Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once, Loki had wondered.

Would he be an alpha, like his father? Strong and mighty, firm and fair in his rule over Asgard.

Or would he be an omega, like his mother? Wise and all-knowing, ever graceful in her wielding of daggers and seidr. With words that could soothe or cut to the bone, yet were always spoken with such composure.

(Loki had thought he would be an omega. ...it only made sense, really. He was the one that read books, the one that made plans and practiced seidr. People liked Thor; admired him. But Loki knew things. He had to be an omega.)

(Besides, Thor was already an alpha. And Loki didn't want to compete with him. Thor could be King one day, and Loki would tell him things he knew, and they would be best brothers forever.)

The centuries passed, and Loki grew.

He learned spells (so many spells!), he learned how to be polite and say the right things, and he learned that being able to change forms wasn’t exactly normal. (...strange, that. How could others not shift? It was delightful, and as easy as anything.)

He trained and studied; he observed and planned and tested his theories. He learned how to fight with honour, and how to survive.

People continued liking Thor a lot, but that was alright. Loki liked him too.

Even if he sometimes said things that made Loki force his smile. But it was only jesting between brothers ... right? It was fine.

Time passed, and Loki learned. Learned, and practiced, and fought, and survived. One day after another.

He was sure he would be an omega. Thor was like their father, and he was like their mother. And even if he hadn’t been, his intellect and immense talent with seidr spoke for themselves. What else could he be, if not an omega? So he waited, almost giddy in his anticipation.

Then one day, father put a hammer in front of them. Mjolnir, he called it. Only those worthy would be able to lift it, to wield it. Loki was still studying it with his eyes when Thor had already reached out his hand, and lifted it with ease. A grin lit up his face as he swung it around a few times, and Loki was happy for him. It should be his, as well as it suited him.

After another couple swings, Thor turned to him and put the hammer down, gesturing an amiable ‘your turn’. Loki returned the smile, a little nervously, and stepped towards the hammer.

He couldn’t lift it.

(He couldn’t even make it budge.)

Not worthy...

Though Thor clapped him on the back and laughed that they would find a fine weapon for him as well, Loki still felt ... he wasn’t sure how he felt.

(Hurt.)

(Angry.)

(Doubtful.)

Not long after that, Loki presented. And he wondered if the hammer had, somehow, known. Because while his scent changed ... it didn’t change enough.

He was no charming, intelligent omega. There would be noone willing to listen to him, noone vying to please him to gain his attentions or counsel.

Neither was he a charismatic, powerful alpha. And there would be noone to look up to him, noone willing to follow him, whether in battle or otherwise.

Loki was ... a beta.

Nothing special.

Common.

...Asgard’s second prince, a beta.

(Second, always second.)

Not worthy.

He was only ... Loki.

Chapter Text

The years came and went, and once again, Loki wondered.

Would it have made a difference?

Would he have been well-liked, had he been an alpha? ...would he have had his own friends and loyal followers, like Thor?

Would people have listened to him, had he been an omega? Would his plans and illusions have been seen as more than ... tricks, reduced to mere trifles in his bag of mischief and lies?

(Would he have been better? A better son, a better warrior, a better prince; good enough to elicit pride instead of ever mild smiles and unchanging grim forbearance. Would father have seen him?)

(Of course, Loki knew that their father was a man difficult to impress. He seldom expressed his love or satisfaction with either him or Thor, and though Thor could still sometimes gain a pleased nod or a few sparse words of encouragement, Loki ... Loki couldn't remember the last time his father had looked at him with anything resembling approval.)

So on the nights when he lay awake thinking, when the day's scorn and dismissals had cut a little too deep to let him rest comfortably, when his heart ached with longing for things he might name yet found difficult to imagine, he wondered. Loki wondered, and thought, and found that, perhaps ... it was better not to know.

Fortunately, it seemed being a beta wasn’t without its advantages. At least for him: He was underestimated, time and time again, and though it was a little – aggravating at times, it did give him an advantage rather frequently. People rarely saw beneath his smooth words and polite manner, past his slender stature that was rather unassuming for a warrior. Past his being a beta. Oftentimes, they never realised the true extent of his abilities at all, and Loki would almost feel bad, just a little – the way you did after tricking an annoying but oh so gullible and very easily distracted child. Yet other times, they realised, but far too late – long after Loki's daggers or words had found their mark and pierced it through.

In one particularly memorable instance, it had been so late that Loki had had time to free himself, silently slit the throats of half a dozen guards, then make short work of the restraints holding Thor and his friends, and then, painstakingly (though ultimately successfully) convince them to quietly retreat instead of fighting the veritable army of mercenaries a stone throw over. In hindsight, he wasn’t entirely sure how he had managed that. Hotblooded blockheads, the lot of them were.

(There had been a lot of grumbling that day, along low complaints of the dishonour of running from a possible battle. Making Loki’s hand itch to press his dagger to another throat and ask whether they would rather live a coward or die an utter, complete fool. He had managed to rein himself in, knowing that such notions would only gain him sneers and disappointment. ‘Asgardians fought and died with honour’. Well, they certainly hadn’t that day. And he hadn’t seen any of them cry about it afterwards.)

That likely hadn’t helped the Warriors’ Four questionably favourable view of him, and at that point, Loki reckoned it was a lost cause. He had long stopped smiling along at supposed ‘jests’, choosing instead to retaliate with a well-placed spell here or there. ...and he might've gone a bit far on occasion, but they surely hadn’t needed to take it to heart, no? So sensitive.

...Norns.

Loki studied and learned, practiced and trained and fulfilled his royal duties. He fought and planned, and occasionally kept Thor or one of his friends from an early departure to Valhalla.

Day after day. Year after year. Decade after decade.

It was ... tedious.

It made him relish the days where he could shift and simply stop for a while. Take to the skies and feel the wind under his wings. Run through fields and hear the pounding of his hooves on the ground. Sometimes, he would find a nice surface and just lie there, basking in the way the sunlight warmed his fur, and it would be good.

For those precious, stolen bits of time, he wouldn’t have to think. He wouldn’t have to wonder, wouldn’t have to ... to feel so ...

Well.

In a strange twist of fate, he discovered that just as he could shift to change his primary gender, so could he shift to assume a different secondary gender.

It was ridiculous.

For a single, maddening moment, Loki wanted to scream to the sky and tear it down so that it may suffocate them all.

Why?

If he could change into either alpha or omega, why–

If it was all him anyway, why couldn’t he have been different (not a beta)?

It was ... rather a lot, and at first, he felt torn between excitement and dread. The former at the thought of the possibilities either form opened to him, and the latter at the knowledge that he could never openly wear them. At least not permanently. Though he was known to be a shapeshifter, he could already imagine what would be said about him: Loki, pretending. Envious, dishonest Loki playing at being more.

Still, he could use them to his advantage as long as he concealed it, no?

But then. Oh, then. Loki explored his two new forms, trying to discover what might make them different. And it was – it was nothing.

Nothing.

Oh yes, certainly, his scent and minor sexual characteristics changed – fantastic news, truly. Wonderful. They had changed.

And then nothing else.

His strength, mind and seidr remained just the same.

It would have made no difference. None at all.

Had Loki been an alpha, he still wouldn’t have been able to best Thor in base combat. Had he been an omega, people would've looked past his sweeter scent soon enough, and shunned him for who he was.

It would have changed nothing.

His enthusiasm diminished, Loki went on to wear his alpha and omega forms in his leisure time, to read a book or stroll through the markets in disguise, just to see how it would be. And with their usefulness confirmed to be nil, he could finally admit to himself what he hadn’t wanted to notice before: he didn’t like his newest forms.

Strangely enough, they didn’t feel like him. As much as any other form felt like a simple physical change, with differences in senses and perception and instincts that nevertheless always seemed his, these two didn’t. It was odd, the way scents were more intense, more distracting. Particularly those of the opposite secondary sex. It was distracting, and unfamiliar, and actually quite annoying.

He didn’t like it.

However, most irritating was the change in his own scent. If he hadn’t experienced it, Loki would've thought the idea of being so aware of one's own scent ludicrous. Though he wasn’t all the time (and thank the Norns for that), sometimes he would catch a whiff of it and almost bristle at the wrongness of it. It was as though his body was telling him what Loki had long known, shouting at him so as to not leave even a single shred of doubt:

Loki was a beta.

(…and nothing more.)

Thus, life went on. (On, and on, and on.)

Practice. Battle. See to his duties.

Would it always be like this?

Would there never be more?

Would there never be ... less?

Chapter Text

Would it always be like this?

Would there never be more?

Would there never be ... less?

...

But of course, things would not always remain the same. No matter the realm eternal’s seeming imperviousness to it, change was inevitable, and would arrive – sooner or later. For better... for worse.

One day, as they were dining together, father announced that he would soon hand the throne to Thor. In less than a decade, in fact.

Thor was a picture of excitement and confidence, proclaiming that he would bring glory to Asgard. Meanwhile, Loki’s insides were chilled with dread. Unwilling to believe it, he studied their father for any signs that he might be jesting.

But of course he wouldn’t be.

A glance to his smiling mother revealed just the same: father had spoken, and Thor would be King.

That was not a surprise in itself, expected rather, but Loki had thought there would be more time. For Thor to mature and exchange some of his battle lust for a measure of good sense perhaps, though how that would have happened, Loki hadn’t the faintest. Surely, the oaf couldn’t remain like this for all eternity?

A mere few years though. Barely anything. Nothing, really.

It made Loki fear for Asgard were she to gain Thor, the fool he currently was, for a King. So he smiled for his family and congratulated Thor, all the while thinking how he could persuade them to postpone the coronation.

First, he went to his mother, knowing she would be more likely to hear him. But as he stood in front of her, carefully addressing his concerns and suggesting they might be well served to wait another century or two, her expression merely remained fond. Though there was understanding in her eyes, she clearly didn’t share his worry. Smiling, she said, “Of course, Thor has much to learn.”

That should have been more of a relief to hear acknowledged aloud. Yet Loki wasn’t surprised by the lack of comfort it had provided once she continued: “But he will grow with his challenges. And what could happen, with the two of us at his side?”

She smiled at him, a twinkle of amusement, mischief almost, in her eyes. Helpless, Loki could only smile back. Noticing his remaining unease, she reached for his hands, grasping them warmly when he acquiesced. “It will be alright, Loki,” she told him gently, looking up at him with a soothing smile. “You need not worry so.”

And as he looked back at her, Loki knew there would be no convincing her.

“Yes, mother,” he answered. Despite his frustration and worry, the warmth in his hands lit an answering warmth in his chest, and he felt it drawing the corners of his mouth up as he held his mother's gaze.

After a few moments, she squeezed his hands, then let go of them. Though it had likely been meant to calm him, it seemed they had both failed today: he in his convincing and she in her reassurance.

As he thought back on that exchange, he did wonder: was she so certain because of her foresight? Or was it a mother's love and confidence blurring her vision? Loki dearly hoped it was the former. She hadn’t made any indications of it, but then she rarely did. Seers weren’t supposed to – and if so; if she had seen and elected to hide it, then she had done truly well, for Loki didn’t feel assured whatsoever.

Still, he gave it another year, hoping she had seen the future and deemed it well. But as said year passed, and Thor changed, if at all, for the worse (pride and exuberance leading him to even more mead and battle), Loki decided he couldn’t wait any longer.

And so he went to their father, feeling not overly optimistic but determined to at least try.

Perhaps, he should have known. Should have known that his worry would only be brushed aside, graced with nary a glance. Yet, he had hoped – and that made it hurt even more when he stood outside his father’s study after, face a careful mask as chiding, disappointed words kept ringing in his ears.

Thor would be King.

Soon.

And it seemed noone but Loki had the mind to prevent it.

And so he thought. Planned. Considered. Contemplated and rethought and reconsidered, and it should have been so simple.

It should have been a mere hiccough in the rhythm of Asgard, a moment of shock after which everything would return to normal.

Loki would have secretly let Frost Giants into the vault, interrupted Thor's coronation, then subtly goaded him into making for battle while simultaneously ensuring that they would not be able to travel to Jotunheim at all. All so father would see Thor for the reckless fool he was.

It should have been so simple.

It would have harmed noone.

But then the guard Loki had tasked with informing father did so much too late (foolish – he should have accounted for his own lacking authority over them; he should have devised multiple ways for that information to reach their father), and Heimdall ... Heimdall.

Heimdall opened the bifrost for them, endangering both his princes and committing treason in one fell swoop, and how did this make any amount of sense?

(It was ridiculous. It was madness. ...but then, Thor had always inspired senseless loyalty and confidence. Loki should have known.)

They went to Jotunheim.

They walked frozen planes, spoke to Laufey, and they almost made it back without conflict as well.

It had been so close.

But then Thor (easily manipulated, goaded and provoked Thor) just had to strike a Frost Giant who had taunted him in the simplest, crudest of ways.

Hel's darkest pits.

So it went ... as it always did.

Battle. Illusions. Survive, and ensure Thor and his friends did as well.

It would have almost been normal, had it not been for their unusual choice in enemies, their being stuck on a hostile realm, as well as the fact that they (Thor) had likely just incited a conflict between their two kingdoms.

Soon enough, they were fleeing for their lives, and the thrill of danger and enormous exasperation made it an experience almost familiar to Loki.

But that changed very quickly when one of the Frost Giants grabbed his arm and it turned blue. Though it was cold, it didn’t hurt, nor did it feel invasive in any way – and for the span of a single hitched breath, Loki could only stare down at himself, fearful of the implications. Because it wasn’t an illusion, nor was it a curse – at least not to his knowledge. (But if it was magic, there would be very few mages who could have been responsible, who would have been powerful enough for their spells to completely elude his own senses and seidr.)

(...one of them being the wielder of all of Asgard's magic.)

He quickly killed the Frost Giant, determined to find clarity for himself.

Father arrived, and took them back to Asgard.

...

War.

There would be war.

All because Loki hadn’t thought enough – because Thor couldn’t endure even a few juvenile words. Slights to his honour, injuries to his fragile pride – why was he so Norns damned, excruciatingly imbecilic?

And nothing good could come of challenging – insulting – father after what they had done, yet Thor did. Loki could only watch on as he got himself banished for it, irritation trumping any concern he might have felt for his brother’s (not-brother's?) well-being.

They were on the brink of war. Asgard needed all of her warriors, especially ones of Thor’s power.

(So why–)

Though he had to admit to himself that part of him felt relief as well. The memory of his own arm, cold and blue...

Loki had to know.

He stood in front of the Casket of Ancient Winters, nerves strained as he reached for it.

His stomach sank as he looked down at his hands, observing the cold creeping over them until his sleeves blocked his sight. He felt it crawl up his arms and down his body, petrifying in its lack of discomfort.

IgnorIng his father's call, he waited. Waited for the sensation to spread further; for the chill to envelop his entire being. A breath, and he let go of the Casket. False warmth swept across his skin then, veiling the surface. Yet the uncovering of a truth could not be so easily undone, and where his skin returned to what it had been (what Loki had thought it to be), his insides remained cold and numb.

He knew.

(Not worthy.)

(Never enough.)

And still, he asked.

What am I?

“You’re my son,” father said.

But Loki was also a Frost Giant.

...Laufey’s son.

(No.)

(Why?)

As he sat across from his mother, father in the Odinsleep between them, Loki felt – too much. Shock. Horror. Desolation, an edge of despair, certainty – for the first time, he knew. Bitterness, anger, hope. His mind echoed with the words he had heard:

‘I wanted only to protect you from the truth.’

And then, father saying he had taken him to unite their kingdoms, to bring about peace.

...’But that doesn’t matter anymore.’

But that didn’t matter anymore.

...then ... what of him?

What of him?

Frost Giants had no place in Asgard, much less their royal family. He was no prince, no son, no brother.

(Never had been. No wonder.)

And yet, hope stubbornly clung to his heart (‘You’re my son.’), and made him ask: “Why did he lie?”

Mother regarded him, gentle understanding in her gaze. She looked down at father on his bed, grasped his motionless hand. “He never wanted you to feel different.”

But he was.

She looked at him again, affection clear in her expression, certainty in her voice. “You are our son, Loki.” Her gaze held his, soft yet unwavering. “And we your family.”

Like revitalizing rain, her words grew the tentative hope in his heart. He was their son. The warm sensation in his chest persisted as she continued to comfort him, saying that despite his uncertain state, father may still yet return to them.

As might Thor.

His insides seized as everything in him ground to a halt.

Thor.

How would he react, to Loki being one of them? Surely he hadn't – he hadn't known. He didn't. And Loki could almost see it: Thor’s disbelief, his confusion. Would he laugh at what, to him, would seem like nothing more than another of Loki's tricks? And then, once he had understood, said disbelief falling away to reveal betrayal, disgust, rage. Even centuries after, Loki could vividly recall his brother (not brother) promising to kill every Frost Giant there was.

And though he had been the unwilling exception often enough in his life, Loki was neither willing nor prepared to find out that he might not be this time.

Regardless: for now, Thor was still banished, and unable to leave Midgard. He might not be for too long, but – would it be better if he regained Mjolnir and his powers sooner? They were at war – or would be soon. In that, Thor would be more than helpful. But–

A knock interrupted his thoughts and uncomfortably restless emotions. After mother’s assenting call, the doors opened to reveal the treasurer with Gungnir in his hands. He walked in alongside the two guards flanking him, leaving them behind a step in. Unsure what exactly was happening, Loki stood and watched as mother received a bow and returned a regal nod of acknowledgement. With that, the treasurer turned to him and sank to his knees.

What...

Dazed, Loki accepted Gungnir, heart pounding as he listened to his mother’s words.

Asgard would be his until father woke again.

“Make your father proud,” mother said.

And Loki would.

With father in the Odinsleep and mother keeping vigil at his bedside, it fell to Loki to lead and protect Asgard.

And he certainly didn’t need Thor for it, nor for the blockhead's friends to question his rule.

(Loki could do it. He could.)

(He would make them proud.)

But as he sat on the golden throne, considering what needed doing to emerge victorious without causing undue harm to Asgard and her people, he had to admit to himself that the situation was rather dire. Or at least far from ideal: Loki hadn’t led others into battle often, let alone a whole army. He knew his command would be inexperienced, and worse: ineffective.

With his reputation, status and age, there would be doubts. There would be generals looking down on his strategies, questioning their credibility and honour, as well as alphas and omegas reluctant to take orders from a beta. Even if said beta was their prin– King.

(...especially if said beta was him.)

No matter the competence of his rule, there would be hesitancy, if not outright reluctance. Though Loki may have his people’s swords, he didn’t – wouldn’t – have their hearts, and it would cost them dearly – all their people. Certainly, they would fight for Asgard, but it wouldn’t be their best. How could it, if they were to ride into battle after someone they didn’t trust; didn’t respect; didn’t ... love?

(Thor would have been. Respected, trusted. Loved – by Asgard and all her warriors.)

Irritation flaring at the thought, Loki put aside his ruminations to channel his vision through Gungnir instead, only to receive a scare when he found Thor on his way to Mjolnir.

Already?

He looked to be fighting his way through a small contingent of mortals, getting ever closer to the hammer.

Loki watched on with baited breath, tense, desperation flickering to resignation to hope and back. If he had acted, if he had been more vigilant, he could have been there. He could have done something. Now, he was helpless to do anything but look on: As Thor reached Mjolnir and exclaimed in triumph. As he grasped it, held tight, pulled – and pulled.

And as he strained to lift it, muscles flexing in desperate effort, voice hoarse in a tense roar, Loki, for the first time, felt a strange, commiserating kind of kinship to him. And overlaying that, a vicious satisfaction. For Thor to finally know what that felt like; for him to – for once – fail, fall short, not measure up, be unworthy ... it was divine.

Thor fell to his knees, defeated.

Loki pressed down the sudden feeling of sadness at seeing his brother (Norns, not his brother) like this. Looking at Mjolnir instead, there was a niggling sense of wrongness, a creeping suspicion, in the back of his mind, but he ignored that as well.

This was not the time. Rather, now was the perfect moment to further Thor's sense of defeat, and discourage him from striving to regain what had been taken from him. Loki wouldn’t put it past the oaf to somehow find a way, and that simply couldn't be. Thor would remain on Midgard, at least for the foreseeable future. Loki would see to that.

Although he didn’t have all too much time – sooner or later, Laufey would send his warriors through the passages between the realms to attack Asgard, and to Loki's dismay, he couldn't possibly know all their locations – but settling Thor would only take a few hours. There were two passages from Asgard conveniently near to where Thor and Mjolnir had been transported on Midgard. (Possibly the reason why the bifrost had deposited them there – lacking a clear target, it may have chosen a place where it would be aided by preexisting paths... Loki blinked, forcibly stopping himself from pursuing that tangent.)

In any case, there was time enough. And he could continue to strategize on the way.

Decision made, Loki left an illusion in his quarters and shifted into a sparrow, a common sight. He made his way out of the palace unnoticed, and once he was far enough away, landed shortly to change into one of his falcon forms.

As he flew, gliding over Asgard's sprawling forests, down through the passage and up into Midgardian clouds, a plan began to form in his mind. It was ... unconventional, to say the least. It was – Loki pushed past numbing dread, forcing himself to breathe, shift his muscles, keep flying. It was a way of ensuring complete victory.

And Loki wouldn’t need anyone for it.

It was a way to prove himself, to end the war before it could even truly begin.

(But...)

No. Frost Giants were – monsters. They were.

Loki would prove himself, and make his family proud.

He reached the Midgardian facility holding Thor, and cloaked himself. He appeared only to the thunderer, outwardly somber and consoling even as he viciously twisted the knife. Throughout it all, there was an odd sense of removedness laying over him. It smothered his senses and misted over his heart, hiding what might be a slow spiral of madness or nothing at all.

With his self-assigned task seen to, Loki turned from Thor's grievously humbled form and left the room.

And then he just ... he couldn’t help it. Mjolnir was a mere few steps away, and what if – what if?

One hand. It didn't move.

Two. Nothing.

Loki pulled, and it was as it had always been.

(Unworthy.)

With the bitter taste of long familiar disappointment on his tongue, he stepped back and smoothed down his clothing. And as he did, the thing that had been niggling at the back of his mind finally revealed itself:

Thor hadn’t lost the ability to lift Mjolnir on Jotunheim. Foolishly provoking a war hadn’t done it – it had been Thor’s words to father.

Father had sealed his powers, and ... made him unworthy. Just like that.

Had it always been ... father’s view of them? His decision, to have the hammer accept Thor yet not him?

Loki stared down at Mjolnir, habitually schooling his expression as hurt and anger tore at his insides, marking his heart and scoring his mind.

Had he never even...

No. No, he couldn’t – wouldn’t think of that now.

(And what would it change, anyway.)

He had a realm to protect, and a plan to realise.

Once again, he traveled to Jotunheim, this time alone.

It was so easy.

A few pretty words, a few ugly ones. And Laufey was ready to walk into the trap set for him.

It would almost be pitiful if it weren’t so disgustingly foolish.

Now all that was left was to wait. He went about the motions, visiting mother at father's bedside, hearing the worries of his people, sparring with the Einherjar and the other warriors.

Once alone in his quarters at night, he let himself fall back against the door. Eyes closed, he breathed deeply, taking a moment to gather himself and review the pieces on the board:

Laufey would be ready in a few hours. Noone knew of his plan. Thor was on Midgard, the Warriors Four quiet, and Heimdall knew not to let anyone pass.

All was prepared. ...or not.

Cursing, Loki remembered how the glamour had bled away. He should have thought of this, should have done it before risking another journey to Jotunheim. 

Loki swallowed. Slowly, he tightened his grip on Gungnir. With its access to Asgard’s magic, he searched for the glamour placed on him.

(There it was.)

Loki shuddered as he forced it to reroute to his own seidr, instead of to his father’s. (His. It should be his.) He also made it the first priority – just in case. Short of leaving him to die, his seidr would supply the glamour above all else, and would maintain it until his own will said otherwise. He would not be robbed of it by a bit of frost – not again.

He looked down at his unoccupied hand.

It was pale.

Loki continued staring, persisting a while through the steadily growing morbid curiosity that had taken hold of him. He wanted to see it again, wanted to know what it felt like without the Casket or a Frost Giant’s touch provoking it. He didn't. But he did. (He did.) After what might have been one breath or a dozen, he finally capitulated to himself.

Walking further inside, he set Gungnir down carefully. He moved a few steps more, then stopped in place. Closing his eyes, he tried to loosen his tense muscles with a deep breath, but to no avail.

Well, no matter. This shouldn’t be pleasant anyway.

With that thought, he willingly dropped the glamour. For a moment, he remained frozen (how funny). Then a disbelieving, somewhat manic laugh escaped him. Because all of a sudden, it was warm.

Thinking about it, it only made sense for a body suited for colder climates to have a different perception of temperature. Of course.

...and still.

It felt like the height of irony, for his Frost Giant skin to feel this comfortable in Asgard’s air.

A few questionably steadying breaths later, he peered through his lashes down at his hands (blue), and instantly shut his eyes again.

Definitely not.

He needed – air. Not this. Too much. Too much.

He reinstalled the glamour, walked back to pick up Gungnir and went out to his balcony. The night breeze soothed his agitated mind, calming him with refreshingly cool caresses on his skin – for all of a few minutes. Until the bifrost illuminated the night sky and ignited Loki’s anger with it.

Heimdall.

He took a moment to look through Gungnir, to where the bifrost had deposited its passengers.

And the Warriors Four.

As much as it irritated – angered ( – hurt) him, it only affirmed his intended course of action. If his shield-siblings of centuries couldn’t follow a single order given by him, after all their time together and all the instances he had saved their sorry hides – if Loki, as their King, couldn’t even make them obey him in this one thing ... it didn’t bear thinking what his command over leagues of warriors would look like.

He had thought right. (Alone it was.) And he would ensure his plan’s success – for Asgard.

For them all.

There had been a small hiccough (oh, how he hated and loved Thor, that Norns-damned stupidly earnest oaf, with more heart than mind and more foolishness than both combined), but regardless, it was done now.

Heimdall was frozen, Thor (plus his friends) blessedly stuck on Midgard, and it was time.

Loki stood there with Gungnir in his hand. His insides were a tight ball of nervosity, twisting and tensing.

(Was it really–)

He pressed down on it. On anything that wasn’t determination, or anger, or the will to act. This was no time for uncertainty, no place for doubts.

He would do it.

And that was that.

He opened the bifrost.

Laufey. He led him. Killed him.

(Killed by the son of Odin. Not Laufey.)

And as if in retaliation, he would–

Thor.

Thor, again. Ever ready to ruin Loki’s plans.

But not this time.

He blasted the oaf through a wall, then made his way out of the palace, where he set the bifrost to build and destroy Jotunheim.

And then Thor, again: Saying Loki couldn’t kill an entire race. That it was madness.

Rage burned in his veins then, at the unprecedented show of mercy, at the refusal to fight him, at – Thor. Thor, who had started this, who a mere few days ago had laughingly slaughtered dozens of Frost Giants at a time, who didn’t care a whit about the consequences of his actions – for him, for them, for Asgard.

How dare he, when he–

When Loki–

Flames of anger licked at his insides, and Loki was glad for it, welcoming the dulling of the ache in his chest that tasted suspiciously like regret. It was done anyway. He let its heat consume him, let it guide his words to provoke Thor.

(Only a few words to make him raise his hammer. So easy. So very easy.)

They fought.

Yes.

They traded blows. Swung and stabbed at each other. Thor fell for his illusion. And then, it was too late. Thor could do nothing.

Except swinging Mjolnir at the Bifrost.

No.

How could he–

When Loki had chosen to– no.

He couldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t fail, couldn’t have it all be for nothing.

...

He failed.

...

Loki had failed.

Yet as he hung under the broken remnants of the bifrost, looking up at Thor and father above him, he nonetheless tried to – to–

“I could have done it!” he exclaimed, desperate in his need for father to see his will, his sincerity.

(Wasn’t it enough?)

(Wasn’t he?)

“No, Loki.” The words fell to settle hollowly in his chest, in his achingly tired limbs. Heavy as they dragged him down... down.

No, then.

...

No.

...

.....

...

.....

...

Loki wavered into awareness.

Everything hurt.

He could feel his seidr suffusing his whole body, working to heal fractures, cuts, bruises. He breathed in slowly, carefully – some of his ribs were definitely cracked – trying to not worsen the pain as he blindly stared up at the light grey ceiling from his supine position on – in the ground.

Steady breaths in. Out.

After who knew how much time, it got a little less agonizing (thanks to his ever hardworking seidr) and he finally had the mind to focus on his ... well, mind.

It was the strangest thing: On the one hand, he felt as if he had just awoken from a dream ... and on the other, as if he had been conscious this whole time. It was as if his memories were rearranging themselves (or not really, but – Norns), and in the process only worsening the head-splitting pain throbbing inside his skull. His mind seemed intent on making him remember, making him recall what exactly had led him here.

And so, lacking the strength to put up much resistance and unsure if he even wanted to, he did. He remembered.

He remembered falling, through the Void – falling and falling.

At first (after an unsettling, very uncomfortable minute or two), he had spelled himself unconscious, reckoning that if he were to die (and he would have, sooner or later), he didn’t exactly want to be present for that.

Unfortunately, he was awoken again – by what, he didn’t know. There was nothing around him. There was no light – and no air. He couldn’t breathe. For a frantic heartbeat or two, he wondered how he had regained consciousness at all – until he noticed his seidr. Working, toiling, to keep him alive; to maintain and restore him. Successfully, from the looks of it, though Loki certainly wouldn't have complained about some air.

As he was suffocating, feeling himself grow fainter and fainter, he realised that just as his unconsciousness spell had been abandoned, so had his glamour. Had he been able to, he would’ve let out a grand laugh at that, bitterly joyous.

His seidr was his, indeed: survival over pride.

Life over dignity.

As befitted him.

He fell unconscious with a strained smile on his lips.

After that, the same thing happened over and over. And though Loki had counted at first, he grew tired of it very quickly.

There was nothing.

For a few increasingly uncomfortable minutes at a time, there was nothing. (Nothing but him.) Again, and again. And again. Always.

Sometimes, there would be points of light, far away – stars so far removed that despite Loki seeing them, they might have been dead already. (...or was it him that was dead already?)

More often than not, it was dark. A blessing perhaps, considering that it made Loki unable to see his own blue skin. Still, maybe it would’ve helped. Would’ve made it seem less cold. Less ... empty.

Though the memories of that time blended into each other, there was this sense suffusing it all: of freezing cold. With no light, no warmth – at a certain point, even the concept of warmth became a notion entirely foreign to Loki.

Neither was there sound. It never stopped being strange, to be falling through open space – though not really ‘falling’ per se, seeing as there was neither up nor down – and having no noise to accompany it. Nothing. There was only silence ... deafening, numbing silence.

And then there was the loneliness. The emptiness. The question of ‘Was he even real?’ Was there anything at all, besides him – had there ever been?

So Loki fell, and fell. Unconscious more often than not, and too weak to do much about it – he hadn’t the strength to wrest control over his seidr back. Besides, if he did, then what? Spell himself unconscious again, only for his seidr to stop it, again? Surely not.

Though he supposed he could end it using the dagger strapped to his leg ... but he didn’t feel strong enough for that either. Or rather, weak enough?

Who ever knew.

...

Over time, his seidr adapted ... or grew more powerful, perhaps? Though Loki had heard of mages starving themselves, causing harm to their person for extended periods of time to challenge and grow their seidr, he had never really considered doing it. After all, why risk death when one could learn and grow with safer, entirely effective methods?

And now... this. Though it wasn’t making him reconsider his stance on the matter, it was certainly fascinating. Slowly, his seidr reserves improved – either it took less to make his body function or there was simply more of it now, but regardless: where it had seemed to be a mere thread holding Loki up before, it was now a thin, but respectable rope.

As he was suffocating for what might have been the 30th or the 100th time, he briefly contemplated a spell preventing suffocation by using and reusing the matter inside one’s body – but then his seidr would only run out faster, and it would simply begin anew.

A simple spell to make him pass out then. Not to keep him down, but just to hasten the process.

And so, for the first time in much too long, Loki didn’t breathlessly fade, but blinked out of consciousness instead.

Everything and nothing changed after that. Upon coming to, he would look around to see if, by some wonder, there was anything around him that he could use to escape this wretched state of perpetual falling – and then, discovering nothing (as always), he would blink out again.

Though he was unsure as he couldn’t measure it, it seemed as if the periods of time between awakenings were getting shorter. Sometimes, it would even feel as if he was waking from slumber, or dipping in and out of consciousness like one would in the middle of the night just to change sleeping positions.

It was odd, to say the least.

One day (or not day, how would he know), he decided to reinstall the glamour. And it held. Everytime he woke, it was there, his seidr reserves happily sustaining it for him.

It got better.

And yet, it remained just as bad – just as agonizingly, horribly bad.

It was so cold. Sometimes he wondered if one could be so cold, it made one blind? Because there was nothing. But then, after a while, there would be, something. Or was Loki hallucinating...

As he lay there, recalling that sense of all-encompassing cold, made that much worse by the absence of – everything: light. Sound. Air. (...life.) He huffed out a light breath, and the pool of relief in his chest rose to fill his eyes with tears.

Finally, it was over. He had made it – somewhere.

Unfortunately, the relief was short-lived. As if reading him pages from a book, shoving every single one in his face so he would look at them properly, his mind continued showing him memories.

If recalling his time in the Void was like spying through a haze, with vague forms blending into each other, then viewing the memories following was like looking at his reflection through a shattered mirror. He could recognize the shape, certainly. It was him. Clearly, it had to be. And yet, it felt removed, warped – not like him whatsoever. There was a certain coherence lacking, missing emotions and motivations, and it – it couldn’t be him.

There was waking. Getting some sustenance inside him. And then, within an hour or two, being shown to Thanos, and accepting the task to conquer Midgard with excitement.

Loki snorted out a laugh, then repressed the resulting pained groan.

Norns, this was ridiculous. Him, agreeing to take over Midgard – and with excitement, no less? He would be more likely to walk up to a bilgesnipe and try to pat its antlers.

Certainly, the vast majority of Midgardian cultures could benefit from some teaching and development – but why should he be the one to do that? As if he wanted to be responsible for billions of mortals. The mere idea was laughable.

And that aside, there was Asgard’s protection over Midgard. Any offensive involvement from outside would lead to swift action – which, considering his current less than optimal state of well-being, had likely been the case with him.

As such, he lingered on that memory in confusion, wondering why he would ever accept such a task, without even any coercion, or negotiation at least. But then, the scepter appeared – handed to him by one of Thanos's generals. To control mortal minds and make his task easier.

Of course.

As he continued onto the next memory, he wondered if he had ever thought of that; if he had ever questioned whether the scepter had been used on him as well, given that attacking Midgard wouldn’t have even crossed his mind previous. But then, he supposed the mind control would explain that, might have prevented said questioning. ...though perhaps, he might have considered it, found issue with something, and then passively sabotaged his mission? The continuing course of events made that seem not too unlikely:

He appeared on Midgard using the Tesseract, and from then on, it was like he was playing a game. Or performing a play? There certainly was a plan, but it was simple. Shallow almost, or ... well. It wasn't well thought-out, with more showmanship than soundness. There were too many uncertain factors that, ultimately, led to its failing. And Loki's own actions throughout it all seemed erratic, somewhat crazed and (mostly) quite far removed from well calculated.

Unable to resist it, Loki put his hands over his face, and let out a quiet groan. Why? Why, after having endured the Void, did he now have to suffer the consequences of this Norns damned bilgesnipe waste of a thing?

He put his hurting arms back down, and stared at the ceiling.

Father would not be pleased.

Father would be so very displeased, in fact, that even the extenuating circumstances might not get Loki out of a sizeable punishment.

For even planning to attack Midgard was a punishable offence, potentially leading to decades of incarceration – perhaps even a century or multiple, depending on how heinous the intent was. With Loki likely having caused the death of thousands of mortals, and the seeming intent to subjugate all of them, his chances of keeping his freedom seemed slim to none.

Though he was – had been a prince ... if father could banish Thor to Midgard, he could certainly put Loki in a cell.

For a moment, he contemplated evading capture. He wasn't sure he wanted to return to Asgard anyway, and with the growth his seidr had gone through, he would likely be able to keep himself hidden at all times. Whether that be from Heimdall or the wielder of Gungnir, whoever that may be.

But then, just the thought of that was exhausting. He didn’t want a lifetime of hiding himself, never introducing himself by his name, always vigilant for Einherjar appearing on the doorstep of whatever hideout he would be wiling his time away in.

After this utter debacle, there already existed one army that he’d certainly not want to cross paths with, and he’d gladly refrain from adding to that number.

Besides, he had the unsettling premonition that ... he bent his elbow to lift his hand in the air, and tried to summon his helmet into it.

Nothing happened.

Oh, wonderful. Wasn’t that just a delight. With all the things he had been wrong about, why couldn’t this have been one?

Resisting the urge to stick his figurative head in the sand, he tried to estimate how much longer it would be until he could use his seidr again. With his splitting headache refusing to make that any easier, he might have lain there for a good half hour (or maybe not, it was hard to say) before coming to the conclusion that he simply didn’t know. He didn’t know if the cause of it was pure physical injury or the breaking from the mind control – the latter seeming more likely than the former – but regardless, his head hurt, and he couldn’t use spells. Or his seidr, in general, for that matter. In any way. For hours more; days probably.

Though it was doing admirable work with healing him. Already, he felt as if he had been trampled by a single bilgesnipe rather than a dozen. (What was it with his thoughts coming back to bilgesnipes again and again – this didn’t bode well for his head’s intactness, or his soundness of mind, or...)

...how long had he been here?

Slowly, breathing through the pain, he sat up to look through the wall of windows to his right. One of them was missing, pieces of shattered glass laying before it.

Right, he had thrown a mortal out of there.

He winced, just a little. Mortals were so fragile. That one had likely weathered his fall with many more injuries (if he had survived at all) than Thor had the one Loki had subjected him to on the ‘Helicarrier’.

Loki’s lips lifted in a smirk. Of all the times he had fooled Thor, this one was among the most satisfying. Perhaps because it was so recent? But regardless: Even despite it not really being him, it was delightful.

...actually, now that he thought about it, that might have been one of his main motivations in letting himself be caught to be transported there. Aside from causing general chaos, he hadn’t done much else of import there after all.

He couldn’t discern from the memories, but if that were true, it would be as funny as it would be embarrassing. Loki, building an important plan with its main priorities not efficiency and likelihood of success but instead tricking Thor, followed by general chaos?

...well, that did... sound fun.

Norns.

Forcing himself to snap out of it, he slowly got to his knees (and one of his upper leg bones was fractured, lovely), then feet, and then just as slowly, limped his way closer to the windows.

There were no Chitauri ships flying about, which probably meant the mortals (plus Thor) had managed to close the portal and bring down the remaining ones.

Well, good for them.

Now the question remained: When would they come to find him? Or Thor, at least?

Loki bit down on a groan of pain. This upright position wasn’t agreeing with him at all.

Looking around the room, he spotted the bottle of whatever drink had been offered to him an hour, maybe two ago. And he decided that he might as well, given that the opportunity would likely not present itself for the next few decades, centuries possibly.

He slowly bridged the dozen or so steps, then grasped the bottle.

Not that one.

Trying his other hand to see if it would hurt less, and finding the result satisfactory, he took a swig.

It wasn’t bad, though obviously nowhere near inhibiting levels – which, upon further thought, was probably a good thing. He lowered himself onto a stool, leaning back against a small bar as he drank from the bottle in measured amounts. He did feel a little sorry to be drinking a defenestrated, possibly dead man’s liquor, but he had offered Loki a drink before that, no?

Anyway.

With the bottle soon emptied, he laboured to his feet again to return near the windows. The view wasn’t very pleasing in itself, what with its lack of green meadows and sprawling forests in the distance. Various tones of grey made up the angular landscape, blending into each other to form a mellow sort of dreariness. Despite it not really being to his taste, he found himself drinking it in like a man soon to be deprived of water. There were no windows in Asgard's prisons. And in light of that, this view became quite a bit more pleasing indeed. So he looked and looked, down and out, until keeping upright remained nothing but a painful chore.

He sat, and continued looking.

Not long after, sitting became a little too uncomfortable as well, and he simply lied down. When turning his head gained him nothing but a sharp pain in his neck and empty sky to his right, he decided that that had been enough view for him.

So he simply stared up at the ceiling.

And waited.

...

How was it that nobody was here yet? It had been long enough, no? Although he didn’t like to admit it, the waiting was making him a bit anxious.

Maybe Thor had per– he refused to entertain that thought.

Next.

As it turned out, next was an angry cry of “Loki!” being bellowed across the room.

Oh joy. Thor was here.

“How good of you to finally join me,” Loki commented idly, flicking his eyes to the side to glance at Thor. With that, he sat up as smoothly as he could, letting none of the resulting pain show on his face. He looked towards the elevator, which Thor had descended already to approach his location near the windows. One by one, his newest Midgardian friends were filing out after him, Loki watching them as he made a show of leisurely getting to his feet.

There was the striped one, followed by red hair, then blue eyes, and last but not least, the evidently not dead defenestratee.

By the Nine, what was wrong with him?

Giving himself a mental shake, he assessed them anew, plucking information from his memories.

There was Rogers, soldier, former beta, now alpha (interesting, that).

Romanov, spy, alpha. Had managed to trick him.

Barton, spy, beta. Former informant.

And finally, Stark, self-proclaimed genius inventor, omega. Had created a device capable of blocking the scepter. (...he did seem brilliant. And, Loki thought as he remembered their short encounter preceding the defenestration, rather entertaining as well.)

The only one missing was Banner, ‘the Beast’, omega. Had he been with them, Loki was unsure if he would have been more likely to thank him or turn his guts into a sieve. For their encounter had been deeply unpleasant, even if it had freed him from the scepter.

Before he could contemplate that further, Thor had marched up to him already, a nearly white knuckled grip on Mjolnir at his side. “Loki,” he ground out, quieter this time, though no less angry for it.

His expression was far removed from the one Loki had seen last: desperate and fearful as he called out Loki’s name, screaming it. (And still, Loki had let go. And fallen.)

(Yes, he didn’t much like that thought either. Next.)

Of course, there had been a few interactions in between, but this felt like their first real encounter afterwards. And to have Thor be a picture of simmering anger, grim accusation and weary disappointment in every line of his face... (it hurt.)

Would Thor even believe him, were he to mention the mind control now? ‘Funny that you should ask – or I’m sure you were about to – but yes, just as your little friend over there suffered the scepter’s influence, so did I.’

Loki wasn’t sure that would go over well at all.

Once, Thor would have believed him. Without question or hesitation.

But now...

Loki was tired.

He didn’t want to – to labour to be believed. To be accepted; trusted. (Loved.)

Loki knew a thing or two about the Asgardian prisons. He was a powerful mage, and a shapeshifter. A cell wouldn't be able to hold him for all too long.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” he asked. All of them, including Thor, raised their weapons in a ready stance or to directly aim at him.

He hadn’t exactly meant it like that, but the display of (possibly deserved) distrust did make him contemplate it for a moment. Just for a moment. What were a few mortal lives more, after all?

But then, his body did still hurt quite a bit. Now only as if a small bilgesnipe had – alright, that was enough of that.

He lightly clicked his tongue, projecting disapproval. “None of that, you brutes.” He gave the mortals gathered a falsely sweet smile. “Though if you wish to test your mettle against me, I certainly won’t discourage you further.”

Not bothering to more closely assess their varying reactions, he turned to Thor. “Surely you haven’t forgotten the chains you mean to put me in? That would be a bit embarrassing, even for you.”

Thor impressively kept his reaction contained, only gritting out, “I haven’t.” He seemed to be hesitating, unsure whether to put down his weapon as he reached into his armour.

“Careful,” one of the mortals – Romanov – cautioned. With her weapon still trained on him, she stepped further into the room, prompting Rogers to walk ahead and Barton to follow after her, fanning out as they kept their eyes and aim on him. Stark, meanwhile, only took a step or two further inside. Considering the clanking sounds his mostly unlit (possibly broken) armour was making, that didn’t seem all too strange.

What was odd, however, was the man’s less than vigilant demeanour. Though he had an arm raised, palm pointed towards Loki, his manner as he surveyed the room was almost leisurely. Eyes halting on something, his lips drew up a little, and he turned his gaze to Loki. “Looks like you had that drink after all,” he commented with another glance at whatever object had caught his attention – which turned out to be the bottle Loki had emptied. His smile wasn’t friendly, but it wasn’t exactly hostile either, and somehow, it almost felt as if they were sharing a joke.

(“What,” it came from Barton’s direction, but Loki elected to ignore that.)

“I did – and do – appreciate the offer,” Loki answered. He paused for a beat to deliver a meaningful look in the direction of the empty bottle. “As is apparent.”

Stark grinned at that. “Nice to see you got taste.”

Unable to help himself, Loki smiled back.

Just then, Thor finally managed to pull out a folded piece of cloth from under his armour. Loki’s smile formed into a smirk as he looked down at it. How inconvenient it must be to not own a pocket dimension, and having to fumble for a dimensional bag inside one’s sweaty breastplate instead. Poor, poor Thor.

Taking notice of his expression, Thor gave him a warning look as he unfolded the visibly rumpled bag. “Not a word.”

Loki blinked. “Two, then?” he asked guilelessly. The spark of amusement inside his chest visibly sprang over to Thor, whose lips twitched and eyes lightened with humour. But it was short-lived, and his expression sank only a moment or two after. As if he had just remembered the situation they were in.

Feeling a little uncomfortable, Loki turned his attention back to the mortals, where he caught the tail end of Stark's comment: “–like I’m the first here to offer a drink to a mark,” he said, eyes on Romanov.

Oh, were they fighting?

Curious to see her reaction, Loki turned his gaze to Romanov. Their eyes met, hers like a hawk’s watching their prey, and Loki had to commend her despite himself. She seemed a fierce warrior.

He lightly raised his brows. ‘What?’

“Are you sure you weren’t compromised?” she asked, evidently to Stark. It felt a little strange to have her gaze on him as she did. Despite it certainly not being her intention, it was almost as if she were asking him. (Loki wondered how they would react to an honest answer of his.)

Immediately, Rogers started protesting, closely followed by Stark. Despite the former being nearer, Loki found himself listening to the latter: “Do my eyes look like they’re glowing blue?”

(They didn’t have to be – that wasn’t a foolproof indication of the scepter’s influence. But Loki chose to politely not mention that, as thanks for the liquor.)

“Brother.”

Loki turned back to Thor, who was holding up magic shackles, one hand lifted between them.

They weren’t – brothers.

As if hit by an exhaustion spell, Loki’s weight hung a little heavier on his frame. He just ... wanted it over and done with. (He wanted to lie down, rest his aching head, and do nothing but let his seidr complete his healing.)

“Not really, no,” Loki said, a bitter thing of a smile on his face. Without preamble, he presented his wrists, watching as Thor snapped the shackles into place.

“Do you need your speech restrained as well?” Thor asked, a mirroring weariness in his features.

What a strange question to ask.

“Oh, absolutely,” Loki responded, unsure why he was doing this even as he heard himself say it. “Who knows how many innocent minds I would trick between here and Asgard’s prisons. You should truly–”

He was interrupted by Thor slapping the restraint onto his face. The oaf’s pained expression was set in a way that nearly screamed ‘Please, just stop talking,’ exhaustion and irritation both permeating it.

Alright, then.

This suited Loki just fine. At least he wouldn’t have to talk to Thor on the way.

“Do you need backup?” Rogers asked. It seemed all the mortals had relaxed somewhat, though Barton and Romanov’s weapons were still aimed at Loki.

“No need,” Thor answered. “But I thank you.” With a glance to the pair of spies, he lifted one of Loki’s wrists a little to emphasize the shackles, “There won’t be much danger with Loki’s spells sealed.”

Loki’s lips curled in a hidden sneer.

(Funny, for Thor to point out how dangerous his seidr was. When it had rarely been worthy of his acknowledgement otherwise.)

Slowly, after a glance to each other, Romanov and Barton lowered their weapons.

Thor turned to look at Stark. “The Tesseract has remained in place, has it not?”

Oddly, it took just a moment too long for the mortal to respond – as if he had waited for the answer himself. (A communication device inside his armour? But Stark hadn’t relayed the question.)

“Yeah, it’s up there. All yours,” Stark said, then turned to lift an arm in a guiding gesture towards the elevator. Loki couldn’t decide if it was more polite or sarcastic.

Thor nodded to Stark, then turned to Loki once more. With a grim look, he non too gently grabbed his arm, and started leading – bordering on dragging – Loki behind himself.

That hurt. The fracture in his left leg still hadn’t healed, and it took almost his entire focus to smoothen his expression and gait as he followed after Thor.

Still, he was present enough to notice when just before the elevator, a faint, very pleasant scent started suffusing the air.

Faster than any thought he’d had in the few hours previous, his mind told him: All the mortals had come through here. Rogers, now-alpha; Romanov, alpha; Barton, beta. No, it smelled too – too good to have been any of them.

That left Stark, omega.

Loki felt his head turning, almost whipping to the side, so he could lay eyes on the man. Stark was watching him, brows rising when their gazes met. It seemed part challenge and part curiousity, with a casual arrogance underlying it.

Unsure how to react, Loki fell back on his standard greeting towards those worthy of his regard ( – most of them brilliant. Most of them omegas): a simple, respectful nod.

For some reason, Stark blinked in what looked like surprise, a spark of intrigue entering his eyes. He turned his head a little towards Loki, following him with his gaze.

All of that had taken barely more than two steps, and on the third one, Loki realised what had just happened: A scent had turned his head.

As quickly as possible without seeming rushed, he faced forward again. He could feel the cloud of heated embarrassment in his chest, soon to rise to his cheeks.

For him to be affected like that, letting his body act without a thought – had he regressed to 600?

Thankfully, his place on the inside of the elevator wasn’t in sight of Stark. The doors closed rather quickly as well, leaving him to peacefully stew in his own mortification. He could still smell that scent – a bit like smoke. Like fire. It was like – Loki breathed in deeply, slowly as to keep it hidden from Thor – it was like ... warmth.

Pure warmth.

But it was still rather faint (no wonder, considering Stark’s full body armour), and with all the other scents clogging the air and hindering his perception, Loki would’ve cursed in frustration had it not been for the restraint covering his mouth.

Why did Thor have to stink so much?

It didn’t take long at all for them to halt, the doors sliding open much too quickly. Loki inhaled a wistful last breath, then walked out behind Thor.

What a pity. He certainly wouldn’t see that mortal again.

Perhaps it was for the best though. As wonderful as his scent was, it would likely be just as addicting. And Loki had never been very good at endearing himself to others, at least not for long.

Unsure if this last discovery had made this day better or that much worse, he watched as Thor took out some kind of device from his bag. He picked up the Tesseract and put it inside, closed it, then said for Loki to grasp the handle opposite him.

Loki did.

And they were off to Asgard.

Conveniently, they appeared inside one of the palace gardens. Loki dearly appreciated that the walk wouldn’t be very long. (He nearly shuddered at the thought of where they would’ve arrived had the bifrost been intact – the ride would’ve been awful.)

They walked through a few doors and hallways, soon arriving at the main entrance to the throne room.

“Are the Allfather and Allmother inside?” Thor asked one of the guards at the sides.

“Yes,” came the answer. “We have orders to open the doors as soon as you arrive, prince Thor.”

“Hold,” Thor told them. Then he turned to Loki and less than expertly engaged the release of the speech restraint. As he made quick work of dropping it in the bag and folding it up to fit under his armour, Loki subtly moved his jaw, happy to have regained that freedom of motion.

With his rumpled cloth tucked away and Loki once again capable of speech, Thor nodded to the guards. “Open.”

So they did.

Even the length of the throne room away, Loki could see the serious set of mother’s and father's expressions – he on the throne, she to the front and side just before the steps.

Their walk (the two of them joined by a pair of guards from just outside) was measured as they made their way across. Towards the Allfather and Allmother.

As the distance grew ever smaller, both their faces remained just the same: blends of disappointment and sternness in varying degrees.

But then, as they came within a dozen steps of mother, her gaze sharpened and honed in on Loki. Her eyes widened, hope, concern, distress and love swimming in them. And then, from one step to the next, her expression became pained and relieved all at once.

When they stopped a few paces from the stairs, she had arrived before them already – or rather, before him.

“Oh, Loki.” Her voice was warm, and full of understanding. It gently wrapped around him, holding him together when he felt something deep inside him crack.

She knew.