ever-increasing maliciousness of the pranks he played and the rumors he was able to spread even without his voice. He would still write, after all, and he had lost none of his skill in word crafting.
It took him twelve years to gain the strength needed to rid himself of the stitches. The effort left him unconscious long enough that he missed practice.
Fandral spent that evening kissing him instead of punishing him for missing the practice. Loki was more than happy to kiss him back, and even happier to swallow him down as his first meal.
Loki was constantly hungry after that, often raiding the kitchen or sending servants to fetch him more to eat not long after leaving the feasting tables. Thirteen years of near starvation, plus the abuses before and during it had left him starved in more ways than one.
Fandral seemed not to mind when he turned his Silvertongue on his tormentor’s wives, daughters – even a few of their sons – and sometimes teased him gently about his many and increasing conquests. Loki never allowed the conquests to take him, mostly because – though he would dearly like to improve some of his techniques – he had no wish for anyone to get the idea that he enjoyed the press of a man into his own body.
He hated being raped, especially by groups, and should the Æsir hear a tale of him voluntarily taking a man inside his own body, it was certain than they would once again band together to force him to his knees and take what was not theirs to have. With the stitches gone, it would be easier to defend against such attacks, but Loki preferred to ensure such was avoided instead of in need of defending. He went through his enemies’ wives and children like water, but kept careful track of those his magic informed him he impregnated.
Only one of those carried to term, and bore him a son.
A perfectly formed, perfectly normal, completely non-magical son. Loki wove spell after spell over the boy once he was born, magics to help ensure he grew up resembling his father rather than Loki, for the young prince wanted this boy to stay safe and hidden. He wove spells of protection and health, but he did not try to make his son invincible or invulnerable. Faster and stronger than Loki had been as a boy… and also stupider.
He cried in the privacy of his rooms after the spell that damaged his bright, curious little boy’s mind, cried just as hard as the child he had found sobbing in the library because his non-father had told him if he kept up with the questions he would be worthless as a warrior, and have no use except as a whore for better men.
And if his magic made life excessively difficult for the bastard who had hurt his son so badly, well, at least it could not be tracked back to him, and no one would know. His little boy would grow up stupid, but accepted, something Loki was not, and never would be.
He worked spells on Fandral, too, spells to ensure his lover would be protected by more than armor, would have a better chance of surviving wounds fatal to others, and did the same for the elder brother he loved as desperately as his lover – though without the sexual connotations. He wove spells to enhance their armor – and after the debacle and ridicule of dressing as a bridesmaid – their weapons. Mjolnir would not be lifted by any unworthy, or not of the royal family – two things his brother most certainly was not.
His heart broke when he could not lift the hammer to return it to his brother. His own spellwork deemed him unworthy. Tears streaked his face as he laid another spell on the hammer, ensuring that it would answer its worthy wielder’s royal call, and return to his hand. It was the only way, now, he could ensure his brother would never be long without his weapon.
Loki told no one what he had done. His laughter was hollow and his smiles empty when his brother and his friends learned that only Thor could lift Mjolnir. His expression was that of innocent confusion when Odin gave him a sharp look after examining the hammer.
His heart sank further when he realized both his mother and father could lift the hammer. He turned his spellwork on himself, using magic in conjunction with training to increase his speed, accuracy, strength; to sharpen his senses and his reflexes; to increasing his healing. His armor and weapons he enhanced, even his regular clothing. He studied harder, practiced and trained harder and longer.
Still unworthy, he stopped using women and children to revenge himself on his enemies. He delved deeper into magic, into history and politics, and turned his clever tongue and quick wits once again to Asgard’s benefit. His spell and his people still damned him as being unworthy; his lover still did not acknowledge him save under the effects of his privacy spells and misdirection.
His words became sharper, colder; what pranks he pulled increasingly malicious and dangerous as his efforts in Asgard’s favor continued to earn him scorn and ridicule. He rode to the hunt, rode out to battle, served as diplomat and dignitary, all to no avail.
The solace of Fandral’s arms slowly lost its comfort, and the knowledge that he was not enough to satisfy his lover, would never be someone the other would proudly, publically acknowledge as love or lover drove him to bitter tears and increasingly desperate attempts to prove himself worthy to his people, his family, and his lover.
Mind and heart were wrenched when his father decided it was time for Thor to be crowned. He loved his brother with all his heart, but the idiot was by no means ready to take the throne! He went to his father, diffident and hesitant, but with his arguments and explanations well-ordered and ready to be plainly spoken, his proofs available for the asking.
He made it only five words into his first sentence before being ordered firmly from his father’s presence. Despondent, but determined to do what was best for Asgard, Loki crafted a plan that would prove his brother unfit for the crown, on the very day he should be crowned.
It hurt to have his brother mock his greatest strength and skill yet again, tore at his heart as he confessed his envy and love even as his magic told him his plan was working, that the Jotun had used the path he had shown them.
That part, at least, went exactly as it should. The ceremony was interrupted. His father saw that his brother was not ready.
And then… it all fell apart. Loki went to soothe Thor’s ruffled feathers, for he knew his elder brother would be upset. He had not expected Thor to regard his words – the other rarely did – or to convince his friends to join him, especially not so easily. He agreed to go even as his stomach sank and he considered how to ensure they would not reach Jotunheim.
He ordered the guard to inform Odin, and plotted out what he would say to the Gatekeeper. Heimdell, after all, did not like him – even more intense in his dislike than his sister, Lady Sif.
“Good Heimdell,” he began, only to be interrupted first by the Gatekeeper, and then by his brother. Volstagg’s mocking made him seethe, but he was too upset to come up with a proper rejoinder. Heimdell was not supposed to simply wave them past, not when his father had forbidden passage to Jotunheim!
Where his father was, he didn’t know. The guard surely had had time to seek the king’s ear, to pass on Loki’s warning! He took his place, carefully refraining from looking back, fully expecting his father to arrive before…
… the Bifrost activated, and sent them flying to Jotunheim. Loki rolled his eyes and settled his coat when Hogun said, “We should not be here,” instead of sniping back with the spiteful reply that ached to leap from his tongue. Thor headed off and the others, Loki included, followed.
“Loki, know you a spell to ward off this damnedable cold?” Fandral demanded after slipping on ice and skidding into a snow bank. “You don’t seem bothered by it at all!”
“Ah, yes, of course,” the mage answered, confused, “but I-“
“Cast it, Brother!” Thor interrupted. “It is most unkind of you to warm only yourself in this frozen realm!”
“But – “ Loki tried again.
“You know how selfish he can be, Thor,” Sif spat, “and how you must coax him into doing any favors.”
“I am too cold to waste time with coaxing,” Thor snarled. “Cast the spell, Loki!”
Fandral’s teeth began to chatter as he tried to shake snow out of his inadequate furs. Loki barely flicked a glance over him, all he needed to direct a simple warming spell. “Thor, it is not that cold!”
“Now, Loki!” His brother raised his weapon. “I will not ask again.”
“Fine,” the younger prince said, and sighed. “But I ne-“
Mjolnir drove him backward into the snowdrift behind him, bruising his ribs with the impact to his chest, and his back when he hit the rock within the snow. Mjolnir hit him twice more on his thigh and foot as it fell, catching his foot and dragging his body into the snow until he managed to angle his foot enough the hammer slid free.
There would be bruises for some hours, he reflected tiredly as he fought free of the snow. “The spell takes time to set up, Thor!” Loki said as hastily as he could. “It is the one I use for our winter camps, on the tents! And I should do Fandral first: He’s the one covered in snow.”
Loki breathed a marginal sigh of relief when Thor hung Mjolnir back on his belt, and limped to his lover. “Are you well?” he murmured softly.
“The snow has soaked me through, melting,” the blond hissed back. “Dry me out!”
“Of course.”
That was another spell the younger prince had needed to learn in self-defense when they had been only children. Loki removed his gloves and gripped the bare skin of Fandral’s neck. “Why, you are warm, Loki! Why did you not spell us all warm?”
“I am not using a spell on myself, Fandral. I… I am not cold. Perhaps it is just… because I am a mage, and the constant play of magic keeps me warm. You do know how miserable I am during the summer.”
“Yes, yes, just get me warm and dry!”
“Of course, forgive me.” Loki closed his eyes to block out his lover’s irritation, and carefully increased the level of his spell. It was meant to be used on things, not living beings, but he would not have Fandral so cold.
“Could you dry my clothes first? They’re steaming, Loki!”
“I am very sorry, Fandral.” Loki sent a surge of magic over the other – a safe thing – and through him – which was not – that dried his clothes in an instant and warmed him much faster. Loki kept his grip even as Fandral sighed in pleasure, confirming his magic had not hurt his lover, before releasing him.
“Who is next?” he asked. The answer was Hogan. He placed bare hands on the bare skin of the warrior’s neck, and began to slowly warm the other. He could feel the disfavor Hogan held for him, though, and the uncomfortableness made him speed the warming.
Volstagg was much more comfortable to spell, but he stank, and felt of distrust, so Loki rushed him as well. Sif’s hatred of him burned his fingers. He transferred his touch to her shoulders, and simply placed heating spells on her clothes.
He cradled his wounded fingers as he crossed to Thor, and hid the injury with a spell before reaching out. Thor’s hand, much colder than it should have been, curled around the back of his neck as well, and pulled him into an embrace. “I am sorry, Brother. I dislike this cold.”
“Heimdell did say you were not dressed warmly enough,” Loki murmured back. Thor, like Fandral, felt of unconditional love, of trust. He too accepted Loki’s magic easily, unquestioningly. Loki leaned in slowly, resting his head on his brother’s shoulder, pretending more weakness simply to hold on that little bit longer to the feeling of acceptance.
Except the moment he feigned weakness, the acceptance ebbed and something else took its place. He released his hold immediately and stepped back, stumbling in his haste to escape what he had learned. He spun on his heel to hide the stumble, and started off for the pillars of ice they had been using to as a guide, his emotionless mask back in place.
Loki remained unbothered by the cold even without warming spells. His mind ticked off the spells he had placed on himself over the years, and he enhanced the few that were fading as he tried to work out how the combinations could be keeping him warm – especially when he realized one of the active spells on his person was to help cool him!
His musings were interrupted by Laufey’s voice, and his idiotic brother’s childish reactions. Really, would he never grow up? “Thor, look around you. We are outnumber –“
“Know your place, Brother!” Thor snapped. Loki shrank back, hurt, unable to hide it for a moment. Oh, he knew his place, and his place had nothing to do with his title. His place was the dirt beneath his brother’s and father’s feet, so they could more easily trample his hopes, his dreams, and his skill. His place was in bed as Fandral’s whore, never at his side as his lover. His place, despite his title, was never anywhere near the top, nor in the light. His place was that of the shadows at the bottom of a sunless ravine, the dark places no one wanted to go, where no one wanted to be.
Still, there was still a chance to salvage this fiasco, and escape unscathed with what little dignity he had intact. “We will accept your most gracious offer,” He turned and began to walk away, “Come on, Brother!” he added irritably when Thor did not move.
Thor turned. “Run back home, little princess.”
Loki did not need to turn. “Damn.” He spun, giving his brother an exasperated look as he readied his weapons and increased his magical defenses, and shot an equally exasperated look at Laufey when he did not call off his warriors. So much for his claim that he did not want war!
Things went from bad to worse. Volstagg got burned. Moments later, one of the Jotun got a grip on Loki’s arm, froze through his armor – and turned his skin blue. Blue, in nearly the same shade of his attacker’s skin, not the black of frostbite, and it did not hurt. They both stared at his arm, and Loki knew his expression had to be one of confusion and horrified dismay when he met the Jotun’s much more considering gaze. A magical dagger took care of his attacker – and Fandral went down, ice spikes through his chest.
Loki spun, more daggers finding his lover’s attacker. “Thor! We must go!”
“Then go!”
They went, dodging Jotun, falling ice, a huge ice monster, and the after-effects of Thor’s lightening strike. Heimdell did not open the Bifrost. Loki realized, as he looked around at the Jotun surrounding them, he had not believed the Gatekeeper would.
So, of course, when they attacked, it was the moment Odin appeared – riding his son. Thanks be, his father still did not know the truth. A slight thrill of vindication shot through him when Odin hissed Thor quiet, but…
… again, things got worse. Loki was not given a chance to speak in his brother’s defense, and subsided at his father’s growl. But Thor was banished! Banished, and Odin scolded him all the way back to the palace for going along with the idiot, and sending a guard to do what he should have done himself. He was silenced every time he tried to protest or make a defense, or attempted to ask why his arm and hand had turned blue.
He bathed alone, dressed, and went to Lady Sif’s favorite sitting room. The Warriors Three were there with her, and he breathed a sigh of relief that his spells had kept Fandral alive long enough for him to be healed. His attention was more on his hand than their conversation for some time, until Volstagg asked how the guard had known – and his contribution brief indeed before he had strode out determined to find out the truth.
His stride faltered when Sif accused him of not helping because of jealousy before he made it through the door, and stopped when Hogun accused him of letting the Frost Giants into Asgard. Fandral defended him, and Loki continued on to the weapons vault, and the Jotun war trophy that waited there.
His skin began to change the moment he touched it, changed faster when he lifted it. “Stop!”
“Am I cursed?” Oh, gods, let it be a curse!
“No.” Damn. He put it down, turned, blue fading away once more.
“Then what am I?” Please, not Jotun!
“You are my son.” A lie. Lie. A lie. His whole life, a lie. But why?
“Tell me!” he cried.
“… but those plans no longer matter.”
No longer matter. No longer mater. Never worthy, never good enough, no longer matter. That was why. That is why. “No matter how much you claim to love me,” he spat, finishing the thought, “you could never have a Frost Giant sitting on the throne of Asgard!”
Never. Never. Never worthy. Never. Not his son, not his true son. Thor gone, Father not Father, Mother not Mother. Father not moving. Not moving? Not….
Trembling hands reached out uncertainly, confirmed life. “Guards! Guards! Help! Please help!”
He collapsed on the stairs when they had carried his father out, stunned, horrified, afraid. What would become of him now, Odin’s stolen relic? He was not Asgardian, and the people held no love for him. When the truth came out, what would happen?
Loki stumbled to his feet, and went to his room.
“Fandral?” Soft, diffident, rather than the sneering tone so often heard in the palace halls. Fandral waited a moment before looking up. “I… want revenge. For everything. For me, for my children.”
Fandral sat up a little straighter. “All the slights, the insults, the jeers. For never being good enough for anyone…” wet green eyes lifted, “…including you.”
“Me?” Fandral repeated, clearly startled.
“I know I’m not,” Loki replied softly. He had known for years, but not the real reason why. “And I know why, now. I finally learned the truth. I… I am… I am not… what or who… we believed.”
“Loki? You aren’t making any sense.”
“I want revenge. But I… I want to prove that I’m just as worthy as Thor, even though… even though… even though I can never be.” Tears welled, spilled. “Father only banished him. I’m… I’m scared Fandral. I’m scared of what he will do to me now that I am of no use to him, now that I know the truth.”
Loki sank to his knees in front of the blond. “I… I am afraid of what you will do… once you know.”
“What are you talking about?” Fandral demanded.
“Odin. He… finally… he is not….” Loki collapsed into his lap, incoherent because of his sobbing. Fandral would reject him. He knew it. Knew it. What Æsir warrior would remain involved with a Jotun? A runt unwanted even by his own people, no longer of use to the race that had stolen him. Fandral had never acknowledged him. He would reject him, now. He would.
Fandral petted his hair and rubbed at his shoulder, murmuring soothing nonsense. Eventually, he calmed beneath Fandral’s hand and voice. “Tell me,” Fandral said.
“I am not Odin’s son. I am… I am Laufey’s son.”
“Laufey’s?” Fandral repeated incredulously. “King Laufey? The Frost Giant?”
“Odin… found me in the temple. A runt. Left to die. He took me… to use. But Thor… the war… Odin does not have a use for me now,” Loki tried to explain.
“You’re Jotun?” Fandral said flatly. There was disbelief in his eyes.
“I can… prove it.” Loki whispered. He stood tugging very gently at Fandral’s hand. The blond stood, and followed behind him as he led the way to the weapons vault.
Loki went straight to the Casket of Ancient Winters, and lifted it slowly before turning to face him. “Bilgesnipe pus!” Fandral yelped, stumbling back and landing hard on his ass. Loki spun back around, smashing the Casket back down on its pedestal. Loki’s hands gripped his arms just above his elbows, and he swayed slightly back and forth, trying desperately to stifle the sobs that escaped.
Fandral could not stand to see him, to touch him. He would be rejected now, perhaps killed for his unintentional deceit. Warm arms slid around his waist. “We have been together over 900 years, Loki,” Fandral said quietly, leaning his cheek against the Loki’s back. “This changes nothing.”
Loki held himself entirely still, not breathing, so that only the frantic beating of his heart beneath Fandral’s ear proved him not a statue. Fandral… accepted him? A Jotun? “No – nothing?” he finally asked.
“Nothing. I’ll act in public as I always do, say those things Thor’s dearest friends would be expected to say. But as always, when we are alone,” Fandral pressed a kiss against Loki’s neck, “you are my love.”
Loki gasped sharply, relaxing entirely in a moment. He had not lost Fandral. Had not lost the closest thing he had to a friend. But… “My… revenge?” he whispered.
“I think you’re entitled to some revenge,” Fandral admitted, “aside from screwing everyone’s wives. What do you plan?”
“I… I don’t know. I’ve had… I just found out!”
“Mm, no time to plan.”
“Yes.” Loki shook his head. “No. No, I haven’t even had time to… to even understand why… or what I should do now. I… I….”
“Shh. Maybe you should go sit with him. Talk to your –“ Fandral hesitated, “– Queen.”
“Yes. You’re right. I… maybe she can… help me understand,” Loki said helplessly.
Fandral went with him as far as the corridor that led to the King’s chamber, and Loki went to sit at his father’s bedside. His mother’s assurances helped – and were certainly easier to believe. She did not lie. She truly considered him her son, though her husband did not. Considered him true family, and heir to the throne, called him her king, and watched proudly as he accepted the staff from the guard.
He was king. A Jotun, a Frost Giant, on the throne of Asgard, as her king. It made no sense! But, he was king, and he had a responsibility to fulfill. Thor had incited a war, and been banished for it. He had to prove… had to… that he was… worthy. Worthy of the man who had raised him, not the monster that had left him to die. He had to stop the war.
How? Loki clung to his father’s spear, one of the gifts he had won with his words. Not with words, no, not this time. The punishment from last time was still too sharp in his memory. Not diplomacy then. How could he single-handedly stop a war without relying on his greatest weapon?
Well, no. No. Words, properly used… yes, but he would win the war with arms, fighting, to prove himself worthy. All he needed to do was set thing up – oh, and ensure that Thor believed he could not return, at least until he had learned the lesson Odin had sent him to learn. Then Loki would fetch him home himself, and explain everything.
Most everything. He had sworn to Fandral – those explanations would never be known.
Loki neither ate nor drank as he paced his room, working out the fastest and most elegant ways to stop the war, stall Thor, prove himself worthy, and have his revenge. As dawn neared, he headed for the Bifrost, and put the first part of his plan in place with Laufey. When he returned, he told Heimdell to keep the gate closed until he fixed what Thor had done.
He was tired, exhausted really, when he returned, but he did not let it show. He collapsed onto his throne, eyes seeking his brother, and frowned at the sight of him tied to a bed. It took him a few minutes longer to recognize that his brother was in a Midgardian healing center, and probably tied down because he had been an idiot. Relieved, he turned his eyes to his lover, a soft smile stealing over his face when he found him asleep, though the smile slipped away the moment he realized the other man was not alone.
Even as king, he was only his lover’s favorite whore. Loki sighed heavily, reminding himself that Fandral had told him nothing would change despite his true heritage, so why would things change for the false one? Except, well, he was king. He could… no. That lead to potentially foreswearing himself by deed, and that he would not do.
Loki got to work as king by calling an immediate meeting of his father’s advisors to learn what Odin had told them, and of the preparations made. His brilliant tactical mind analyzed the defenses and preparation, and he made suggestions that would allow his plan to succeed while still making it appear he had only the kingdom’s best interests at heart.
Once done with them, he held court until he was nearly cross-eyed with fatigue, and sent the remainder away. He’d scarcely had time to relax when Lady Sif and the Warriors Three barreled in, and they no sooner gone before he had to begin meetings with the advisor all over again – this time for the day-to-day minutiae of running a kingdom.
Thor was decidedly not ready to rule, the Jotun decided when he returned to Jotunheim near midnight to finalize things. Again, he collapsed into the throne when he returned. His brother was free of the hospital, and trying to retrieve Mjolnir. He had not yet become worthy. Loki bit his lower lip. Thor needed to learn humility and patience, at the very least, and self-sacrifice certainly, before he would be able to wield Mjolnir again. He just needed a push. Loki licked his lips, and watched for an opportunity to walk the shadow ways.
He nearly broke when the teary blue eyes met his and Thor asked if he could come home. Nearly told him yes, instead of the lie that he had prepared. But Thor was not ready – not to return, certainly not for the burden of the throne. So he steeled himself, and he lied, and he kept his tears hidden until he was safely back in his quarters. Alone in his quarters, because Fandral had not come to see his whore since Loki had shown him what he truly was.
Loki sighed when a guard called through the door, “Majesty? Your advisors await you in the war room.” He cleaned up hastily, and got back to work. That evening, the Bifrost activated. Loki grabbed the Casket and went to deal with the easiest traitor to find, stripping him of his position and power, then freezing him solid before returning to the palace to find out just who the traitor had let through, though Loki had the sinking feeling he already knew.
He worked while his underlings searched, and when word finally came, he hurried back to the weapons vault, and spit out his hurt, angry words before sending the Destroyer through the Bifrost. He would just have to speed the pace of his plan, and hope that those parts no longer feasible due to betrayals would do less damage to his plan than to his worth and his heart.
Loki opened the Bifrost himself. His real father did not object to the plan moving forward so quickly, and simply pointed out some of his warriors. As they walked past the frozen former Gatekeeper, Loki cast the warming spell on him. Without the one he had thought would stand by his side, he would have to hope that the golden-eyed former Gatekeeper would end the two guards Laufey left behind.
Loki’s magic cloaked Laufey and his remaining soldiers until he took his seat on the golden throne, and began watching to ensure his arrival at the exact, most appropriate time. Naturally, that was when the Destroyer finally found Thor, and Loki realized how poorly his orders had been worded and began the battle to control the ill-programmed mystical construct.
He relaxed too soon, stunned by his brother’s offer of sacrifice, and failed to regain control in time. By the time he did, and ordered the damned thing to return no matter what – another poorly worded order, though he did not realize it - Thor’s mortal body was dead. Loki released control of the Destroyer, turning to find Laufey once more, and felt his brother’s godhood renewed. He spun – but Laufey was too close to his parents – and now the sounds of the battle had alerted those in the throne room of the problem.
His brother could deal with the Destroyer. His mother needed his help! Loki ran down the halls, coming to the door of his father’s chamber just in time to blast his birth father from his adopted father, saving his life.
“And your death comes at the hand of the son of Odin,” he hissed, and killed his true father before he could utter a word.
His mother’s hug soothed his heart only a little. There was too much left to do, and the time to complete his plan ran out as Thor came through the door and accused him of attempted murder. Loki blew him through the wall.
“Loki!”
“He will be fine, Mother. He has Mjolnir: he will fly. I must end this war before it has a chance to worsen. I must prove worthy!” Loki pushed past her gently, and shifted to the stable. He sent the horse back once he reached the Bifrost, and walked in. “I must do this,” he repeated. “Must end the war. Forever.”
If he destroyed the Jotun, ended the war, perhaps it would finally, finally be enough. He watched the Bifrost build and build, listened to the screams that carried from Jotunheim to his ears as he destroyed their realm and everything those monsters stood for. There would be no more war.
No more war meant that he would finally be worthy. His spell would have to see that! If he saved Asgard from war, now that he had ensured he had no father but Odin, surely his spell would know he was worthy!
Yet, when Thor pinned him down, he knew he still was not, and shattered a little more. His entire world stopped when he finally understood why the spell deemed him unworthy. How could it, when Odin did not? When he was nothing more than a tool the man had no use for, when he had no worth to Asgard’s royal family, how could his spell find him worthy, or a member of the royal family?
Now he had no family, no people, no home, no lover, no worth. There was nothing left for him, nothing to hold onto. He fell, silent, into the wild vortex, fell into chaos and pain, a suffocating darkness of absolute nothingness that blinded his eyes and deafened his ears; twisted his thoughts, his memories, his magic, his mind. He landed on a barren, rocky nothingness far beyond the Nine Realms, too shattered in mind and soul to guard himself, too physically weak and magically drained to protect himself.
Thanos had him thralled before he managed to climb to his feet. Loki was rebuilt under the Mad Titan’s guidance; his twisted memories warped even further under that one’s control, turning the shattered god into a broken, but useable tool for his schemes. Loki did not truly understand what had happened until his magic used the power of the Tesseract to loosen Thanos' control of his mind before returning to healing all the damages done to his body.
That little had been enough, though. Enough for Loki’s sharp, clever mind to stir once more, begin to question the acts he performed. And each successive, subsequent knock to his head increased his freedom, but it was the green bully that finally broke Loki free of the thrall, entirely too late to do the wounded god any good at all.
He remembered what had happened, and he knew he had to escape, somehow, but he did not know where to go, or who he might be able to turn to for aid. His magic healed him enough that he could push himself from the hole he was in, so he started dragging himself from it. He had only just healed enough to use his legs as well when the Avengers returned.
His eyes swept over them, and he concealed his dismay with a softly-worded request. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll have that drink now.” He did not expect to receive it, and he was not disappointed.
Thor yanked him roughly to his feet. “Be silent, Loki,” he hissed, “if you know what is good for you!”
Loki did not, actually, but his brother’s rough handling had jarred all his unhealed hurts. He could not have spoken just then if he had needed to, or if his words would have worked to his favor. By the time the pain had faded enough for him to focus on anything else, he had been chained and gagged with rune-inscripted metal, and imprisoned once more in the Hulk’s containment chamber.
He studied the runes on the shackles, and snorted after a few minutes. The things certainly would not restrict his magic. He turned his attention to his reflection so that he could see the runes over his mouth, and a sardonic grin curled his lips beneath the muzzle.
He had told the old man in Stuttgart that there were no other men like him. He had not lied. No mage he knew could work magic without word or movement, as he could. The bonds were a set designed to keep a magician from speaking the words of a spell or using a trigger movement. Loki used such things only to disguise his true strength, and had never used the greater magics he had learned except under the concealment of other spells.
These bonds were little more than tissue paper for one such as he. He would be able to escape at any time he so desired.
But the battered god had no interest in escape. He had no place and no one to escape to, no safe haven, no one longing for his return. He also had a far worse enemy than the entirety of Asgard’s warriors, or Midgard’s even fiercer Avengers.
Thanos would come for him, though the failure of his plan had more to do with Chitauri being stupid than Loki’s magic working to ensure his – his lips lifted in a sardonic, unseen smirk – freedom. He could feel it, the tainted, hurt part of his mind, of his heart, where the Titan’s hold had been. His magic was so highly concentrating the healing spells in those areas Loki doubted it would take more than a month for the injuries to heal fully – and that it would take so long at such high concentrations meant that the wounds were far more serious than the thrall had allowed him to even consider.
His physical injuries had ceased to have augmented magical healing, but since all the broken bones were mostly healed and all his parts where they belonged once more, Loki did not try to shift the focus of the magical healing.
Besides, the taint made him feel ill.
The Avengers assembled around him. He focused his attention on Stark. That man was the key to defeating Thanos. How, Loki did not know. Yet. But if he was not punished so harshly as in the past, or killed, he would learn how to turn that key.
Thor shoved the Tesseract tube at him. Loki caught his side, still focused on the unusual mortal – the only one with the faint aura of true magic. Then he was ripped away, and too busy trying not to dry heave into the muzzle to think any longer.
The Tesseract was the worst form of transportation he had ever had the misfortune to be forced to use, and he prayed he would never need to do so a third time. He raised his eyes to the golden palace at the end of the ruined rainbow bridge, and stepped forward to meet his fate with all the false pride he could muster.