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Chapter Text

Winter in Asgard was quite harsh. Snow covered everywhere, making the Golden Realm seem like it was wearing a new layer of clothing. Most people didn't like that though. Except Loki.

He liked the cold. He liked the cool feeling that winter brought, as well as watching the snowflakes flying in the air. He liked the way the cold of winter made him feel secure and calm. Everything seemed quieter in the cold, and Loki needed nothing more than moments of peace and quiet like that.

So that was why instead of staying inside like everyone else, Loki stood in front of a frozen lake, letting the cold wind blow his long black hair gently. He looked into the distance, his eyes uncertain, as if thinking of some far away place where he truly belonged.

The lake was quite close to the Asgard palace, but since it had nothing interesting, most people didn't care about it. That was even better for Loki. Sometimes if Loki wanted to be quiet, he would go to this lake, dip his feet in the water and play with his magic. But knowing what kind of place Asgard was, those peaceful moments often did not last. So Loki would take advantage of every moment he could.

But at this moment, Loki had other things to worry about.

Loki looked at his hand that had turned blue, and tilted his head.

“Okay, this is new.”

It wasn't like it was the first time Loki discovered he was different from the rest in Asgard, but his hand turned blue? Huh, truly different. He raised his hand to his eyes, somewhat confused, looking at the strange blue color that was slowly spreading.

There was no feeling of pain, or discomfort. On the contrary, this transformation made Loki feel a bit at ease, it was like he should have been like that all along.

He narrowed his eyes, and waved his hand lightly. Instantly, the frozen lake surface in front of him suddenly trembled a bit. The cold, thick ice surface began to show cracks like a spider web, then quickly collapsed. A stream of water rushed up from the lake, gently heading towards Loki.

The little god used his completely blue index finger to touch the water, and immediately, it froze.

“I like this.”

As Loki whispered, he once again waved his hand, and everything returned to the way it was. The lake was calm again, and frozen, and Loki's hand had returned to its usual color.

As much as Loki wondered about everything that had just happened, he clearly understood that this was not the right time to find out about it. Maybe at night, when Loki could have the privilege of privacy, in his own chamber, he would continue.

Loki was way too smart for his age.

He was always the brightest, no matter how much others hated to admit it. By the time Thor started learning to spell, Loki could easily read books. By the time Thor was struggling with his homework, Loki had already explored more than half of the Asgard Royal Library. And again, Thor was older than Loki. Once Thor started learning to fight, Loki was able to use his magic to do extraordinary things, of course, this was his secret.

He was still not considered an adult, hell, by Asgardian standards. If he was a Midgardian, then he looked like a sixteen or seventeen year old, or even younger. But he had developed a wiser mind than all others. Loki liked to think he was a genius, and he supposed that was quite fair.

So, on the surface, he was Thor's little brother, and he couldn't even lift a sword. But inside, Loki was very confident in himself, and he knew clearly where his value lay.

The Asgardians had always talked about how a true warrior must take up arms and fight like heroes, and that magic was just a trick and for the weak. But Loki thought that was nonsense, and hypocritical. Odin himself, their king, was a magic user too. Frigga, their queen, was a brilliant mage, of course not able to reach Loki's level. They live off the benefits of magic every day, but if they get the chance, these damn Asgardians will always talk shit about magic.

But Loki didn't care about their opinion, or them.

At some point in his life, Loki had a desire to prove himself. But that phase soon ended, when Loki realized that no matter how hard he tried, it was useless, when no one in Asgard really took him seriously. In the eyes of most Asgardians, Loki was just a harmless second prince. To Thor and his rowdy friends, Loki was just a weak brat who couldn't fight and had to rely on tricks and mischief. As for his father, well, Loki was not sure whether he was his father or not, Loki was a cheater, and always created trouble. His mother, Frigga, had always called him her precious little prince, but Loki had always known that she was just like everyone else.

So, yeah, it wasn't really good in Asgard.

But Loki was fine, though. He had what he needed, and he just had to be careful that no one knew what he was thinking.

People on Asgard were not that bright.

Well, Loki assumed that woman was somewhat bright, but she managed to be locked up in Hel, so he wasn't sure about that.

So keeping secrets in Asgard was not a difficult task. Loki looked at his still blue hand, and thought for a moment - would it be any different, when he was in other forms?

Just as he thought about it, his body changed. He didn't look too different, but his hair was a little longer, and his facial features became softer.

He, no, she, raised her eyebrows at the blue color of her hand. Hm, maybe that was not a matter of magic, but actually a matter of race. There were quite a few races with blue skin, though, so she wasn't sure. But Loki quickly thought of a few possible races, and decided that she really needed to be more careful in this matter.

Changing the form couldn't solve that problem, so perhaps the illusion could. Loki focused her magic on her hand, and soon her normal skin color returned.

Shapeshift and illusion were not of the same nature. Loki couldn't shapeshift into other people, she could only shapeshift into different versions of herself. For example, this female form was her own, not someone else's. If she were to shapeshift into a cat, that cat would look like Loki if she were born as a cat. To be able to change into other people, Loki needed to use her magic to create illusions to fool the eyes of others.

Loki was pretty sure that there were races, or some individuals that could shapeshift whatever form they wanted. Unfortunately, Loki was not gifted with that talent, so she could only use what she could manage.

But Loki was quite satisfied with her illusions, though. At least she used them well, and was never discovered. Sometimes she would transform into a normal Asgardian so she could be free for a day. Heimdall had claimed that he could see through everything, but Loki knew full well that it was a complete lie. Many times she tried using magic to reach the gatekeeper, and he never found out.

Again, the Asgardians were not as wise as they thought.

Before, Loki didn't want to admit it, because she also thought she was also an Asgardian. But it seemed like now she could make that claim without worrying about it including herself.

She wasn't sure about her origins, or her race - she needed to do a little more research. But it seemed obvious that she wasn't an Asgardian. So she would stop all thoughts of contributing something to this golden realm.

Being a prince, or sometimes, a princess, of course Loki has always had the thought of wanting to do good deeds to contribute to the development of Asgard. Even though most of her efforts were ignored by her family and others, she still tried. But now, maybe she didn't need to do that anymore.

“Maybe I should do something interesting.” Loki muttered, looking up at the gray sky. “Like opening a portal and bringing something dangerous to this realm.”

In fact, it sounded really fun, and Loki should totally do it, or even more fun things. For example, stealing Idun's apple orchard. Or destroy the rune system that powers Asgard.

He should even do bad things to Thor, like, kill him, or something else.

Speaking of which, while Loki was smiling at her dark thoughts, thunder sounded in the distance. Loki looked towards the direction of the thunder, there was no surprise on her face. It didn't take a few seconds before instead of thunder, there was the sound of someone calling her.

“Loki!!”

Loki watched as her stupid brother appeared, and ran towards her with a dumb smile on his face. Hel, how could someone be so unpleasant?

“What are you doing here? Father is looking for you!”

The little god did not answer, but continued to look up at the gray winter sky. The snowy wind blew gently, making her hair sway. The emerald green eyes looking forward did not carry any warmth, as if she was not a living person.

Her brother came closer to her, and as expected, after seeing Loki's appearance, he said something stupid, again.

“You know you shouldn't look like this.” Thor frowned, a bit uncomfortable. “Father will be very angry if he knows.”

Oh, yeah, that.

For some reason, Odin hated Loki's female form. After seeing Loki in this form for the first time, he immediately banned Loki from transforming into his female form. And for some reason, other people in Asgard also agreed with Odin, and always looked at Loki with strange eyes when Loki was girl-Loki.

Loki used to not understand that, but now, she did. Maybe it was a consequence of sexism, maybe not. Apparently, at some point in the past, there was a special force called "Valkyrie" consisting of female warriors. It was no longer there, only in stories, but it was a testament to the fact that Asgard was not so misogynistic.

But they did have problems with girl-Loki, though.

She had a few ideas to explain the strange discrimination others had towards girl-Loki, but she still felt they were stupid.

Women were fucking brilliant.

Loki had absolutely no problem with women, she was even very proud that she was girl-Loki. She believed that women were the future, and everyone should value their future.

Furthermore, girl-Loki was just as brilliant as boy-Loki. Girl-Loki was just as beautiful as boy-Loki. Everything boy-Loki could do, girl-Loki could too. There was no reason for Loki to detest femininity, instead, he, or she, embraced it with utmost respect.

So she was kinda annoyed, when Thor talked about it like she did something wrong.

“Can you turn back? Loki, this is weird.”

As much as Loki wanted to say something like "how about you mind your own fucking business", she chose to stay silent. She was in no mood to argue with Thor. So she just silently continued to look up at the sky, while her body gradually transformed.

Boy-Loki was there again.

Next to Loki, Thor breathed a sigh of relief. That made Loki a bit confused. Was whether he was male or female that important to Thor? They weren't that close anyway, so why did he care?

“What are you looking at? What is there in the sky?”

“Loki, don't ignore me!”

“Come on little brother, say something?”

“Do you want to hear about my hunt with our friends?”

“Loki!”

“Brother!”

There it was again. So annoying. Why did he talk so much? Didn't he talk enough with his friends? Why did he feel the need to bomb Loki with that booming voice? Loki sighed, closed his eyes, and said in boredom:

“You will be more likeable if you talk less.”

“No way!” Thor seemed happier, when Loki finally said something. He intended to reach over and pat the boy's shoulder, but was met with his cold gaze. Thor could only pause awkwardly, then try to look happy. “Everyone loves to hear me talk about my stories.”

“You are a prince, of course people will let you talk.”

That was another thing that Loki hated. Thor's stories have always been about hunting and fighting, with the central character being him and everything revolving around how he overcame difficulties and achieved great victory. Sure, it might have been interesting the first few times Loki heard it, but it became boring real fast. All the stories Thor told were repetitive, and completely meaningless. And they certainly couldn't compare to the subjects of art and knowledge that Loki enjoyed. Loki used to think he was a boring person, so other people didn't like talking to him. But it turned out that it wasn't the fault of what he liked to talk about, but the problem was that he wasn't Thor.

Thor was the golden prince of Asgard, who was always bright, strong, and the future king of the people. Meanwhile, Loki was the dark prince, good at deceit, and untrustworthy.

To be fair, Loki didn't even know where his “God of Lies” title came from, since he rarely said anything to others.

He was really good at lying, though, but it was still strange.

“What's been wrong with you lately?” Thor scratched his head, clearly confused. “You used to always follow me and ask me to tell you stories.”

“I've already gone way past that point of wanting to listen to boring things over and over again.”

“Okay... How about let's walk back to the palace, and you tell me your stories?”

Loki turned to Thor, tilting his head to stare into his eyes. Compared to Thor's lively eyes, Loki's eyes seemed to lack something. He closed his eyes, and whispered:

“Forget it.”

Sometimes things were strange. He could see Thor trying, a few times, but very soon he would return to being a nuisance as if nothing had happened. Loki blamed that on Thor's undeveloped brain, and he didn't want to waste his precious time on stupid things or people.

There was that time when Loki was still naive and believed that his efforts would be rewarded. But like he said, he way passed that point.

Without saying anything more to Thor, Loki turned around, his figure gradually faded, then disappeared in the wind and snow. It was as if he had turned into snowflakes, swept away to an unknown distance. Thor stood there, a little lost and sad, and confused.

He was almost out of time.

*

The dinners of the Asgard Royal Family were actually quite simple. They didn't use the Dining Hall, it was only for holding large parties. Instead, they sat together in a smaller room, and the food was nothing special.

Sitting across from Thor, Loki attentively cut his grilled meat into small pieces. He was not interested in them, though. To be fair, he rarely ate anything these days. It wasn't anorexia or anything, but Loki simply didn't need food to live. Sure, it was good to eat something delicious sometimes, but it wasn't necessary. For some reason, his magic was able to keep him healthy without having to eat or drink for long periods of time. Loki felt it was quite strange, but he didn't show it on his face, instead pretending to eat and drink as usual.

“You should eat more, honey.”

Frigga said as she looked at Loki sitting next to her, while Loki didn't say anything, didn't react, just continued to eat a few small pieces of meat. If he raised his head, and looked towards his mother, perhaps he would see her eyes filled with concern.

But again, why should he care?

There was awkward silence filling the room. Thor devoured his portion, looking as impolite as ever, but he was actually a bit different as he didn't say anything and just looked at his brother from time to time. He actually had some nerve in his brain, to realize that something was wrong with his little brother. But Thor didn't know what to do in this case, so he could only rely on their mother to help.

His father didn't have the same interest, though. Odin looked as usual, stern, and unapproachable. Instead of worrying about his youngest son, Odin looked more uneasy, along with a bit bothered.

“Loki, that's not how you treat your mother!”

“Oh, give him a break!” Frigga frowned slightly at her husband, in the whole family, she could be considered the one who cared for Loki the most. “Don't you know how tired he has been lately?”

Odin was a bit unhappy, but he didn't say anything about it. Instead, he turned to Thor, and said:

“Are you prepared for your trip to Alfheim tomorrow?”

“Yes!”

Thor immediately cheered up at the mention of his next trip. Although that trip was not a hunt or a walk, but for business purposes, Alfheim was still an interesting place.

“Don't get so excited.” Odin frowned. “You must protect the artifact carefully and bring it to the elves, remember?”

“What's so difficult about that? Loki will always make sure everything succeeds.”

Having finished speaking, Thor looked at Loki, unable to hide the pride in his eyes. But what he received in return was just a cold, emotionless look from his little brother.

Loki raised his head, placed the utensils in his hand on the table, and finally said something.

 “I won’t go with you.”

He didn't look like he was joking, and the rest of the people sitting at the table knew it. At some point, he was no longer Loki in their memories. Now he was cold, and unapproachable, and completely stopped showing his emotions. It was difficult for Thor, and Frigga, as if they were watching their Loki slowly lose the life in those deep emerald green eyes.

Unfortunately, they never expressed those thoughts to Loki.

“What do you mean? Why won't you go? Haven't we prepared a lot for this trip?”

Loki picked up his napkin and wiped his lips elegantly, indicating he was done with dinner, even though most of the food was still on his plate. He looked at Thor, a bit hesitant between lying and getting away with it, or actually saying what he thought. But in the end, he chose to lie, but not the kind of lie that was careful and without loopholes.

He simply put his hand over his mouth, pretended to cough lightly, and said:

“I'm sick.”

There was it, it wasn't even a decent lie. After pretending to cough, Loki stopped, not bothering to show any pain or fatigue. He simply needed a reason and it wasn't that important. He wouldn't go with Thor, and no one could change that.

“Do you want me to take you to the healers?”

Of course, only Thor would be stupid enough to believe that nonsense. He looked at Loki worriedly, truly believing that his younger brother was sick.

“No.” Loki didn't bother looking at Thor, he stood up, preparing to leave the dining hall. “I just need to rest for a few days.”

Even if Loki was truly sick, he wouldn't have needed to go see those stupid healers. What they could do, Loki could also do and even do better than them. That was the perk of being alone - learning to take care of yourself. Loki was well aware that no one but himself would take his side, so he soon learned everything he could to protect himself - including complex healing spells.

But anyway, that wasn't the point. The point was Loki didn't want to have to go anywhere with Thor. He didn't want to have to play babysitter for anyone, especially children who never grew up like the person who was supposed to be his big brother. With every trip with Thor to do something for Asgard, Thor was always the one causing trouble, while Loki had to always try to fix those things to bring about the best results. Like the time Thor collapsed more than half of the city block in Vanaheim. Or that time when Thor killed the light elf princess's white deer just because he was bored. Or that time when Thor and his foolish friends emptied the dwarven king's wine warehouse. Loki was always the one who had to clean up those stupid things, but somehow, he was always the one who got scolded for "not looking out for his brother". Like, the fuck was that?

All of Loki's efforts were for nothing. That was something he had learned during his years in Asgard. So why would he do something that was not beneficial to himself?

Thor, Odin, and Asgard could go fuck themselves. Loki didn't care anymore. Hell, even if this damned place were engulfed in flames, Loki doubted he would feel sorry to lift a finger.

“He will become king in the future, right?”

Loki smiled, his voice dripping with sarcasm, while his face couldn't have been more innocent, creating a strange contrast.

“You need to let him do something on his own. It would be funny and stupid if the heir to the throne of Asgard couldn't do anything and had to rely on his younger brother for the rest of his life, wouldn't it?”

Yeah, let just see if the trip turned out to be a disaster or not. Loki was very interested in sabotaging Thor, but he figured it out that he didn't even need to do anything, and Thor would ruin himself with stupid decisions. What could Loki say? Thor was... okay, naive, but not the brightest. If it weren't for the unfair treatment everyone gave him, Loki felt he wouldn't hate Thor so much.

As Loki walked towards the door of the dining hall, Odin's voice rang out from behind, causing the young god to stop, and turn around:

“You need to take up your responsibilities as a prince of Asgard, Loki.”

“And what will you do if I don't?”

Loki tilted his head, seemingly curious. But then he smiled brightly, and turned to leave, leaving behind only a gentle and cold sentence.

“I would like to see you try.”

It was true, Loki wasn't even worried. Sure, he lied because he was a bit defensive and wasn't sure about his origins. But even if things got worse, even to the point where he had to become an enemy of Asgard, Loki didn't feel too worried about it. It would be annoying, but not really dangerous. There wasn't really anything that Odin or anyone else in this cursed place could do to endanger Loki. He had no intention of exaggerating, but well, he was very sure of himself.

So instead of paying attention to what daddy dearest said, Loki went all the way back to his chamber. After making sure the door was locked and the magical barriers were perfectly placed to hide any surveillance, Loki approached the large mirror next to his bed. This time, everything happened so quickly.

Blue flashed across his skin, and soon Loki's appearance changed.

“Of course.”

Loki whispered, watching as his skin turned blue. In the middle of his forehead appeared a snowflake pattern. It didn't look strange, on the contrary, it quite suited his appearance. His eyes had lost their green color to become ruby red. In theory, red eyes would make people feel scary, but Loki thought that his looked quite beautiful.

After spending some time admiring himself in the mirror, Loki finally thought of something else. He snapped his fingers, and he himself was a bit surprised and raised an eyebrow when a familiar green flame appeared on his fingertips.

“Okay.” Loki moved his hands, letting the flames dance across his fingers. “A Jotunn that can use fire, interesting.”

Of course Loki could tell what species he belonged to, it wasn't like it was difficult. After all, there has been a long history of war between Asgard and Jotunheim. Blue skin, not afraid of the cold, of course he was a fucking Jotunn.

“Well, that explains it.”

Some of Loki's questions were immediately explained. Some weren't, but he wasn't in a hurry. Instead, he took off his clothes, carefully examining his body. He wouldn't deny that he was a little curious.

But really, Loki felt that his appearance wasn't so bad. Despite the skintone, his features were pretty much unchanged, and Loki had always thought he had a lovely face.

Loki pouted and shrugged, but then thought of something else, and once again his body began to change.

He... no, she, looked at her own body in the mirror, and raised her eyebrows again.

“Oh...”

Chapter Text

Loki was a very adaptable person, perhaps that was why he lived quite well in a toxic environment like Asgard. So instead of wondering about his origins, he quickly accepted the fact that he was a frost giant, and began to discover new things about himself.

No sadness. No resentment. Purely curious.

In terms of magic, being a frost giant had explained many questions for Loki, including questions about his adaptation to cold environments, along with his special talent when it came to ice magic. Not the normal kind of ice magic, but a highly destructive kind of ice magic that Loki himself was sometimes frightened by its power.

It was somewhat similar to Loki's green flame. Sure, every magic user can use fire, or any other element. But Loki's green fire was completely different. Possessing green magic was unusual in itself, and there was probably no one else in the nine realms who had Loki's color. Loki's green fire has a very different nature, more powerful, more destructive, more beautiful.

Comparing between ice and fire, Loki always preferred his green flame. Although if he had to actually compare, Loki wouldn't have considered his fire to be more destructive than his ice. His ice was too powerful, and Loki had always had a bit of trouble controlling that kind of magic. It was like an opposing energy to Loki, and instead of working with Loki, it was like an opponent, always forcing Loki to fight against it. Meanwhile, his green magic was like a warm stream flowing through his body, giving Loki vitality and a sense of security when he used it. He was able to completely control his green to do whatever he wanted without any difficulty. So yeah, his green magic, or green fire, had always been something Loki used every day.

Before that, when he didn't know he was a Jotunn, Loki had always assumed that his green magic was inherent to him, while his ice power was something unfamiliar and must have come from a different source that Loki couldn't explain.

But then, it was completely reversed. Turned out, he was a frost giant - a rather short frost giant even though Loki didn't want to admit it. And his ice power turned out to be his own power, and what shouldn't be his was his green. Well, that was strange, but not seriously strange. Anyway, Loki felt that if he practiced more, maybe he would be able to control his ice just as smoothly as his fire.

His magic was the thing he was most proud of.

In fact, he has done great things with his magic. Like the time he single-handedly killed the Kraken in the North Sea. Or the time he made all the flowers in Asgard bloom at the same time on Frigga's birthday. Or that time when he jumped from Asgard to Alfheim in just a moment. Of course, no one other than him knew he had done those things. But overall, Loki was convinced that he had enough power to do everything he wanted. All he lacked was control.

So it became his habit to go to the Asgard royal library every last day of every month. And no, he didn't go to the library to read books. There were like twelve thousand books in the library, quite a few compared to the size of a royal library, and Loki had read them all long ago.

To be fair, no one really cared about the library. About two hundred years ago it stopped updating new books. People in Asgard weren't exactly the reading type. Of course there were still a few people who were interested and came to the library now and then, but overall the place was always quiet. It also helped that most people dislike Loki, and actively avoid him.

So there he was, alone in the library, and preparing to do another great thing.

He stood in the middle of the library, and flicked his index finger. A book from a nearby bookshelf flew out in front of Loki. Just then, it opened, and the pages inside flew up, automatically folding into paper cranes and magically flying around Loki. Those paper cranes even flap their wings and move like real living creatures. And then, they turned back into pages, and perfectly returned to their rightful places, recreating the book as if it had never been touched.

“Hmm.”

Loki narrowed his eyes, calculating a bit. Yes, he did this trick quite a few times. It was mainly to practice his control magic ability. To turn each page into cranes and then return them to their original positions without making any mistakes required a great deal of control. At first, he could only do that with a book. But then it was more. As his magic grew rapidly day by day, controlling it became more difficult, but Loki liked a bit of a challenge.

He took a deep breath, and held his hands out to his sides. Green light began to emanate from his palm, and something in the air had changed. It was a little colder, but not clear. If someone had observed carefully, they might have discovered that behind the green light was another, fainter, bluish-white light. Loki closed his eyes, and opened them after just a few seconds. The moment he opened his eyes, a lot of books in the library flew off their shelves.

And by “a lot”, it meant “all”.

And it happened again. All the pages of the book flew wildly through the air, and began to automatically fold themselves into paper cranes, every single one of them.

All the paper cranes began to move, and magically flew around the library. Hell, even Loki was impressed with himself, and he wasn't sure anyone else in the Nine Realms could pull off this scene.

It strained him a bit, but it was okay. For the first time, he succeeded in using his "ice" to support his "green", so he was relatively satisfied.

He controlled the cranes to fly around a little more, then was satisfied and returned them to their original form and position. If someone walked into this place, they probably wouldn't have thought that such a magnificent and magical scene had just happened.

Well, there was someone, though.

“Mother.”

Loki sighed softly, and turned around, Frigga was standing at the entrance to the library, and had probably seen everything that had just happened. He did feel her while he was practicing though, but he didn't exactly want to hide it. Yeah... He should have done that a long time ago, like made people realize that they couldn't stand in his way anymore.

“That was amazing.”

Frigga said, her eyes holding some emotion that Loki didn't know what it meant. Did she feel proud, or frightened because the monster she raised had grown too much?

“Loki, since when were you able to do that?”

“Since a long time ago.”

He said it nonchalantly, like it wasn't a big deal at all. Right, cause who cares? Loki lowered his eyes, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear, trying to suppress the damn strange feeling in his heart that appeared every time he faced Frigga.

The woman approached Loki, and to his surprise, raised her hand to touch his cheek very gently:

“You have truly become a powerful young man.”

Loki felt it again, it was warm, and comforting, and he unconsciously rested his cheek against the palm of the person he was supposed to call mother. Sometimes things were so confusing, and even a god of lies like him couldn't differentiate between what was real and what was false. But even if it was a lie, it certainly made him feel good.

Probably would be better if it were true, though.

“Powerful, yes. But there are still nearly three hundred years left for me to graduate from being a teenager.”

“You know that I'm very proud of you, right?”

Loki didn't answer, just closed his eyes and allowed himself to enjoy the rare warmth that he knew wouldn't last long. Oh, it would be nice if this moment lasted longer, but he knew very well that it would soon stop for some reason, mostly about Thor.

And just as Loki predicted, the next thing Frigga said, was about his brother:

“Your brother has returned.”

“Hmm, okay.” Loki raised his head, took a few steps back, then turned around and walked towards a nearby bookshelf and pretended to pick up a book and flip it open. “What did he do this time?”

Hah, what a great way to ruin the moment, but okay.

“He failed his mission.”

Immediately, Loki turned to look at Frigga, unable to believe what he had just heard.

“How the fuck did it happen? He just needs to bring the Tesseract back to Asgard! What's so difficult about that?”

See? Loki was not a heartless person. He chose not to join Thor because he learned that this mission was so fucking easy. All they had to do was get there, get the Tesseract and return to Asgard. They didn't even have to fight anyone! For a fucking one time that Loki chose to ignore, and yet it actually failed? Like what the fuck?

“There was some alcohol involved.” Frigga sighed, looking more tired than ever. “Then they took it out to check it out, and accidentally dropped it into the ocean. Thor tried to dive but it was gone.”

“And he tried to dive into Yggdrasil Stream?”

To say that Loki was angry was an understatement, he was fuming. Failing a mission was one problem, but trying to dive in to the stream of Yggdrasil was a completely different problem and it was extremely dangerous. Just one small mistake and it was very possible that Thor would be lost somewhere in the universe that they couldn't find - not to mention that was the lightest case. In the worst case, spatial gravity from all directions would tear him apart.

If Thor had to die, then Loki would kill him himself!

“Okay, he failed. What do you want me to do with that piece of information?” Loki asked, his voice returning to its usual cold calm. “Please don't ask me to take responsibility for that.”

“No, no, of course it's not like that.”

His mother said, she walked up to Loki, gently placed a hand on his thin shoulder, and tried to say as gently as possible:

“I just hope you comfort Thor a little, you know, go out with him, go hunting or something.”

And in the end, it was all about Thor again.

Loki frowned slightly, took a few steps, keeping his distance so that Frigga could not continue to touch him. He turned around, without any respect, refusing the queen of Asgard's request.

“No. I won't do that.” Loki lowered his eyes. “For your information, I'm not that close to him.”

Yes, that was it, he is not close to Thor. It did seem a bit strange, since technically, they were brothers. But he was pretty sure that there were family members who weren't close to each other, and even hated each other. So there must be nothing wrong with his answer. But Frigga, instead, felt sad about it.

“Loki, he's your only brother... Why did you become so hostile towards him?”

“Well, I don't know!” Loki blurted out, unable to stop himself. “Maybe because the way you and Odin treated me made me feel like I'm not your real child but just a monster you picked up from somewhere?”

That fucked up. Emotions were hard.

And when he said that, he suddenly felt tears in the corners of his eyes. Loki pursed his lips, continuing to show his back to Frigga, while trying to suppress his emotions and quickly say something to save it.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.”

His voice was a bit muffled. Loki didn't realize it, nor did he know how much the pain in his voice made Frigga's heart ache.

Behind Loki, Frigga sadly reached out her hand, wanting to hug the boy, but then she realized that the distance between the two did not allow her to do so. It was too late, and the boy was out of Frigga's reach. If she took one step forward, Loki would take ten steps back.

Everything had changed.

“Loki.” Frigga sighed, trying to say something to comfort her second son. “I know that your father and I are not perfect parents. But I want you to know, you are truly my precious youngest son. And I'm willing to do anything to fix what happened...”

“Then is there anything else you want to tell me?”

Loki suddenly turned around, his clear emerald eyes looking straight into Frigga's eyes. And when she looked into those beautiful eyes, it was as if Frigga saw her reflection - helpless, miserable, and deceitful.

She stood there, choked up, unable to say anything else.

“Again, I don't want to have to do anything with him. If you want someone to comfort the prince, you should request it from his friends. Also, you better tell him to stay away from me.”

With that, Loki walked past the queen, and left the library. He could feel something wet on his cheek, but it was rain, right? Rain inside the palace, to be fair, it was Asgard, it was a magical realm, anything can happen.

*

He managed not to say anything to anyone else for three days. He did not appear in public, did not attend dinners with his family, and did not pay any attention to the meetings that took place in the palace. To be more precise, Loki let go. As the winter became colder, the young god's eyes became even more icy. He barely stepped out of his bedroom, and spent most of his time sitting by the window, looking out and feeling the bitter cold of the winter winds. That calmed him, and kept him awake to figure out other things.

Like most people with an active brain, Loki had come to the decision that he needed to leave Asgard as soon as possible. There was no way Odin did not have some scheme when he brought a frost giant to raise as the second prince of Asgard. It smelled rotten, Loki could sense it, and he absolutely would not let himself get caught up in any of Odin's bullshit schemes.

Leaving Asgard was easy, and there were many ways for Loki to do it. But the problem was how to make his existence disappear, to prevent future troubles. Loki wished that once he left this damn golden land, he would no longer be involved with anyone or anything here.

That was why he needed a plan.

And maybe a trip to Jotunheim wasn't a bad idea, considering he needed to learn about his origins, or who he was. To be fair, that was his only option, and the people on that cold planet would most likely be able to answer Loki's questions. He heard that there weren't many people on Jotunheim, so having a child disappear would be a big deal there.

On the fourth day, after brainstorming a few possible ideas, Loki stepped out of his bedroom, deciding to go for a walk.

And that was when things went wrong.

“Loki!!”

As always, Thor's voice thundered through the hallway, which was rude, and undignified. Loki closed his eyes, choosing between stopping and moving forward. But then he chose to stop, because he knew clearly that if he chose to pretend not to know and continue moving forward, Thor would quickly pursue and follow like a leech like always. So he turned around, and cursed under his breath when he saw behind Thor were his stupid friends.

Thor was annoying, but his friends were another problem. The Warriors Three... and Sif. They were a bunch of annoying bastards, and for some reason, they hated Loki, even though Loki never cared about them and rarely interacted with them without Thor. To be fair, Loki hated them too. To him, that group of idiots had no value at all, and only knew how to boast about the victories that Loki knew were largely due to Thor's efforts. Like, sure, they were fine warriors, somewhat, but they were nothing special. Thor at least could have done something, or maybe resisted a little against Loki's magic. But these four, they were completely useless, and with just a wave of Loki's hand, their lives could be taken away at any time.

And it was funny to Loki that they thought they were something stronger than him. But maybe it was because Loki didn't show off his abilities often enough.

“What do you want?”

Loki asked, cold eyes scanning Thor's friends before returning to Thor, making no attempt to greet them.

Seeing his younger brother's cold attitude, the god of thunder was a bit startled. But he still quickly calmed down, and showed his brightest smile even though he was in a bad mood.

“Where have you been these past few days? I haven't seen you at all!”

It was because I tried to avoid you, you fucking dumbass - Loki thought, already a bit annoyed. But he kept his face unchanged, not revealing any emotions.

“What do you want?” Loki asked again, his voice even colder. “I don't have time to waste on chit chat.”

“Come on, don't treat your brother like that!”

That was Sif, uncalled for. And also, quite funny. Yeah, every time Loki was distant towards Thor, they would use that damn excuse, 'he's your brother' yada yda. They acted like the title 'Thor's brother' really meant anything to Loki, or themselves. In fact, while Sif liked to say that, she never even tried to treat Loki like Thor's brother.

So what was the point of that?

“What. Do. You. Want?”

Loki could feel his patience wearing thin. He was rather upset these days, due to various reasons. So having to stand around and take the unfriendly stares of Thor's lowly friends was very not on his list.

“Uhm, we're planning on doing a little practice, you know, do you want to join?”

And that was Thor, being stupid all over again.

Like, Loki couldn't figure out what was going on in his head, and if his brain was actually working when he kept making invitations that he should have known Loki would never be interested in. What was the point? If Thor really wanted Loki to like him, how about asking about things he was interested in, and inviting him to do things he didn't hate?

At this point, Loki really thought that there was really no hope for this buffon of a brother.

“No.”

With just that, Loki turned around, but only had time to take a few steps before he heard Thor's friend at it again.

“See, I told you he'd be scared!”

“Right...”

Really, again? This kind of teasing and provocation never worked, so why did they keep trying? It wasn't like he ever reacted to such provocations - since he was only as tall as the edge of the table Loki was immune to all kinds of provocations, he was smarter than to let himself fall for it.

But this time, Loki wanted to cause some damage.

Immediately, he spun around, and swung his arm vigorously - everything exploded. Green magic flew through the air, thick and ferocious like a beast ready to devour anyone. It was strong, to the point of Thor being unable to stop it and being sent flying along with his friends.

“You lowly animals...”

His eyes glowed with a powerful green light, and with a flick of his finger, he lifted Thor, The Warriors Three, and Sif up, before throwing them again with another flick.

“... Should really know your places.”

He had enough!

He thought the cold of winter would calm him down, but no, it seemed to have only made him more impatient, and more daring. Like, to hell with holding his own anymore. It was time, time to prove to the others that he didn't give a shit about them, and they better not bother him with their fucking provocations or their fucking lies.

“It is bold of you to call yourselves warriors.”

Loki reached out, and immediately, the fattest of Thor's friends was pulled towards him before falling at Loki's feet and being grabbed by his hair.

“What kind of warrior is this?”

Loki's eyes flared, and before anyone else could react, the person whose hair he was holding was instantly engulfed in angry green flames. And the pig couldn't even react other than screaming in pain.

“No!!!”

“Volstagg!!!”

“Stop it!”

The fire was fierce, and angry, and it burned so hot that in a few seconds there was only a blackened corpse left on the ground.

“You can't even do anything!”

Loki sneered, and in a flash a knife shot from his palm, like a bolt of lightning piercing the forehead of another of Thor's friends - the one with the golden hair. The knife was covered in his green magic, and as it pierced that one's flesh, all the blood in his body was quickly drained, and seconds later another corpse fell to the ground - this time a drained corpse.

“Loki! Stop it!!!”

Thor - now pinned to the ground by mysterious green chains - screamed in agony. But Loki didn't even look at him once. It was too late to stop him. And to be fair, could anyone blame him?

They should have left him alone in the first place!

The last one of the 'Warriors Three' was also quickly finished off. Loki didn't even need to try. With just a wave of his hand, the man was torn into hundreds of pieces, blood and flesh splattered everywhere as the other two were horrified.

The knife was back in Loki’s hand, and he quickly walked towards Sif who was kneeling on the ground, completely losing the ability to think and react as she witnessed her three friends brutally murdered in an instant. She knelt there, stunned, bewildered, tears streaming down her face.

Loki didn’t even need to bind her or use magic on her.

The young god raised the knife, and it flashed with unparalleled sharpness.

“No! Loki! No! Don’t do that! I’m begging you! Please, no!!”

No. Loki slashed down.

And just like that, another one was down. Quite funny, wasn't it? Those people, they kept preaching about how their physical strength was nobler and better than magic, but when they faced magic, they were completely like little animals with no resistance at all.

So much for some 'warriors'.

Loki looked over at Thor, who was screaming continuously with bloodshot eyes. The young god sneered, and.

Snapped.

The raven haired god stood there, looking at a bunch of idiots rolling around, holding their heads and screaming on the ground. Hah, they looked so stupid. And weak. Like, Loki knew that those little bitches were weak, but he didn't expect them to be so fragile - broken by a simple spell that mess with their minds. Yeah, yeah, they were young, whatever, but if the future of Asgard depended on these people? Oh, he really hoped the best for this realm.

Thor, being the only one who regained consciousness, realized what was happening. He looked at his four friends rolling around on the ground, and let out a small sigh of relief, before standing up and looking over at Loki.

“Why?”

His brother tilted his head and looked at him like an idiot, not answering.

“Why, Loki, brother?” The God of Thunder took a few steps forward, his eyes filled with hurt. “Why do you hate me so much?”

Loki still stood there, head tilted, looking at Thor like an idiot, but smirking.

Oh wow, this little bitch didn't just ask him 'why', did he? After all that happened, and he still didn't know why Loki hated him so much? Could people just really be dumb like that?

By his nature, Loki wanted to say something snarky but still didn't give a complete answer, and then walked away leaving Thor confused, as usual. But hey, since it was his plan to leave this fucking hellhole in the next few days, it seemed like it would be better if he actually answered Thor.

Why? Cause this one was so dumb. If Loki didn't answer, he would never understand, especially when everyone else kept comforting him with words that it was not his fault and that it was all Loki's bad temper.

Consider it was charity.

Loki raised one index finger of his right hand to his right temple, and pointed his other hand towards Thor's head. Immediately, a gentle green energy flowed out from the middle of his forehead, covering Thor's head before disappearing just a few seconds later.

Thor was shaken.

Loki's eyes closed, he let out a soft sigh while Thor stood there, still unable to digest the huge amount of information that had just appeared in his mind.

“I hope you grow up.” The raven haired god said, softly, “I did.”

He turned around and walked away.

Chapter Text

Believe it or not, Jotunnheim was not a world of just ice and ice. There were actually grasslands and forests, which looked white and chalky in the winter. Wild animals were nowhere to be found. At this rate, the people in this realm would go extinct due to starvation in a couple of thousand years.

And here he was, the second prince of Asgard, who should now be fast asleep in his chamber in the golden palace. But instead, he was standing in the vast land of nothing in Jotunnheim, looking for answers about himself. Actually, if anyone bothered enough to look, there was a prince sleeping in Loki's chamber now. As a master of illusion, it wasn't really hard to pull that shit out and sneak away.

A long time ago, Loki learned to shield himself from the eyes of Asgard's gatekeeper. Quite hard, actually, and he was very proud of himself for that feat of magic.

Learning to travel between realms was a different matter. If exclude travel by spaceship (which was extremely slow), the Bifrost was normally the only way to travel between realms. However, for a promising and brilliant mage like Loki, it was only a matter of time to find a twist in space and bend it to his will. Loki was good with that. He didn't know why, and it was just so natural for him to find a portal or two and travel there and there. That was a secret, though. Anyway, there was no one Loki could trust, so he kept his talent to himself.

So, yeah, looking for his actual parents, right!

Loki pulled a small knife out of his dimension pocket and cut his finger a little, allowing some blood to flow out. He used that same blood-soaked finger to draw some mysterious pattern in the air. Some seconds later, black magic flows through the air. Yes, black magic was an uncontrollable force that has been banned in the whole nine realms for several thousand years. It has always been seen as a type of magic that would bring destruction when a mage dared to use it.

It was quite bullshit actually.

Several hundred years ago, Loki had the opportunity to meet a Dark Elf mage. It was rare to encounter a Dark Elf, a species thought to have become extinct because of the war. So Loki used his shapeshift ability to shift into a Dark Elf, approached him, and the two of them traveled together for a little while. The Dark Elf was nice. He taught Loki some kind of black magic. He even gave Loki a tome about dark magic, which was very useful. And, contrary to popular belief, the majority of black magic spells were actually healing spells. Hell, those spells were even better than normal healing spells. It was a shame they banned this kind of magic just because it required some blood and tribute.

Loki then killed the Elf, though. But that was a story for another time.

So, he was using a kind of black magic. Harmless black magic. A bit of blood and it would point to the blood related being nearest to the user.

The blood morphed real fast, it turned into three arrows, pointing in three different directions, with one of the three being particularly red.

“Now this is awkward.”

Loki frowned at those bloody arrows. Well, he went to this place surely because he wanted to learn about his origins. But to discover that he had three blood relatives? Erh... Interesting. Not what he expected, but interesting.

Two of the three arrows pointed north, though not the same, and their light color indicated that the target was quite a distance from Loki. The remaining arrow pointed south, and was darker in color indicating that there was a blood relative of his not too far from where he was standing.

“Well, what can I do anyway?”

The young god muttered, he reached out to adjust the white cloak he was wearing before starting to walk towards the direction the arrow pointed. In just a few seconds, he had disappeared as if he had merged with the snow wind. But if someone had extremely good observation skills, they might have seen a small white shadow slowly moving in the snow.

For Loki, it wasn't a long way to go since it only took him about twenty minutes to start sensing someone not far ahead of him. Loki's steps became more cautious, and his presence became minimal, perfectly obscuring him as he approached.

It was a small valley, filled with strange and beautiful looking trees that Loki had never seen before. They looked like they were carved from glass, with slender trunks and drooping leaves that swayed in the snowy wind. Their flowers were milky white, small and light, and a gentle breeze was enough to send them falling like snowflakes, spinning in the air to gently land on the frozen surface of the small lake in the middle of the valley.

Sitting beside the lake, was a frost giant.

He, Loki assumed, was taller than any Asgardian Loki had ever met. No, even for frost giants, perhaps this person was exceptionally tall. There were some kind of patterns on his head, but Loki couldn't see clearly due to the distance. And this frost giant sat still as a statue, with a fishing rod in his hand.

Well, what was he to do now?

This must be the one of his blood, Loki knew that, but he wasn't sure how to start. Approaching directly and asking? That didn't sound right. How about asking out loud from here? Ehh, Loki wasn't sure bout that.

But he quickly had his work cut short for him, as a sharp blade of ice shot towards him, causing him to flinch slightly and step to the side, perfectly dodging it.

Loki frowned, looking towards the lake, the frost giant over there had disappeared.

“Oh crap.”

That was all he said before turning around, just in time to avoid a giant fist that would have broken his ribcage if he hadn't been in time. And not to mention, the fist was from a frost giant, so of course it was made of ice, and full of sharp ice spikes, so its destructive power was far superior to that of a normal human's fist. Even as Loki dodged it, he could still feel its terrifying power.

Another punch followed, and another one, and another one. Loki basically dodged, momentarily undecided about what to do.

No, it wasn't like he couldn't do anything. He could do so much, on the contrary. But he hadn't come here to kill the frost giants, but to learn about his origins. So of course he couldn't just kill the man attacking him on the spot, even though he was fully capable of doing so.

Well, the man, again, Loki assumed, was a good fighter. He was fast for his size, and clearly the strongest melee fighter Loki had ever seen - even stronger than Thor. And what was worse, for Thor and Asgard, was that this person was clearly intelligent, given the way he attacked and pursued Loki in such a relentless manner.

And all those books in the Asgard library dared to say all the frost giants were just violent and mindless big guys, bullshit.

Loki turned to avoid another punch, and snapped his fingers, immediately green fire erupted from his palm. The fire with its blazing heat successfully forced the frost giant to stop attacking and retreat.

“Who are you?”

The frost giant's voice was surprisingly human-like, a man's voice, rather deep, but smooth. Well, Loki had expected it to be some sort of rumbling or ice-cold sound, but was glad he was wrong.

“I just wanted to talk.” He said, the fire still flickering on his fingers, “I came here to find my family.”

And the frost giant... frowned? Hearing Loki say that, he didn't mean to stop attacking. Loki still noticed the man gaining momentum, and as expected, another wave of attacks came at him.

“I can assure you that no one in Jotunheim can use fire!”

The frost giant said as he slammed his fist towards Loki's head, but the boy easily avoided it with a backflip while igniting a fire. This time, green flames were spreading everywhere, hot and dangerous. To the point where everything in this small valley began to melt.

Yup, Loki was a little irritated.

He really needed to show that he was not the kind of person others should attack.

The cold snow wind continued to howl, making Loki's jet-black hair flutter behind him. But his fire still burned fiercely.

A hot green light flashed in his eyes, and the surrounding temperature rose rapidly. The heat and the snow wind clashed, with the overwhelming victory coming from the mysterious green. All the ice in the valley melted into water in a matter of seconds, even the surface of the deep frozen lake.

On the opposite side, the frost giant retreated a long distance, looking quite frightened now. But Loki, just like him, would not stop there.

Considered them the same.

The young god extended his hand forward, and the small green flames on his fingers turned into large fireballs, ready to shoot in the direction he wanted at any time. They burned fiercely, and were extremely hot, and it was clear that no frost giant would survive if they were hit.

But in just a second, a giant boulder flew towards him. So Loki jumped to avoid it, temporarily retracting his fire. That, and dodged another attack coming from the sky.

It was another frost giant.

This person, was a bit shorter than the first frost giant, but had a bulkier build. And just when he thought the first frost giant was the person with the greatest physical strength he had ever seen... nope, this one was.

But this person, surprisingly, did not attack Loki again. Instead, he kept a safe distance before turning back to look at the first frost giant, and roared at him:

“Helblindi! What have you done!”

“What do you mean by what have I done!?” The first frost giant, Helblindi as he was called, roared back pointing at Loki, “He’s the one who broke in first!”

“Yeah, and I'm sure you attacked first!”

And that pretty much happened in the next five minutes, for instead of paying attention to Loki, the two frost giants turned to arguing with each other, well, very brothers-like. That amused Loki a bit, but quickly wore out his patience.

By the time Loki's eyelashes began to twitch, there was a loud noise like ice breaking. But no, no ice broke, instead there was the appearance of another frost giant, even bigger and taller than the previous two. Like, the fuck?

And Loki could clearly sense, this new one was more dangerous, MUCH more. There was something in his red eyes that made Loki shiver a little - wisdom, experience, and a subtlety that belied his massive frame.

The young god stepped back a little, in his mind he had already prepared at least ten ways to escape if the worst happened. But Loki still decided to wait, since the three bloody arrows in his palm were pointing straight at the three frost giants in front of him.

They were his relatives.

“Young one, I can smell Asgard on you.” The third frost giant spoke, his voice deep and authoritative, and the other two frost giants did not dare to interrupt, “Who are you and what is your purpose in coming to Jotunheim?”

Loki gulped slightly, well, he could immediately teleport away, but he shouldn't do that right? So he took a deep breath, mustered all his courage, and spoke loudly and clearly:

“I came to Jotunheim to find my relatives. I believe I come from this realm!”

“You know this is an ice planet with no human, right?”

The frost giant called Helblindi immediately asked, in return of the other two's glances. He rolled his eyes, snorted, and chose a nearby iceberg to sit down.

As for Loki? He frowned slightly, but then felt that there was no other way, he did need to prove his connection to Jotunheim.

“I know that.”

He raised his head to look at the sky, and a beautiful snowflake fell, landing unsteadily on his small outstretched palm. The fire in his eyes soon disappeared, returning them to their beautiful clarity, and the emerald color sparkled more than ever.

The cold wind stopped immediately.

His ice, Loki rarely used it. It was powerful, but violent, and difficult to control. He had never used this side of him in front of anyone, partly because he had to hide it, and partly because Loki did not want to accidentally hurt anyone when he could not control his power properly.

But now, he needed to do it. But in a way that did not hurt anyone, but was still strong enough to prove himself, and prove to himself that he could do it.

“Come on, you can do it.”

There was no longer any cold wind blowing, but the temperature was still dropping rapidly.

Loki pressed his foot lightly against the ground, and all the water that had melted from the ice by his fire began to move. The water surged up and down randomly without any pattern. It looked a bit dangerous, but actually did not carry any murderous intent.

And in just seconds, the flowers bloomed.

Flowers, and grass, and trees, all made of ice instantly covered the entire valley, making it look like some kind of fairyland that did not belong to this harsh icy planet, but at the same time, it gave off a strangely fitting feeling.

It stung him like a bitch though.

Again, he was still not completely in control of his ice. Every time he used it, he felt a little uncomfortable, this power seemed to want to pierce him from the inside and shoot out to destroy everything. So just a scene like just now had already caused Loki quite a bit of pain. Unlike other magics that usually caused damage to the user if used with high destructive power, Loki's ice developed in the opposite direction - the more he wanted to control it and reduce its damage, the more he suffered.

But, it was worth it.

The three frost giants before Loki looked absolutely stunned, their red eyes wide open, seemingly unable to believe what had just happened. Loki did not blame them. He himself was impressed with what he just did.

The wind blew again, this time causing Loki's hood to slide down, revealing his delicate face and black hair fluttering in the wind. That, causing the biggest frost giant of the three to hastily step forward, muttering softly:

“Fárbauti...”

Loki had never known a frost giant's voice could be so gentle and full of affection.

His hands clenched the collar of his cloak, he took a deep breath, watching the frost giant slowly walk towards him. Yes, this was the moment. The moment where he would find out who he really was.

A giant hand reached out in front of him, not carrying any malice or aggression, but rather gentler than anything.

The boy blinked, tremblingly extending his hand, hesitantly looking into the frost giant's eyes, receiving an encouraging look from the giant in return.

His lips pursed, a bit afraid, not because of the one in front of him, but because he was afraid that he wouldn't be able to face the truth that had been hidden for more than eight hundred years of his life.

Time seemed to stand still, but then their hands touched.

It was strange, and far from what he knew. According to the books, a Jotunn's touch could cause frostbite. But clearly, it didn't happen in this case, his case. Instead, Loki could feel the warmth of a large hand slowly grasping his small one. It was gentle, and warm, and filled with a strange emotion that Loki thought he would never experience.

He felt loved.

There was a strange light flashing from their hands, and Loki could see his hand gradually turn a pale blue. The blue traveled, up his arm, and then his whole body. In just a second, in front of the three the frost giant was no longer a normal boy, but a small frost giant with a beautiful and intricate pattern of snowflakes on his forehead.

Lines, golden lines appeared on his hand, like tattoos, but not exactly. And they matched exactly the ones on the hand of the man holding his hand.

Loki gasped.

He wasn't the only one shocked. The man that was still holding his hand stood there like a statue, staring at Loki's small hand, while the other two stepped closer, eyes wide, seemingly unable to believe what was happening.

“What’s your name, child?”

The man asked Loki, his voice trembling slightly. The boy was not quite sure what was happening or what would happen, but still answered:

“I am Loki.”

“Loki?” The frost giant, the one that he first met, hurried forward, his attitude a bit strange, and asked, “As in Loki Odinson, second prince of Asgard?”

Loki could only nod.

The frost giant who had just asked laughed, not a normal laugh, but a bitter laugh. The other one turned around, Loki could see his shoulders slump, probably sighing.

The young god was a little confused, but quickly realized what was happening, since the man standing closest to him shook his head slightly, mumbling something indistinct, like 'I can't believe it' before sighing and saying to the boy:

“I am Laufey, king of Jotunheim. And I believe you are my youngest son who was taken from me.”

Yeah, that explained everything.

Loki took a deep breath, quickly withdrew his hand, and stepped back. His blue quickly withdrew, but his expression remained frozen like eternal ice. Only his beautiful eyes seemed to have a storm inside.

“I… I…”

He brought his hands to his chest, trying to catch his breath. But his magic betrayed him, especially his ice, as the cold wind rushed in again, growing stronger and stronger around him.

He had already guessed his origins somewhat. Yes, he was clearly a Jotunn. He knew that. But being a Jotunn prince, the one who was kidnapped? Wow. Just, wow.

But it all made sense.

Both of you were born to be kings.

Loki remembered those words. As the time, he thought those words from Odin were silly considering how he was treated compared to Thor. But now?

He understood.

It was a plan, no, a plot, a terrible, treacherous plot. Actually, if it hadn't involved him, Loki would have praised Odin for this level of shit. But being a part of that plot? He felt terrible.

Sometimes the truth is worse and scarier than people expect.

“I must go.”

The raven haired boy shook his head, continuing to walk backwards. The space behind him seemed to freeze, then began to crumble, forming a crack, no a portal. Loki just wanted to immediately step inside, and go somewhere where he was alone, so he could scream with all his might without anyone seeing.

But he saw the sadness in his father's eyes.

“I will be back.” Loki said, his voice choked, tears starting to fall, “I promise.”

The young god closed his eyes, bowed his head slightly, felt the wetness on his cheeks, both helpless and ashamed. He was supposed to be strong and confident when meeting his real parents, not cry like a child like this.

After a few seconds, he raised his head, this time speaking with certainty in both his voice and his burning emerald eyes:

“I need to take care of something in Asgard. Something important. I need to do that. To be able to come here without anyone suspecting anything. Please, just wait for me a little longer, just a few more days, please?”

King Laufey looked at him with the kindest of eyes, which made Loki's heart break, and the man nodded to him.

“Thank you.”

The boy mumbled, nodding back at him before stepping inside the portal, leaving the frosty place with the three frost giants standing there for a long time.

He completely missed the scene of the man falling to his knees, and bursting into tears.

*

Asgard was wide, and wild, and there were many places that were still unexplored. And most of them were extremely dangerous. Either because of the terrain, or because they were occupied by races that could not be fought with mere Asgardian strength.

One of them was the northern coast, where cold winds blew constantly and most of the year it was covered with ice.

Many Asgardians refer to this place as "a mini Jotunheim", due to its harsh weather, but not as cold as Jotunheim. But that doesn't mean it's any less dangerous than Jotunheim, where the frost giants rule. On the contrary, some claim they'd rather go to Jotunheim than this place.

One of the reasons for that, was because this hellish place was frequently visited by a dangerous species, no, an extremely dangerous species.

Wyvern.

Those creatures looked like dragons, but were not exactly dragons. They lacked the intelligence of dragons, but made up for it with a huge temper that was ready to explode at any moment.

And the worst part was they usually gather in packs.

A wyvern pack usually had no less than twenty of them. Lesser dragons as they were called, wyverns were still dangerous creatures on a destructive level. And dealing with more than twenty at once was not something that a person with a normal brain would do.

But today, was Thor's lucky day.

Thunder roared, and there was the roar of a wild beast.

Thor struck down, the hammer in his hand flashed with a powerful golden lightning. That hit the wyvern's head, making it dizzy for a moment.

The god of thunder did not stop, but continued to attack. His physical strength was indeed unmatched by anyone in Asgard. Dozens of hammer blows, carrying electricity, caused visible damage to the wyvern, even though the wyvern's hard scales could be considered one of the hardest things to break.

He used his hammer Mjolnir and an axe at the same time, attacking like a storm. Soon blood was flowing from the wounds on the wyvern's body due to the slashes from Thor's axe. It was completely a one-sided fight, well, because it was probably an immature wyvern.

Thor's friend was there, too. And they tried to help him. But Thor clearly didn't need their help, he was enough on his own.

And with a final strike, the wyvern died. It couldn't even attempt to fly away.

With a sigh of relief, Thor smiled and raised his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead, feeling quite good.

He was lucky enough to find a lone wyvern, and a juvenile one at that. He had been prepared for something more difficult and deadly, but he wouldn't say no to this kind of luck. Especially when the wyvern he had just taken down was the white-winged one he had chosen as his target from the start.

“Okay, can we go home now?” Fandral, one of the Warriors Three, said, “This place is really dangerous.”

“Not unless we find the core.”

That was Sif, who looked a bit annoyed, but didn't show it too much, instead constantly glancing towards Thor who was inspecting the wyvern's corpse.

“That thing is so rare, are you sure we should continue doing this?”

Hogun, the Vanir warrior, or as they called him Hogun the Grim, said. Then the biggest of them, Volstagg, scratched his head, asking in confusion:

“Why are we doing that again?”

“Well.” Sif rolled her eyes, “Thor wanted to find a core as an apology gift for his brother.”

There was that tone again, and Thor didn’t appreciate it. But he chose to say nothing, and continued examining the wyvern’s corpse. What others thought didn’t matter much, not at all, compared to what Thor wanted.

Sure, he loved his friends, still did. But after all that had happened, Thor wasn’t sure he wanted that anymore, especially when he realized some not-so-nice truths about them, and himself.

And just thinking about that made it harder for Thor to breathe at the same time. And it didn't help that his friends were completely insensitive to the fact that they shouldn't touch Thor's weak spot, which was his little brother.

“For real? After what he did?”

“As much as I dislike him, he's still Thor's brother.”

“Oh come on, he's obviously a snake and it's not worth...”

The god of thunder didn't know who said what, but something snapped inside him.

He had enough of that!

“Well I didn't ask any of you to come with me!” Thor exclaimed, clearly losing patience, “And I don't appreciate you talking about my brother like that!”

The axe in his hand slashed down, severing one of the wyvern's wings in one blow. The dragon-like creature's blood splattered all over him, but he was too angry to care about the disgusting feeling.

“Now I realize, what the fuck is wrong with you guys? You all always come for my brother for no reason! Sure Loki was a bit naughty before, but the way you guys treat him is really weird!”

Thor's anger grew as he thought about what he had seen, and what still lingered in his mind.

“You all never had any intention of treating my brother well! While I always foolishly tried to make Loki a part of us, you all kept trying to push him away!”

Thunder rumbled softly, and Thor's hand did not stop. He struck down on the wyvern's corpse's chest, gradually chiseling away at the hard scales there, while memories that didn't belong to him kept swirling around in his mind, causing his heart to clench in pain. It was as if he was slashing at his own chest, instead of the wyvern's.

“You either ignore him or try to downplay his efforts. You don't even give him a chance in the first place!”

His poor little brother stood there, looking at them with teary eyes.

He was so young, so naive, not even reaching their waists. And all he wanted to do was talk to them, why were they ignoring him like that? Was he ugly, or scary, or did he do something wrong to make them angry?

“What is your fucking problem?!”

The raven-haired boy sat quietly on the swing, pretending to be reading a book and not caring about anything else, but his little hands were shaking slightly. He realized that, he was not liked, no, these people, Thor’s friends, hated him.

“Why? Just fucking tell me why?!” He screamed, as if he had lost control, but then his axe hit something hard. Thor threw it down, directly using both hands to push the bloody flesh away, revealing what looked like a large, beautiful green stone. That's appearance calmed Thor down a bit, but he was still angry, “Did I do anything wrong to you?! For you to treat my brother like that?! Cause I fucking know the fact that he did nothing wrong!!! At all!!!”

 “Why am I so stupid! Fuck!”

Loki stayed behind, once again cleaning up the mess that Thor and his friends had made. How many times was this? The young god didn’t know. But he was sick of this. And why did he have to do this kind of shit anyway? For no gain at all? What was the point of all this, of trying to help people who clearly didn’t care about him?

He looked up at the distant sky, and at some point, his eyes had lost their original mischievousness and innocence. Now, there was only cold wind and frost that obscured all emotion, making him look colder and more mature than his actual age—a little over seven hundred, like, sixteen, by Midgardian standards.

He knew that he didn't need this, all of this, anymore.

“Fuck all of you!! Fuck all of this!!! I just want my brother!!!”

Thor knew he was at fault too. He was stupid. And selfish. His stupid brain was filled with nothing but his own joy, like the feeling of victory or the thrill of adventure. And he had completely failed to realize that as he chased after those meaningless things, the most important that he should have cherished had slowly slipped away from him. And he wasn't sure he could fix that, fix it all, to get his little brother back.

As Thor grabbed the stone inside the wyvern's chest, he ripped it out, causing blood to splatter again. But Thor didn't care, he quickly took out from his pocket an exquisite green handkerchief that was clearly not an appropriate item for him, and carefully wiped the stone from the remaining flesh and blood on it.

Wyvern's Core was one of the rarest materials, it only appeared in the chests of white-winged wyverns, with a very low rate. This kind of stone resonated well with magic, and was an important ingredient for crafting the most exquisite magic items, like the prophecy ball that Loki treasured the most but was broken by Thor and his friends. Yes, another reminder of how wrong Thor lived his life, and how wrong he treated Loki. Just remembering the boy's hurt face, in the past, once again made Thor feel so miserable he wanted to kill himself.

But no, he couldn't. He had to live. Yes, he had to live, to correct his mistakes.

“I hope this is not too late...”

Thor whispered. He knew just this Wyvern Core wouldn't solve everything, or heal all the damage he had done to his little brother. But he would try. He had to try. Try to be a better brother. No matter how long it took, Thor wouldn't give up. After all his stubbornness was one of the strongest things in the universe, as Loki had told him.

The god of thunder turned, looking at his four friends. They looked confused, and did not know what to say or how to answer Thor's questions. Hogun, Fandral, and Volstagg could not even look Thor in the eye. Only Sif was brave enough to step forward and say:

“I know you're angry, and you care about him, but Loki, he’s...”

“Don't you dare finish that!!” Thor roared, and thunder crackled in his hands. “I've had enough of this shit, your shit! I was too stupid to realize before, but you guys really do this all the time huh? Always trying to point the finger at Loki, make him look like the bad guy and blame him for everything!”

“So you would throw away our friendship just because of…”

This time, it was Sif who looked angry, which Thor found ridiculous. And the Thor of earlier days might have flinched at that display of anger to the point of doubting his own reasoning. But no, that was the past. And now he knew better than ever what was happening. So he cut her off again:

“Don't try to twist that, woman!”

His voice was terrifying, and carried a bit of venom that had never been seen before, and that startled the people in front of him, especially Sif, who looked like she couldn't believe what was happening.

But then, he calmed down.

Thor looked at his friends again, this time with a serious look, and said:

“It's you guys who have to choose, not me. Don't make me choose.”

Sure, he loved his friends. But after all that had happened and all those realizations, Thor wasn't really sure anymore. And if he was forced to choose between his friends and his little brother?

“Don't make me choose.”

Thor repeated that again, putting the Wyvern Core into his waist bag. He then turned away, temporarily not wanting to see the people he called his friends anymore. As he left, Thor said, more certain than ever:

“Because we all know who I would choose.”

His choice would always be Loki.

The rest of the people hurriedly followed Thor, and maybe because the situation was quite tense, none of them noticed the slight change in the wyvern's corpse. A faint smell of magic rose from its empty chest, extremely light and difficult to detect, hastily drifting away like a wisp of smoke following the trail of the group that had just left, forming a path that only a certain species could see.

About an hour later, there was a flapping sound in this deathly silent place, and immediately after that a series of crazy roars rang out, clearly carrying with it a heaven-shaking fury.

Fate really did it job.

Chapter Text

"Are you for real?"

Loki drawled, his voice dripping with a boredom so profound it could have frozen the sun. Thor stood before him, practically vibrating with pride, the offending Wyvern Core held out like a holy relic. It pulsed with a sickly white light, a mirror to the nausea churning in Loki’s stomach.

Loki was so thoroughly, utterly, and comprehensively done with Thor’s brand of magnificent idiocy. It was a force of nature, really, a boundless wellspring of ill-conceived actions and their inevitable, disastrous consequences.

"You genuinely possess nothing between those ears, do you?"

Loki inquired, not unkindly, but with the detached curiosity one might reserve for a particularly dim-witted garden slug. It wasn't even an insult anymore; it was a statement of observable fact.

Thor's face, usually a canvas for boisterous cheer or equally boisterous anger, crumpled into a mask of pure confusion. He stammered, words catching in his throat like startled birds.

"Wha-what? Brother, I… I merely wished to offer you an apology. A gift." He thrust the Wyvern Core forward again, a hopeful, idiotic puppy offering a chewed-up slipper. "Is this not what you have always desired?"

A laugh ripped itself from Loki’s chest. It wasn't a sound of mirth, not even close. It was sharp, brittle, laced with the bitter tang of years of accumulated frustration and a weariness that settled deep in his bones. It was the laugh of someone who had seen the same play unfold one too many times and already knew the tragic, farcical ending.

"And what, pray tell," Loki asked, his voice silkily dangerous, "made you think I couldn't simply saunter out and procure one myself, if it were that elementary?"

He gestured vaguely, as if plucking Wyvern Cores from the air was a mundane Tuesday afternoon activity for anyone with a modicum of competence. Thor's confusion deepened, his brow furrowing like a plowed field. He looked utterly lost, adrift in a sea of Loki’s scorn without a paddle or a compass.

Then, from the far distance, a sound shattered the tense silence. A guttural roar, primal and filled with a terrifying hunger, echoed across the Asgardian plains. It was followed by another, and then another, a chorus of monstrous rage growing steadily closer.

Loki smiled, a thin, chilling curve of his lips. He gestured with a theatrical sweep of his hand towards the source of the escalating cacophony.

"That, dear brother," he purred, "is the reason."

He let the implication hang in the air, savoring the subtle shift in Thor’s expression. "Wyverns, you see," Loki continued, his tone that of a scholar patiently explaining a complex theorem to a particularly slow student, "especially the white-winged variety, possess an exceptionally strong pack instinct. And those individuals who bear a Core? They are the most vital, the most cherished members of said pack." He paused, letting his words sink in. "Should one of them be… harmed… the entire pack will catch the scent. They will hunt. They will pursue the perpetrator. And they will exact their vengeance with a singular, brutal focus."

Loki nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on Thor, as the dawning horror finally, blessedly, began to etch itself across his brother’s face. The confusion was rapidly being replaced by a stark, bone-chilling terror. It was almost gratifying to watch. Almost.

"See?" Loki said, his voice soft, yet carrying the weight of undeniable truth. "You truly don't engage in the act of thinking, do you?"

The boy, for he still appeared so very young despite the ancient weariness in his eyes, turned on his heel. The swirl of his dark cloak was a definitive punctuation mark to their conversation. He began to walk away, his steps measured and unhurried.

"Loki! Wait! Where are you going?" Thor’s voice was tight with panic, the roars of the approaching Wyverns now a terrifyingly close drumbeat.

Loki didn’t deign to look back. He continued his steady pace, his voice carrying clearly over the rising wind and the monstrous cries.

"Oh, I'm merely departing this particular hell-hole, brother dearest. Because we both know, don't we? Even if, by some miracle, we survive this impending catastrophe you've so thoughtfully orchestrated, the blame will inevitably land squarely upon my shoulders." His voice took on a high, mocking tone. "Oh, it was all Loki's fault! He coveted the Core! He lured the poor, innocent Wyverns to our doorstep!"

Thor opened his mouth, a denial, a protest, something bubbling up, but the words died before they could take flight. He stood rooted to the spot, a statue carved from dismay, because the bitter, acidic flood of memories Loki had poured into his mind days earlier screamed a resounding, undeniable yes. That was precisely what would happen. The people of Asgard, for reasons that now seemed both baffling and infuriatingly clear, would twist this, as they twisted everything, until Loki was the villain, the instigator, the dark heart of the problem. Thor, their golden prince, would remain largely untouched, shielded by their adoration and his own infuriating, ingrained privilege. The injustice of it was a fresh, gaping wound.

The roars of the Wyverns escalated, no longer distant rumbles but ear-splitting shrieks that clawed at the air. A series of thunderous explosions boomed in the distance, shaking the very ground beneath Thor’s feet. His face, already pale, turned a ghastly shade of green-tinged white. He spun on his heel, Mjolnir a reassuring weight in his hand, and launched himself towards the chaos, a blond meteor streaking towards the inevitable, self-inflicted storm.

In the blink of an eye, the opulent golden palace of Asgard, a beacon of celestial majesty, had been twisted into a vision of hell.

Dozens, no, closer to fifty or more white-winged Wyverns, colossal beasts of incandescent fury, ripped through the hallowed halls and pristine gardens. Their powerful, leathery wings, each beat a concussive force, smashed through gilded arches and shattered intricately carved balconies as if they were made of spun sugar. The air filled with the shriek of tearing metal and the groan of collapsing stone.

Their tails, long and barbed like monstrous scorpion stingers, punched through even the thickest ramparts, fortifications that had stood unbreached for millennia, now pierced and crumbling like ancient parchment. From their gaping maws, streams of searing white fire, hotter than any forge, erupted, incinerating everything in their path – tapestries, statues, fleeing guards – reducing centuries of Asgardian splendor to ash and molten slag.

Asgardian warriors, brave and proud, struggled valiantly against the onslaught, their swords and spears glancing harmlessly off the Wyverns' diamond-hard scales. Their formations broke, their shouts of defiance swallowed by the cacophony of roars and destruction. They were ants battling dragons, their efforts valiant but ultimately, tragically, useless against the overwhelming, terrifying power of the enraged flock.

One particularly massive Wyvern, its eyes blazing with vindictive intelligence, lunged, its cavernous mouth agape, ready to snap up a cluster of terrified soldiers. Before its jaws could close, Thor, a golden blur of righteous fury, slammed into its skull with Mjolnir, the impact echoing like a thunderclap. The beast recoiled, momentarily stunned, but the reprieve was fleeting.

The greatest champions of Asgard converged on the maelstrom: Thor, his lightning crackling around him; Odin, the Allfather, Gungnir blazing with cosmic energy, his face a mask of grim determination; and even Frigga, no longer just the serene queen, but a warrior reborn, clad in gleaming battle armor, her sword singing a deadly song as she moved with grace and lethal precision.

They fought with the fury of gods, their blows felling Wyverns, their power a desperate bulwark against the tide of destruction. But each beast they wounded, each monster they struck down, only seemed to inflame the frenzy of the survivors. Pain did not deter them; it fueled their rage. They were not mere beasts; they were an avalanche of vengeance, driven by a singular, burning purpose: to annihilate the ones who had wronged their kin. Their attacks became more ferocious, more relentless, their roars a symphony of pure, undiluted hate.

Thor could, with considerable effort, hold his own against a single Wyvern. Their ferocity was matched by his divine strength, their fiery breath by his crackling lightning. But these were not creatures versed in the niceties of honorable combat; "fair play" was a concept as alien to them as mercy.

He found himself in a desperate dance, narrowly evading a razor-sharp talon swipe from one beast only to be forced to deflect a bone-jarring tail lash from another. He’d land a solid blow with Mjolnir, sending a Wyvern reeling, only to find two more converging on his exposed flank. It was a chaotic, exhausting ballet of brute force and frantic evasion.

A torrent of white-hot flame erupted from behind him, a blinding, searing wave. Thor twisted, instinctively raising Mjolnir, but he knew, with a sickening certainty, that he wouldn't be fast enough. He braced for the agonizing kiss of the fire, the smell of his own flesh charring—

And then, a shimmering, emerald-green barrier materialized around him, a translucent shield of pure magic. The white flames crashed against it, dissipating harmlessly in a hiss of steam and fury, the heat intense but unable to penetrate the verdant ward.

The flames subsided. Immediately, a volley of green fireballs, crackling with an unnatural energy, streaked past Thor and slammed into the Wyvern that had just attempted to incinerate him. Each impact was a miniature explosion, sending the beast screeching and tumbling from the sky, trailing acrid green smoke.

Loki, wreathed in his signature emerald aura, soared past Thor, his dark hair whipping in the wind. With a casual flick of his wrist, the protective green shield around Thor dissolved into glittering motes of light.

Thor’s heart leaped, a surge of relief so potent it almost buckled his knees. "Brother!" he boomed, his voice filled with genuine, uncomplicated joy. "You've come!"

Loki executed a perfect mid-air roll of his eyes, a gesture of profound, theatrical annoyance.

"Oh, shut up," he snapped, his voice sharp and clear above the din of battle, "and attack."

Thor, despite the stinging rebuke, felt a familiar surge of energy course through him. Loki’s presence, however begrudging, was a catalyst. It was the missing piece of a discordant symphony, snapping the rhythm back into a brutal, effective cadence. He roared, a sound of renewed determination, and swung Mjolnir with even greater force, the hammer a blur of Uru metal and divine lightning.

They fell into an unspoken, chaotic rhythm, a dance of destruction honed over centuries of reluctant partnership. Thor was the battering ram, the unstoppable force, wading into the thickest swarms of Wyverns, his every blow a thunderclap that sent shockwaves through the air and shattered scales. He was raw power, untamed fury, a whirlwind of golden energy.

Loki, in stark contrast, was the scalpel. He moved with a fluid, almost ethereal grace, weaving through the aerial battlefield like a phantom. Green bolts of pure magic, sharp and precise, lanced out from his fingertips, striking Wyverns in their vulnerable eyes or the soft underbellies of their wings. Illusions flickered into existence around him - phantom copies of himself drawing attacks, or terrifying specters that momentarily disoriented the enraged beasts. He was everywhere and nowhere, a whisper of deadly intent, his magic a symphony of elegant devastation.

A Wyvern, larger than most, with scars crisscrossing its snout, dove at Frigga. The queen, her movements swift and warrior-honed, parried its initial snapping jaws, but the sheer momentum of the beast threatened to overwhelm her. Before Thor could even register the danger, a complex web of shimmering green energy, like an enormous, incandescent spider’s snare, sprang into existence around the Wyvern. It thrashed, roaring in confusion and fury, but the magical bonds tightened, cutting into its hide. Loki, hovering nearby, made a sharp, dismissive gesture. The web constricted with a sickening crunch, and the Wyvern plummeted to the ground, its spine audibly snapping.

Loki didn't spare it a second glance. His gaze, cold and appraising, swept across the battlefield. Another Wyvern, attempting to incinerate a group of cowering palace attendants, suddenly found itself engulfed in its own redirected fire, Loki having conjured a warped mirror of pure force to send the flames roaring back into its horrified face.

Odin, from his vantage point atop a crumbling battlement, Gungnir spitting celestial fire, saw it all. His one good eye narrowed, a complex emotion – was it grudging respect? Or simply strategic assessment? – flickering within its depths. Frigga, having dispatched another attacker, caught Loki’s eye for a fleeting second. There was a universe of unspoken words in that brief contact: relief, pride, perhaps even a silent plea. But Loki’s expression remained impassive, focused solely on the task at hand, his emerald eyes glinting with a chilling light.

Because he knew. He knew, with a certainty that settled like ice in his veins, that despite every spell he wove, every life he saved, every ounce of power he expended in defense of this golden, thankless realm, the eyes of Asgard would still follow him with that same old, poisonous cocktail: suspicion, fear, and a deeply ingrained, almost instinctual, hatred. It was a brand seared onto his very soul, a label he could never peel away, no matter how many heroic deeds he performed. He was the shadow, the serpent, the inherent flaw in their perfect, shining world.

Loki held his head high, refusing to meet their gazes, refusing to let their silent accusations chip away at his resolve. His jaw was set, a line of stubborn defiance. He continued to weave his magic, a tapestry of emerald destruction and desperate protection. Another shimmering green barrier erupted into existence, just moments before a Wyvern’s fiery breath could engulf a squad of embattled Einherjar, their faces already etched with the grim acceptance of their imminent demise. They looked up, not with gratitude, but with a startled, wary apprehension, as if salvation from him was almost worse than the alternative.

The young god, for he was still so devastatingly young, despite the eons weighing on his spirit, soared through the smoke-choked air, a figure of terrible, breathtaking power. His magic flared around him, a tempest of green light that outshone even the celestial fires Odin wielded. He was stronger than any of them, his command over the arcane arts unparalleled, his intellect a razor-sharp weapon. And yet, as he danced among the falling stones and the screams of the dying, as he single-handedly turned the tide of battles across the ravaged palace grounds, an aura of profound, almost tangible loneliness clung to him, as inseparable as his own shadow. He fought for them, but he was not of them. He saved them, but he would never be their savior.

Thor, momentarily breathless from a particularly brutal exchange with a trio of snarling Wyverns, hovered in the air, his gaze drifting upwards towards Loki. A knot of anxiety tightened in his chest. His brother moved with such effortless power, such chilling precision, but there was a fragility about him too, a vulnerability that Thor, in his newfound, agonizing clarity, could finally perceive. He was fighting a war on two fronts: against the Wyverns, and against the crushing weight of Asgard's eternal mistrust.

That flicker of distraction, that momentary lapse in Thor’s usually unwavering focus, cost him dearly.

Loki, sensing the shift in the battle’s rhythm, his senses preternaturally attuned to danger, whipped his head around. His eyes widened, not with fear for himself, but with a raw, visceral terror Thor had rarely seen directed his way. "THOR!!!" The name was a strangled cry, ripped from his throat, cutting through the roar of battle.

Thor, jolted by Loki's shriek, finally registered the imminent threat. A barbed, whip-like tail, spinning like a demonic drill, was hurtling towards his exposed back with sickening speed. He had no time to react, no time to even raise Mjolnir in a desperate defense.

Then, in a blink, an impossibly fast shimmer of green light, Loki was there. He materialized directly in front of Thor, his arms thrown wide, palms outstretched. An emerald barrier flared into existence, weaker this time, hastily conjured, flickering like a dying flame.

The barbed tail, imbued with the Wyvern’s savage strength, met the shield. It didn’t even slow. The green magic shattered like fragile glass, exploding outwards in a shower of fading sparks.

And then, in a moment that would forever be seared into Thor’s horrified memory, the monstrous tail, dripping with some vile ichor, plunged forward. It pierced through Loki’s slender torso, right through his abdomen, with a sickening, wet thud.

The tip of the tail, slick with Loki’s blood, stopped a mere hair's breadth from Thor’s own stomach. A single, crimson drop splattered onto Thor's armor.

The boy - in that moment, he looked impossibly, achingly like a boy, not a god, not a prince, just a fragile, wounded child - stared down at his own impaled abdomen. His emerald eyes, wide and unblinking, were filled with a dazed, almost detached surprise, as if he couldn't quite comprehend what had just happened. One slender hand, trembling uncontrollably, reached down, fingers hesitantly touching the grotesque, chitinous appendage still protruding from his body.

Then, a flicker. A spark of emerald light ignited deep within those stunned eyes. Green fire, hotter and more furious than any Thor had ever witnessed, erupted from Loki’s very being. It consumed the section of the Wyvern's tail embedded within him, vaporizing it in an instant, then raced along the length of the limb like a ravenous serpent. It engulfed the offending Wyvern, which had been recoiling in triumph, turning it into a screaming, writhing inferno before it exploded into a shower of blackened ash and bone.

And then, the fire within Loki guttered and died. His body, suddenly devoid of its usual preternatural grace, swayed, then crumpled. He fell, not with a crash, but like a single, delicate autumn leaf surrendering to the wind, a slow, agonizing descent.

His slight frame hit the stone courtyard with a sickening thud. Blood, dark and shockingly copious, pooled rapidly beneath him, staining the ancient flagstones a horrifying crimson.

"LOKI!!!"

The sound that ripped from Thor's throat was not a word, but a raw, animalistic roar of pure, unadulterated agony. He plummeted from the sky, Mjolnir clattering unheeded beside him, and skidded to his knees beside his fallen brother. He gathered Loki's limp form into his arms, cradling his head with a desperate tenderness.

"Loki! LOKI!"

Thor screamed his name, over and over, his voice cracking, the sound swallowed by the renewed, triumphant roars of the remaining Wyverns, who seemed to sense the shift in the tide, the faltering of their most formidable opponent. But Thor didn't hear them. He heard nothing but the frantic, terrified thumping of his own heart and the shallow, rattling breaths of the broken god in his arms.

He lay there, limp and pale in Thor’s embrace, his emerald eyes unfocused, staring blankly up at the chaotic, smoke-filled Asgardian sky. Each shallow breath he took was a rasping, painful sound that tore at Thor’s soul.

"Loki, please! Don't you dare leave me! Don't you dare!" Thor sobbed, tears streaming down his face, mingling with the grime and blood of battle. "I'll do anything! Anything you ask! I swear it, I'll change! I'll be a better brother! I promise! Just… just stay with me!

 His voice was a torrent of desperate, broken pleas, a litany of frantic promises he would have given his own life to fulfill.

Loki’s gaze slowly, agonizingly, shifted from the indifferent sky to Thor's grief-stricken face. There was no anger in his eyes, no pain, no fear. Only a profound, bottomless disappointment, a weariness that seemed to stretch back through centuries of misunderstandings and heartache.

"Are you satisfied… now?" Loki rasped, each word a struggle, his voice barely a whisper. A single, perfect tear escaped the corner of his eye and traced a path through the blood smearing his cheek. "You... finally succeeded."

"NO! Loki, don't say that!" Thor choked out, shaking his head frantically. "Don't say such things! Everything will be alright! Mother will be here! She'll fix this! She'll make you well!" He clung to that desperate hope like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood.

Loki let out a sigh, a soft, rattling exhalation that seemed to carry with it the last vestiges of his fading strength. The disappointment in his eyes deepened, tinged now with an almost unbearable loneliness, a chilling finality.

"Grow up, Thor," he whispered, the words a final, heartbreaking admonition. His voice was so faint, Thor had to strain to hear it. Then, with an almost imperceptible movement, his bloodied hand, still clutched loosely in Thor's, twitched. His fingers, slick with his own lifeblood, began to move feebly against the stone ground.

He was drawing something. A complex, intricate pattern was taking shape beneath him, traced in his own crimson essence. A rune. A sigil of immense power.

Thor watched, bewildered, his mind unable to process what was happening. Frigga, her face a mask of anguish, was sprinting towards them, her armor stained and dented, her voice a desperate cry of "NO!" But she was too late.

As Loki's fingers completed the final stroke of the bloody sigil, a massive, intricate magical diagram blazed into existence beneath his prone form, glowing with an eerie, verdant light.

Then, the green fire returned. Not the controlled, precise bolts he had wielded before, but an eruption. A cataclysm. An inferno of pure, untamed magical energy, more ferocious, more terrifying, more absolute than anything Asgard had ever witnessed. It was the color of dying stars and forbidden forests, a sentient, vengeful conflagration.

Tendrils of this horrifying green flame, impossibly fast, lashed out, hunting down each and every remaining Wyvern. They didn't just burn; they unmade. The beasts, moments before screaming in triumph, were consumed in an instant, their roars turning into shrieks of unimaginable terror before being snuffed out entirely. There was no struggle, no resistance. Only oblivion. The few Wyverns that hadn't been immediately engulfed in the emerald holocaust shrieked in a new, primal fear, their predatory instincts overridden by sheer, unadulterated terror. They turned tail and fled, scrambling desperately into the sky, a panicked, scattering flock abandoning the golden realm that had so suddenly become their funeral pyre.

The boy lay still, his emerald eyes, once so vibrant and full of sharp intelligence, were now clear, glassy, and utterly devoid of focus. They stared sightlessly upwards, reflecting the now eerily silent, Wyvern-free sky, a sky cleansed by his final, terrible act.

As his grieving brother and heartbroken mother reached for him, their hands trembling, their cries echoing in the sudden, shocking stillness, Loki's form began to shimmer. The physical substance of him, the pale skin, the dark hair, the blood-soaked clothing, started to dissolve.

His body fractured, not into dust, but into countless motes of ethereal green light, tiny, dancing embers of the same emerald fire that had just purged Asgard. These incandescent particles, like a swarm of mystical fireflies, spiraled upwards, swirling and coalescing into a fading, ghostly image of the young god, his expression serene, almost peaceful, before they too dispersed, vanishing into the vast, indifferent expanse of the heavens.

There was nothing left in Thor’s arms but the lingering scent of ozone and sorrow, and the phantom weight of a brother he had finally, irrevocably, lost. Frigga’s anguished wail tore through the devastated palace, a sound of pure, untempered maternal grief.

In the devastating silence that followed, amidst the smoldering ruins of their golden home, the second prince of Asgard, Loki, the misunderstood, the mistrusted, the unloved, was gone.

Or, that is what they thought. What they would be led to believe. What the carefully constructed narrative, woven with grief and sacrifice, intended.

In a silent, shadowed corridor deep within the ravaged palace, far from the wails of mourning and the frantic efforts to assess the catastrophic damage, a small, nimble figure moved with stealthy purpose. Dust motes danced in the occasional shaft of moonlight piercing through shattered stained-glass windows, illuminating a path towards a destination of singular, audacious intent: Odin's Vault. The treasure house of Asgard.

There were no guards. Not a single soul patrolled these hallowed, now-desecrated halls. The Wyvern attack, in its sheer ferocity, had drawn every able-bodied warrior, every sentinel, every last line of defense to the palace exterior. The heart of Asgard's power lay exposed, vulnerable.

The figure reached the massive, rune-etched doors of the Vault. There was no hesitation, no attempt at subtlety or intricate lock-picking. He simply raised a hand, palm open. A flicker of emerald energy, barely visible in the gloom, pulsed from his fingertips. With a deafening implosion that sent shockwaves vibrating through the stone, the immense doors buckled inwards, torn from their hinges as if by an invisible giant.

He stepped calmly through the ruined entrance, into the sudden, oppressive silence of the treasure chamber. Relics of immense power, spoils of countless wars, artifacts that hummed with forgotten magic, lay arrayed on pedestals and within shimmering containment fields. His gaze, however, was fixed on a single object.

He extended a hand, fingers splayed.

From within a reinforced, crystal-lined alcove, a bluish, frost-covered casket, radiating an aura of intense, primordial cold, levitated smoothly. It drifted through the air, a harbinger of eternal winter, and settled gently into his waiting grasp. The Casket of Ancient Winters.

The icy blue light emanating from the artifact cast stark, ethereal shadows across his delicate features, chasing away the gloom. His lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile, a ghost of his usual cunning. There was no sign of the grievous wound that should have killed him, no trace of the blood that had stained the courtyard stones.

It was, unmistakably, Loki. The prince who should have been ashes drifting on the Asgardian wind.

Loki’s gaze, as cold and unforgiving as the artifact he now held, swept across the treasure-filled vault. The air crackled. Then, with a silent, internal command, emerald energy, raw and untamed, erupted from him like a contained hurricane. It wasn't the precise, surgical magic he usually favored, but a brutal, indiscriminate wave of destruction. Golden artifacts were flung from their pedestals, ancient weapons shattered, shimmering containment fields overloaded and exploded. The devastation was swift, thorough, and meticulously chaotic, mirroring the mindless destruction wrought by the Wyverns. When he was done, the vault looked as if a pack of the beasts had rampaged through it, looting and defiling.

There were two fundamental truths, two immutable laws of the universe, that everyone, particularly those who fancied themselves his betters, should have understood about Loki.

First: he was a liar. Not just a casual teller of untruths, but a master illusionist, a weaver of deceptions so intricate, so believable, that reality itself often bent to his will. His entire existence was a carefully constructed artifice.

Second: his instinct for self-preservation was a living, breathing entity within him, more potent, more deeply ingrained than any fleeting sentiment of loyalty or affection. It was the bedrock of his being.

Combine these two facts, stir them with a healthy dose of justifiable resentment, and it became utterly, laughably foolish to assume that Loki, of all beings, would ever genuinely sacrifice his own precious life for anyone, or anywhere. Especially not for Asgard.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, pushing a stray lock from his forehead, and let out a soft, contemptuous snort. Faking his own demise was hardly a challenge; it was a parlor trick he’d practiced and perfected countless times, in myriad amusing scenarios. And what could be more poetically ironic than "dying" a hero? Though, he mused, a cynical twist to his lips, he sincerely doubted his "valiant sacrifice" would be viewed as such for long by the ungrateful, short-sighted insects of Asgard. Their capacity for rewriting history to suit their prejudices was, after all, legendary.

But no matter. It was effective. It served its purpose: a clean, dramatic severance of all ties to this thrice-damned, gilded cage.

The second prince of Asgard was dead. That chapter was closed, the book slammed shut with satisfying finality. But now, born from those ashes, the third prince of Jotunheim - a title he would claim with relish - was alive. And, more importantly, he was free.

Loki turned, the Casket of Ancient Winters held securely in his grasp. With another casual flick of his wrist, a shimmering tear in the fabric of reality opened before him, a swirling vortex of darkness and starlight, a secret path between worlds. He stepped towards it.

Just before he was fully enveloped by the portal, he paused, and turned back for one last, lingering look at the ravaged, burning heart of Asgard. His expression was unreadable, a mask of cold contemplation.

The next time I return to this realm, he thought, a sliver of dark amusement dancing in his emerald eyes, it will be to orchestrate a catastrophe of my own making. And it will be glorious.

Then, with a final, almost imperceptible smile, Loki stepped through the crack in space and vanished, leaving Asgard to mourn a hero it never truly knew, and to remain blissfully, dangerously, unaware of the enemy it had just unwittingly unleashed.

Chapter Text

The biting winds of Jotunheim, which once might have seemed an enemy to an Asgardian, now whispered secrets against Loki’s skin, a language he found himself understanding without effort.

Snow, not the soft, decorative flakes of Asgard’s brief winters, but ancient, crystalline dust, settled on his dark hair, not as a burden, but as a coronation. It had been months since the feigned inferno of his ‘demise’ and his quiet arrival, yet each day felt like the first true breath he’d ever taken. Jotunheim didn’t so much roll out a welcome mat as it simply… was.

And in its being, Loki found himself. There were no grand pronouncements, no forced smiles or scrutinizing eyes. The realm, in its stark, frozen majesty, merely made space, and he fit into it as if he were a shard of ice long missing from its grand, glacial heart.

It was an homecoming he hadn't known he was starved for. He felt it in the marrow of his bones, this sense of rightness. Like a migratory bird, wings weary from a journey across hostile skies, finally sighting the familiar, boundless horizon of its true territory, Loki felt his spirit unfurl.

The tight knot of anxiety and defensiveness that had been his constant companion in Asgard had loosened, its tendrils slowly, almost imperceptibly, retracting. Here, under the pale, ethereal glow of Jotunheim’s distant suns, the air itself hummed with a raw, untamed magic that resonated deep within him, a symphony where his own powers were not a discordant shriek but a vital, harmonious chord.

The grandeur of Jotunheim was not the gilded, ostentatious splendor of Asgard. It was a different beast entirely, a severe, awe-inspiring beauty that spoke of eons and elemental power. Vast plains of ice stretched to horizons that seemed to touch the fabric of space, shimmering with blues and whites so intense they made the eyes ache, yet soothed the soul. Mountains, colossal titans of rock and glacier, clawed at the star-dusted sky, their peaks wreathed in perpetual blizzards that sang ancient, roaring lullabies. Loki would stand for hours upon some windswept precipice, the Casket of Ancient Winters a comforting, familiar weight at his side, and simply feel .

He felt the thrum of the planet beneath his feet, a slow, powerful heartbeat. He felt the ice magic, his own innate power, no longer a rebellious torrent he wrestled to control, but a vast, interconnected ocean of energy that he could dip into, draw from, become one with. It flowed through him, cold and exhilarating, sharpening his senses, amplifying his perceptions. The snowflake pattern on his forehead, when he allowed his Jotun form to surface, would sometimes shimmer with a faint inner light, as if acknowledging the kinship.

He saw not desolation in the endless ice, but a testament to resilience, a unyielding beauty. Hidden beneath the frozen crust were veins of crystal that pulsed with captured starlight, and in the deepest crevasses, bioluminescent flora cast eerie, enchanting glows. The very air tasted of ozone and ancient frost, a clean, sharp taste that cleared his mind and invigorated his spirit in a way the perfumed, heavy air of Asgard never could.

His acceptance as the third prince of Jotunheim had been as quiet and inevitable as the fall of snow. There was no pomp, no ceremony that grated against his sensibilities. Laufey had simply presented him, his presence a silent declaration, and the court, the scattered Jotnar who owed fealty to their king, had looked upon him, and then at Laufey, and understood. Perhaps it was the undeniable resemblance when Loki allowed his Jotun skin to show, the same sharp intelligence in their ruby eyes, or perhaps the sheer, potent aura of his magic, now unchained and singing in harmony with the realm. Whatever the reason, there were no whispers of doubt, no challenging glares. He was simply… Loki, youngest son of the king, a lost prince returned. It was a truth as self-evident as the eternal ice.

Laufey’s embrace, when it first came, had been a shock. The king was a mountain of a being, his skin the color of glacial shadows, radiating a cold that was the very essence of Jotunheim. Yet, as those massive arms, strong enough to shatter stone, had closed around Loki’s slighter frame, the sensation was not the biting chill Loki might have once anticipated. It was a cold, yes, but a deep, resonant cold that felt… right. It was the cold of belonging, of safety. It was more profoundly familiar, more deeply comforting than any strained, perfunctory hug he’d ever received in the golden halls of Asgard.

There was a solidity to Laufey, a steadfastness that anchored him. The king’s voice, a low rumble like the shifting of ancient glaciers, was usually reserved for commands or pronouncements, carrying the weight of his authority. He was every inch the stern, battle-hardened monarch who had held his realm together against impossible odds.

But with Loki, there was a subtle softening, a nuance in that deep baritone that spoke of a tenderness carefully shielded from the harshness of their world. His large hands, etched with lines that told stories of countless winters and hard-won victories, could be surprisingly gentle when they rested on Loki’s shoulder, a silent reassurance that resonated deeper than any spoken word. It was a different kind of affection than Frigga's often overwrought pronouncements, less cloying, more… elemental. Real.

And then there was the palace, the heart of Jotunheim's scattered civilization, a place whose existence few beyond their icy realm likely even suspected. It wasn't a palace in the Asgardian sense - no gleaming gold to catch the eye, no soaring, impossibly delicate spires designed to impress or intimidate with sheer opulence. Jotunheim’s royal seat was grand in its own right, but its grandeur was hewn from the very essence of the planet itself.

It was constructed from a unique, milky-white stone, quarried from the deepest, oldest mountains. At first glance, it might have been mistaken for ice, so perfectly did it capture the ethereal, internal glow of the glaciers. But touch revealed its true nature: harder than any diamond, resilient against the eons of biting winds and crushing cold, yet polished to a smooth, almost luminous finish that seemed to absorb and refract the pale light of Jotunheim’s suns in a mesmerizing, subtle dance. The architecture was massive, angular, conveying strength and endurance rather than frivolous beauty. Its towers were thick, its walls unadorned by excessive carvings, yet possessing an austere elegance that spoke of ancient power.

Beyond the palace walls, though “walls” implied a distinct separation that wasn't quite accurate, the settlement spread out. Large, robust dwellings, built from the same white stone, dotted the icy plains. They were spaced far apart, each structure a self-contained bastion against the elements, with thick walls and deeply set windows that glowed with a faint, warm light from within, a contrast to the frozen world outside. This scattering of homes spoke volumes about the Jotnar. Their population was small, barely numbering over a thousand souls concentrated in this one vast, protected valley, a mere speck on the face of a planet that could have swallowed countless Asgards whole. Each Frost Giant, it seemed, valued their space, their solitude, even within their communal heartland.

Enclosing this entire sprawling settlement, a city carved from ice-stone, was a colossal ring of natural rock formations, augmented by Jotnar ingenuity into an almost impenetrable defensive perimeter. These weren’t delicate, decorative walls, they were mountains tamed and shaped, sheer cliffs of dark, formidable stone, seamlessly integrated with strategically placed fortifications of the same white, ice-like material as the palace. The scale was breathtaking, a testament to a people who had learned, through bitter experience, the necessity of vigilance.

Overall, the impression was not one of inviting splendor. There were no manicured gardens, no bustling marketplaces designed to entice visitors. This was not a destination for curious sightseers or diplomatic envoys seeking lavish entertainment. The capital of Jotunheim, from its central palace to its outermost defensive ring, was a fortress, a sanctuary built for survival, a defiant statement of endurance etched into the very ice of their world. It was a place designed to protect its inhabitants, not to impress outsiders – and in that raw, unyielding functionality, Loki found a profound, unshakeable beauty.

This ancient, frozen realm had slumbered in its icy cradle for eons, isolated, and in that isolation, secure. But security didn't equate to prosperity, and Loki, for all his newfound contentment, wasn't blind to the subtle, pervasive hardships that clung to Jotunheim like the frost itself. He wasn't the type to just settle, if things could be better, he’d damn well make them better.

The moment his father had seen him with the Casket of Ancient Winters clutched in his hand, a knowing, almost weary look had crossed Laufey’s features.

“If you can wield it, child,” the king had rumbled, his voice a low echo in the vast ice halls, “then you might as well use it.” It was less a command and more a granting of permission, an acknowledgement of power Loki hadn't needed to ask for.

So, Loki, with his formidable arsenal of magic, his “ secret tricks ,” and a mind that thrived on complex problems, didn’t waste time. He set about breathing new life into Jotunheim, and it happened with a swiftness that probably would have made Asgardian mages weep with envy.

A thousand souls… That wasn’t a population, it was a silent cry for help. They were starving, not in a dramatic, immediate sense, but in a slow, grinding way that capped their potential. Sure, Frost Giants possessed an incredible ability to subsist on minimal sustenance, to endure long stretches with barely a morsel. Loki himself had gone weeks without food in Asgard, fueled by magic and spite. But just because they could endure didn’t mean they enjoyed it. It certainly didn’t foster growth or vibrancy.

And the planet, as much as Loki had come to love its grand beauty, was undeniably barren in many respects. Large game was scarce, their movements dictated by ancient, unpredictable cycles. The Jotnar diet, from what Loki had observed, consisted mainly of hardy, often bitter, wild tubers and lichen scraped from frozen rocks. It was, in Loki’s frank opinion, a culinary tragedy. Functional, yes. Inspiring? Absolutely not.

So, with a glint in his emerald eyes that was equal parts mischief and determination, Loki began his “gentle” adjustments.

Vast, windswept plains that had known only snow and ice for millennia were the first to see change. Loki, drawing on knowledge gleaned from dusty Asgardian tomes and his own innate understanding of life magic, introduced hardy grasses and resilient, low-lying shrubs from other, more temperate realms. These weren't just transplanted, they were… encouraged. With carefully brewed potions that tasted faintly of starlight and stolen magic fruits, and whispers of green magic that coaxed dormant potential from frozen earth, he mutated them, enhancing their cold resistance exponentially. Under his guiding hand, patches of green, then fields, then vast swathes of alien yet thriving vegetation began to carpet the valleys around the main settlement, a startling, vibrant contrast to the eternal white.

Then came the animals. Loki, never one for tedious diplomacy or trade agreements, simply went shopping. In other realms. Without asking.

From the lush, if somewhat saccharine, forests of Alfheim, he “liberated” a species of plump, ridiculously fast-breeding rabbit-like creatures. They were notable for the single, spiraled horn on their foreheads and an almost insatiable appetite for, well, everything . They were also, conveniently, delicious. Perfect. These horned fluffballs, initially startled by the crisp Jotunheim air, soon found the new, Loki-cultivated grasslands to their liking and began their prolific contribution to the Jotnar food chain with gusto.

Next, he paid a visit to the grim, fog-shrouded wastes of Niflheim. That realm, almost as harsh as Jotunheim but in a damp, despairing way, was home to a species of massive, shaggy bison, their coats thick enough to insulate against any cold, their horns sharp and formidable. They were few in number even there, struggling on the periphery of survival.

“ Well, ” Loki had mused, watching one disconsolately chew on a frozen scrap of something unidentifiable, “ if I'm redecorating Jotunheim, might as well bring in some proper statement pieces. ”

A few strategically opened cracks in reality later, a bewildered but surprisingly adaptable herd found themselves in a new, slightly less depressing, icy home.

It was funny, really, how perspectives could shift. His ability to tear open those rifts in space, to step between the Nine Realms as easily as walking through a doorway - that had always been his most closely guarded secret. It was the key to his escapes, his private investigations, his more… delicate acquisitions. If someone had told him, even a year ago, that he'd be using this profound, dangerous talent to essentially become an inter-realm animal smuggler for the betterment of a bunch of ice giants, he’d have probably laughed until he choked, then hexed them into the next Tuesday.

But well, times changed. And Loki, for all his carefully cultivated cynicism, found a strange, almost grudging satisfaction in watching the once-barren plains of his new home begin to teem, just a little, with life. His life.

Oh, and Loki wasn't one to do things by halves. If he was going to terraform a planet, or at least significantly upgrade its ecosystem, he wasn't just going to stop at a few new grassy fields and some furry, horned protein sources. Hell no. If he’d already meddled with the land, why wouldn't he cast his ambitious gaze towards the vast, uncharted territories of Jotunheim’s oceans?

More than half the planet was water, locked for most of the year under a thick, impenetrable carapace of ice. But “impenetrable” was a relative term for someone who could bend reality to his whim. It certainly didn't mean Loki couldn't slip through a self-made crack in the ice sheet, or simply will the water to part for him, and go exploring the depths.

The existing underwater flora, he discovered, was surprisingly robust – vast forests of strange, bioluminescent kelp and intricate coral-like structures that pulsed with a cold, internal light. They were hardy, well-adapted, and aesthetically pleasing in their own alien way. So, for now, Loki decided to leave the underwater landscaping largely untouched. They were doing just fine on their own.

There were fish, of course. But they were… depressing. Sluggish, greyish things that tasted mostly of disappointment and primordial ooze. Edible, certainly, in a pinch. But hardly a cause for culinary celebration.

So, after extensive “research” - which involved numerous clandestine trips to the vibrant oceans of Vanaheim and Alfheim, and a few slightly less pleasant, more heavily guarded, aquatic environments - and a fair bit of “experimental adaptation” , which occasionally resulted in fish that glowed a little too brightly or developed an alarming number of tentacles before being discreetly un-summoned, Loki began to introduce some new, improved marine life to Jotunheim’s frigid waters.

He selected species known for their resilience, their rapid breeding cycles, and, most importantly, their superior flavor profile. There were sleek, silver-scaled fish that darted through the kelp forests like living mercury, plump, crab-like creatures with surprisingly sweet meat hidden beneath their icy carapaces, and even a type of large, bioluminescent squid that, when cooked just right, had a texture like tender calamari and a faint, peppery aftertaste. He tweaked their genetics with subtle infusions of his magic, ensuring they could not only survive but thrive in the sub-zero currents.

And thrive they did. Soon, a new, popular pastime emerged amongst the Jotnar. Groups of them, bundled in their thickest furs, would trek out onto the vast ice sheets covering the ocean. With mighty heaves of enchanted ice-axes or blasts of their own innate frost magic, they’d carve fishing holes through the meters-thick ice. Then, armed with surprisingly ingenious fishing rods crafted from bone and sinew, they would spend hours patiently waiting for a bite, their deep voices rumbling in quiet conversation as they stared into the dark, swirling waters below.

Loki, personally, found the entire endeavor of sitting still and waiting for a fish to deign to impale itself on a hook mind-numbingly dull. He could summon a feast from the depths with a flick of his wrist if he so chose. But the Frost Giants seemed to genuinely enjoy it. There was a quiet camaraderie to their fishing expeditions, a sense of satisfaction in providing for their families with their own hands, even if the “wild” stock was now heavily supplemented by his not-so-secret meddling. Plus, it significantly diversified their diet and brought a new source of protein and enjoyment.

So, who was Loki to judge? If they were happy, and their bellies were fuller, and the planet was just a little bit less… bleak? Then his work, however unorthodox, was proving rather effective. He’d even, on a particularly boring afternoon, enchanted a few of the fishing hooks to sing bawdy sea shanties when they detected a fish nearby, just for his own amusement. The Jotnar had been utterly baffled, but strangely delighted.

Overall, this whole planetary enhancement project was, much to Loki's surprise, rather fun. And it had the entirely predictable, yet still somewhat startling, side effect of catapulting him to the unofficial, unspoken position of “Most Popular Prince of Jotunheim.”

It was a bit embarrassing, frankly. Not the soul-crushing type of embarrassment, but a different, warmer, almost… pleasant kind of awkwardness. The kind that made him want to roll his eyes and scoff, but secretly preen just a little.

The real payoff, the thing that made all the clandestine inter-realm smuggling and genetic tinkering undeniably worthwhile, was the look in the eyes of his father and his two older brothers. It was an uncomplicated, unfiltered pride that shone from their ruby depths whenever they saw the tangible results of his efforts.

They treated him, genuinely and without reservation, like family. Like a younger brother. A prodigiously talented, occasionally alarming, but undeniably their younger brother. There was a protectiveness in their regard, a warmth that thawed corners of his heart he hadn't even known were still frozen. They saw his genius, his power, not as something to be feared or suppressed, but as a gift, a strength that benefited them all.

Helblindi, the more boisterous of his elder siblings, the one who had initially mistaken him for an Asgardian invader and tried to pummel him into the ice, was now his most vocal cheerleader. He’d frequently, and loudly, point at Loki across a crowded feasting hall or during a council meeting, where Loki now often offered surprisingly insightful, if occasionally devious, strategic advice, and declare to anyone within earshot, “That's my little brother! Did you see what he did with those ice-weasels? Brilliant!” This pronouncement was usually met with fond chuckles from the other Jotnar, who had heard variations of the same proud boast countless times. Helblindi didn't seem to care, he just grinned, a flash of sharp teeth.

Byleistr, the quieter, more contemplative of the two, was less overt in his praise, but his pride was no less evident. It was there in the subtle upward quirk of his lips when Loki demonstrated a new magical feat, or in the way his gaze would linger on his younger brother with a soft, appraising look. He wouldn’t shout it from the mountaintops, but his quiet approval, his steady, unwavering belief in Loki, was a silent affirmation that spoke volumes.

Here, he wasn't the spare, the troublemaker, the silver-tongued trickster to be perpetually watched and suspected. He was Loki. Prince of Jotunheim. Brother. Son. And for the first time in a very, very long existence, that felt like enough. More than enough, actually. It felt like… home.

“Loki! Let's go fishing!” Helblindi's voice, surprisingly clear and lacking its usual booming resonance, echoed up from below.

Loki, perched in the highest window of his private tower - a recent addition to the palace, a quiet sanctuary Laufey had readily granted him - leaned out, genuinely surprised. He peered down at the figure standing in the snow-dusted courtyard.

“Wait a minute,” Loki called down, an eyebrow arched in amusement. “You can transform now? Neat.”

Helblindi, who now resembled a remarkably tall, lanky young man. His dark hair, a shade similar to Loki's own but wilder, curlier, fell to his shoulders, framing a face that held echoes of Loki's features but was more ruggedly handsome, more sharply angled. He grinned and shrugged, “Told you, little brother,” he said, his voice still deep but without the icy rumble of his Jotun form, “I'm a natural.”

Frost Giants, it turned out, were indeed a species capable of shapeshifting. It wasn't the arbitrary, boundless transformation some mages or mythical creatures possessed, the ability to become anyone or anything they desired. Loki himself couldn't achieve that without the complex layering of illusions upon his innate shifts, fooling the senses rather than truly altering his core form into another's. No, their ability was more intrinsic, more personal.

Instead, they could channel their innate Seidr, their life force, to manifest different aspects, different versions , of themselves. If one of them were to transform into, say, a snow fox, it wouldn't be just any snow fox. It would be their essence, their spirit, expressed in vulpine form. It would be Snow-Fox-Helblindi, recognizable in some subtle, ineffable way.

It was the same principle that governed Loki's own shifts. When he became a cat, it was Cat-Loki, imbued with his cunning and feline grace. When he assumed his female form, it was Girl-Loki, possessing all his intellect and power, simply expressed through a different, yet equally valid, facet of his being. If he chose to become a colossal ice whale to explore the depths (an experiment he’d briefly considered, then dismissed as overly dramatic, even for him), it would be unmistakably Whale-Loki, probably with a penchant for dramatic breaches and melancholic songs. These were unique, personal manifestations, extensions of their true selves.

Among these potential forms, the most common, or at least the most historically recorded, was the Æsir-like form: the humanoid shape that mirrored the dominant species of Asgard and many other realms. It was a form that facilitated interaction, a common ground.

However, since very few in Jotunheim possessed the refined control over their Seidr necessary for such transformations - their raw power was immense, but often untamed - they had, for millennia, existed almost exclusively in their formidable Frost Giant forms. Their king, Laufey, possessed the ability to shift, his command over his own essence absolute, but he had never been a natural teacher of such subtle arts. He led through strength and wisdom, not arcane tutelage.

Loki, however, was a born instructor when he chose to be, especially when it came to the intricate dance of manipulating energy. Over the past few months, in between his agricultural and zoological “improvements,” he had begun, patiently and with a surprising degree of dedication, to guide his brothers, and a few other curious Jotnar, in the art of channeling their Seidr. He taught them to feel the currents of their own power, to shape it, to coax it into new expressions.

And Helblindi, much to Loki’s genuine, if slightly begrudging, admiration, had been the first to successfully master the Æsir form. It was quite impressive, really. For a being whose natural state was a towering giant of ice and fury, to consciously reshape his physical self into something so comparatively delicate, yet still so clearly him , spoke of a surprising inner discipline and a rapidly developing control. It seemed his boast of being “ a natural ” wasn't entirely unfounded.

With an effortless grace that belied the height of his tower, Loki leaped from the window. His cloak, fashioned from the pristine white fur of some enormous, now-extinct Arctic beast he'd “acquired” from a forgotten corner of Niflheim, billowed out behind him like a snowy banner against the pale Jotunheim sky.

Helblindi, already anticipating the move, reached up a single, surprisingly steady hand in his new, slighter form, and caught Loki’s outstretched arm, steadying his landing. Loki landed lightly on his feet, then promptly made a face, pulling his hand away with a mock grimace.

“Such a gentleman,” Loki drawled, his tone dripping with amused sarcasm.

Helblindi just grinned, his transformed features crinkling in a way that was still endearingly familiar. “Come on, little brother! To the fishing holes! I'm aiming for a hundred tonight! Enough for a feast!” He clapped Loki on the shoulder, a gesture that still held a surprising amount of Frost Giant strength, even in his human guise.

Loki shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips, and fell into step beside him.

His eldest brother, Helblindi, the heir apparent to the Jotun throne, was, at heart, a surprisingly playful soul. As much as his prowess in combat was undeniable, his mind sharp and cunning in its own right, and his capacity for strategic thinking surprisingly astute when he chose to apply it, Helblindi seemed to derive a far greater joy from adventure and boisterous camaraderie than from the somber duties of kingship.

It wasn't a bad thing, Loki mused as they crunched through the snow towards the frozen ocean. It wasn't that Helblindi shirked his destiny or lacked the capacity to rule. Rather, he seemed to possess a clear-eyed understanding that once the crown settled upon his brow, his days of carefree roaming and raucous laughter would be significantly curtailed. So, while youth was still his, he intended to live it to the fullest, to wring every drop of enjoyment from it, leaving no room for future regrets.

Which, strangely enough, sat well with Loki. At least his brother wasn't deluding himself about the weight of responsibility that awaited him. He knew what was coming, and he faced it with a clear, if currently deferred, sense of duty. It was a more honest approach than the blind arrogance Loki had witnessed in other heirs.

Furthermore, Loki genuinely believed Helblindi was worthy of the throne. He possessed the raw strength expected of a Jotun leader, a fierce loyalty to his people, and a mind that, while often preoccupied with merriment, was far from dull. He learned quickly, adapted readily, and possessed an instinctive cunning that, when honed, would serve him well. He had the brawn, and, increasingly, thanks in part to Loki's subtle prodding, the brains to match.

Reaching their chosen spot on the vast, frozen expanse of the ocean, Helblindi, with a casual grace that belied the power behind the movement, lightly tapped his foot on the ice. There was a faint cracking sound, then a section of the thick ice simply… dropped away, sinking neatly into the dark waters below, revealing a perfect, circular fishing hole. No fuss, no explosive effort, just clean, controlled power.

Loki raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine impressiveness in his expression, a feeling that hadn't diminished despite seeing his brother perform similar feats multiple times now. It was a subtle, yet potent, display of their innate cryomancy, refined and focused.

Helblindi, even in his Æsir form, was undeniably tall and well-muscled, towering over Loki by a good head and possessing a physique that spoke of inherent strength. However, compared to their even more massive second brother, Byleistr, or their father, Laufey, whose sheer bulk was awe-inspiring, Helblindi presented a leaner, more agile build. His strength was not in brute, overwhelming force, but in a whip-cord power, quick and precise.

He was fast, incredibly so, his movements fluid and economical. Yet, that speed didn't detract from the impact of his blows. Loki had learned this firsthand during their numerous “sparring sessions” , which often devolved into surprisingly intense, if good-natured, brawls. Helblindi was a whirlwind of motion, difficult to track, and his attacks, when he chose to unleash them with intent, were dangerously potent.

More than just physical prowess, Loki had quickly come to recognize a keen, predatory intelligence glinting in Helblindi's ruby eyes during their mock battles. This man was far too quick, far too clever, to be underestimated. He possessed an almost instinctive understanding of combat flow, an ability to anticipate and exploit openings with ruthless efficiency. He could unleash vicious, cunningly aimed strikes that Loki was fairly certain would have left Thor - particularly Thor deprived of his ridiculously overpowered hammer - a crumpled, lifeless heap within moments. Helblindi fought not just with strength, but with a sharp, street-smart cunning that made him a truly formidable opponent, and a surprisingly effective future king.

Well, there was a very good reason their father, King Laufey, didn't excessively micromanage Helblindi, despite his heir's penchant for revelry. The king, for all his stern exterior and the weight of eons on his shoulders, was no fool. He saw the steel beneath his eldest son's playful demeanor, recognized the keen intellect that often hid behind a jest, and understood the fierce, protective loyalty Helblindi held for his people and his realm. Laufey knew precisely what Helblindi was capable of when the situation demanded it, and he possessed a quiet, unwavering faith in Jotunheim’s future, should that day come when the crown passed to his firstborn.

Loki, observing this dynamic, felt a sense of profound optimism for Jotunheim, a feeling so alien to his Asgardian experience that it was almost startling. The future of this icy realm felt bright, not despite its harshness, but because of the strength and character of its people, embodied by his brothers. And that future felt even brighter, even more secure, with him now in the picture. He was here, not as a reluctant second son overshadowed and mistrusted, but as a valued prince, a powerful ally, ready and willing to lend his unique talents, his sharp mind, and his formidable magic to help his brothers, and by extension, all of Jotunheim, flourish. The contrast to his former life was stark, and deeply, deeply satisfying.

While Helblindi settled onto a conjured ice stool beside the fishing hole, his focus entirely on the task at hand, Loki sat a little ways off, a picture of serene concentration. He wasn't idle. With a snap of his fingers, a cascade of blank magic scrolls unfurled in the air around him, hovering patiently. Feather quills, plucked from some exotic, unfortunate bird during one of his inter-realm jaunts, materialized beside them, dipping into invisible inkwells and beginning to sketch and write with rapid, precise movements, all seemingly directed by Loki’s silent will. Intricate diagrams of fortifications, arcane runes for warding, and lines of elegant, spidery script filled the parchments.

“Whatcha workin' on there?” Helblindi asked, not taking his eyes off the dark water, his voice a low rumble.

Loki didn’t look up from his mental orchestration of the floating documents. “Just finalizing the plans for upgrading the great defensive wall around the capital. Some structural enhancements, a few new rune sequences for improved deflection and early warning. Once these are done, I'll pass them to Byleistr. He can oversee the actual construction.”

Helblindi grunted, then a grin spread across his face as his line suddenly went taut. He expertly reeled in a large, thrashing fish, its scales shimmering with icy blues and silvers. “Hah! Got one!” he boomed, clearly pleased. He quickly dispatched it and re-baited his hook. “Yeah, Byleistr's good with that building stuff. Got the patience for it. Me? I'd rather be hitting things.” He cast his line back into the hole and continued to pull in fish with surprising regularity, his earlier boast about a hundred for dinner seeming less like an exaggeration with each catch.

Loki meticulously reviewed the glowing schematics and notes floating before him, making a few final adjustments with a subtle wave of his hand. Satisfied, he gathered the magical scrolls with another gesture, and they neatly rolled themselves up and vanished, presumably into some pocket dimension he kept for such things.

Then, he reached into his cloak and produced a crystal orb. It was perfectly clear, yet pulsed with a faint, internal white light, the unmistakable resonance of a Wyvern Core at its heart. He cradled it in his hands, his expression thoughtful. He’d been dabbling in the murky arts of prophecy lately, though he’d readily admit it wasn’t his strongest suit. His talents lay more in manipulating the present than divining the future.

Still, something had been… off. For the past few nights, his sleep had been troubled by unsettling, vivid dreams. Not nightmares in the traditional sense, but recurring images that left him with a strange sense of unease. The predominant theme was an overwhelming, all-encompassing blue. Not the familiar, comforting blues of Jotunheim’s ice and sky, but a deeper, more liquid, almost suffocating expanse of blue that seemed to press in on him from all sides.

The crystal orb in Loki’s hands began to shimmer, the faint white light within shifting, deepening into a distinct, pulsing azure. It cast an eerie blue glow on his face, highlighting the frown creasing his brow.

Helblindi, sensing the change in atmosphere even without looking directly, glanced over his shoulder. “Something up?” he asked, his jovial tone tinged with concern. He knew Loki well enough by now to recognize when his younger sibling was genuinely perplexed or troubled.

Loki continued to stare intently into the glowing sphere, his emerald eyes narrowed. Vague, shifting symbols swirled within its depths, too indistinct to form a clear picture, yet evocative of… something. Something vast, and watery, and undeniably blue.

“Well,” Loki said, his voice a low murmur, “I have a few… notions. But I can't say I'm certain of anything.” The dreams, the unsettling blue, the orb’s current display - it all felt connected, like disparate pieces of a puzzle he couldn't quite assemble.

He reached out a slender finger and gently touched the surface of the orb. As his skin made contact, the swirling blue light within the crystal coalesced, sharpened, and then an image flared to life, projected holographically into the air above the sphere. It was a perfect, luminous cube, radiating an intense blue energy that was instantly, chillingly familiar.

Helblindi’s playful demeanor vanished. He dropped his fishing rod with a clatter onto the ice, his own brow furrowing in a serious frown as he stared at the projected cube. “Is that…?” he began, his voice suddenly grave. “Is that the Tesseract?”

Loki nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the ethereal blue cube. “The very same,” he confirmed, a hint of weary resignation in his tone. “Apparently, some monumental imbecile managed to drop it into the Yggdrasil Stream. And it appears to have washed up on… Midgard.”

Loki withdrew his hand, and the glowing blue projection of the Tesseract flickered and vanished. He tucked the crystal orb back into his cloak, his gaze drifting upwards towards the pale, vast Jotunheim sky. “Well,” he said, his voice deliberately casual, “it's not actually that important, is it?”

Helblindi raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched on his transformed features. “The Tesseract? Loki, it's a priceless artifact. A source of immense power.” He remembered the tales, the legends surrounding the glowing cube from his brief, chaotic interactions with Asgardian lore - and the sheer panic it had once caused.

Loki shrugged, a dismissive gesture. “Sure, it can provide a significant energy boost. But Jotunheim isn't exactly lacking in raw power, are we? We have the Casket. We have… other resources.” He let the implication hang in the air. They didn't need the Tesseract in the same desperate way other, less magically endowed realms might.

Helblindi considered this for a moment, then his concern seemed to dissipate. He picked up his fishing rod again. “Fair enough,” he conceded, his focus returning to the dark water. “Then let the Midgardians destroy their own realm with it. Not our problem.” He cast his line with a decisive flick.

A small, cynical smile touched Loki's lips. “That's a fair assessment,” he agreed. “Midgardians, bless their ambitious little hearts, don't exactly have the best track record when it comes to handling objects of cosmic significance like the Tesseract. It’s like giving a toddler a lit torch in a fireworks factory.”

A sudden gust of icy wind swept across the frozen ocean, making Loki’s cloak billow. Helblindi, unfazed, let out a whoop as he hooked another large fish, his attention once again entirely captured by his sport. Loki ran a hand through his dark hair, pushing a stray lock from his forehead, his mind, however, already racing miles ahead.

Those blithering idiots in Asgard, he mused, would inevitably discover the Tesseract's reappearance on Midgard. Heimdall, with his annoyingly persistent gaze, would spot it eventually. And while Asgard moved with the ponderous, self-important slowness of a dying star, they would, sooner or later, dispatch someone to retrieve it.

Which was… irritating. Loki acknowledged, with a flicker of self-awareness, that it was perhaps a petty sentiment. But the thought of Asgard gaining any further advantage, any additional power, still left a bitter taste in his mouth. They had enough. They’d squandered enough.

A single, perfectly formed snowflake drifted down from the sky, twirling in the still air before Loki. He instinctively reached out a pale hand, palm open. The snowflake landed gently on his skin, and then, instead of melting, it seemed to dissolve into a fine, glittering powder that dispersed on the wind. A tiny, almost imperceptible manifestation of his innate control over ice and frost.

A new thought, sharp and sudden, pierced through his musings. Well , he considered, a familiar spark of mischief, and perhaps something a little more complex, igniting in his emerald eyes. I haven't had anything particularly engaging to do lately, have I?

As if sensing the sudden shift in Loki's thoughts, the almost tangible hum of a nascent plan forming in his younger brother's mind, Helblindi chuckled without looking away from his fishing. “Whatever you're cooking up in that devious head of yours,” he said, his voice laced with amusement, “you'd better run it by the old man first.”

He paused, reeling in another respectable catch. “He's probably still not quite ready to let you wander off for too long, you know. Got rather attached to having his youngest back under his roof.” There was a teasing affection in his tone.

Loki pursed his lips, feigning indignation. “It wouldn't be that long. What's so exciting or difficult about Midgard, anyway? A few days at most. In and out.” He waved a dismissive hand, as if a quick trip to another realm to meddle with a cosmic artifact was akin to popping down to the local market for some ice-berries.

Helblindi grunted. “I don't know about that,” he mused, casting his line again. “They sound like an interesting bunch, those Midgardians. And the kind of chaos they apparently specialize in? Seems right up your alley, little brother.”

Loki shot him a sideways glance, his expression carefully neutral. “I'm hardly a child anymore, eager for mere amusement.”

“Sure, sure,” Helblindi replied, his voice deadpan, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Whatever you say, little shortie.”

Loki shot his eldest brother a sharp, irritated glance, his lips forming a distinct pout. The “shortie” comment, while clearly affectionate teasing from Helblindi, still managed to prickle his pride, just a little. He was a master of arcane arts that could unravel reality - height was such a mundane, irrelevant detail.

He huffed quietly, then turned his gaze back towards the distant, ice-locked horizon, the vastness of Jotunheim stretching out before him. The wind whipped a strand of his dark hair across his face, and he absently tucked it behind his ear. Helblindi’s laughter, a low rumble, followed him, but Loki ignored it. His mind was already elsewhere.

Yeah , he thought, a flicker of determination hardening his emerald eyes, the earlier spark of mischief now solidifying into a concrete plan. I’m going to Midgard.

Chapter Text

Well, jetting off to Midgard, as it turned out, was a hell of a lot trickier to execute than to just, you know, say .

Not because of the actual travel. Let's be crystal clear on that front: flitting between the Nine Realms was, for Loki, about as technically challenging as breathing. Easier, on some days, especially if he’d just had a particularly tedious council meeting. A thought, a whisper of green, a subtle tug on the fabric of reality, and poof , he could be anywhere he damn well pleased. He was, after all, Loki. Inter-dimensional Traveler was practically his middle name.

No, the difficulty wasn't in the how . It was in the when , and the what-the-Hel-am-I-supposed-to-do-about-all-this-other-stuff . Jotunheim, it seemed, had developed a rather inconvenient reliance on his particular brand of genius. And, much to his own surprise, he’d developed a rather inconvenient fondness for the icy rock and its giant, occasionally exasperating, inhabitants.

There was the ongoing supervision of the palace’s grand defensive wall upgrades, for instance. Those meticulously designed runes he’d spent weeks perfecting? Yeah, they didn't exactly power themselves. They needed careful calibration, subtle magical nudges, and the occasional stern talking-to when a particular sequence got sulky. Byleistr was a marvel when it came to the heavy lifting and the actual construction - the man could sculpt mountains with his bare hands and make it look like child’s play - but the arcane intricacies? That was Loki’s department. And leaving it half-finished felt… wrong. Like leaving a particularly complex spell hanging, buzzing with unreleased potential. It just wasn’t done.

Then there was the ever-expanding project of Jotunheim’s ecological makeover. The newly introduced flora and fauna, while generally thriving under his initial enchantments, still required occasional… adjustments. One week it was the horned rabbits developing a taste for the palace’s decorative ice-lichen, a surprisingly tricky problem involving taste-aversion hexes and alternative, equally delicious, fodder. The next, it was a new strain of blight threatening the burgeoning grain fields, requiring a hasty deep-dive into obscure mycological texts and the liberal application of counter-spells that smelled faintly of burnt sugar and regret. He was, in essence, the realm’s highly overqualified, occasionally reluctant, chief agricultural scientist and pest control officer, all rolled into one.

But mostly, the delays boiled down to his father. Laufey.

Loki, with a sigh that could have frosted a small windowpane, laid the blame squarely on his own unexpectedly soft, ridiculously sentimental heart. Every time he’d think, “Right, today’s the day. Midgard, here I come!” he’d catch a glimpse of the old king. And Laufey, with his uncanny ability to say nothing and yet convey everything, would look at him. Not with accusation, not with demand. Just… that look. A quiet, profound affection mingled with a subtle, heart-wrenching sadness in those ancient ruby eyes. The unspoken plea of a father who had lost a son once and was terrified, in his own stoic way, of losing him again, even temporarily.

And Loki, the so called master manipulator, the so called god of lies, would find himself utterly disarmed. His resolve would crumble like a week-old ice biscuit. He’d mumble something about needing to check the atmospheric enchantments or fine-tune the fish migration patterns, and another planned departure would evaporate into the frigid Jotunheim air. Damn it all. He was supposed to be the cold-hearted one, the one immune to such blatant emotional blackmail, even if it was unintentional. Apparently, hundred years of Asgardian bullshit hadn't entirely stamped out his capacity for familial affection. Who knew?

So, the days bled into weeks, the weeks into months, and the months, almost imperceptibly, stretched into years. Jotunheim prospered. The defensive walls gleamed with newly imbued power. The plains were vibrant with life. The Jotnar were, if not exactly joyous, then certainly well-fed and secure. And Loki… Loki stayed. He tinkered, he advised, he occasionally caused mild inter-departmental chaos, and he spent quiet evenings with his father, sometimes in comfortable silence, sometimes listening to ancient tales of Jotunheim’s long, harsh history.

By the time Loki finally, actually , managed to extricate himself from the myriad responsibilities and emotional tethers of his new-found home, by the time he’d given enough reassurances to Laufey to last a small eternity and delegated his ongoing projects to a surprisingly competent Byleistr, by the time he set his boots down on the soil of Midgard, a good, solid twenty years had whistled by.

Twenty years. He blinked, the unfamiliar air of what the locals apparently called “New York City” filling his lungs. It smelled of burnt fuel, stale food, and a thousand other unidentifiable, vaguely unpleasant things. Quite a change from the crisp, clean scent of Jotunheim.

“Well,” Loki muttered to himself, adjusting the collar of the impeccably tailored, entirely inconspicuous mortal suit he’d conjured, “better late than never, I suppose.” He cast a critical eye around at the ugly structures, the swarms of noisy vehicles, and the scurrying masses of humanity. “Charming.”

Nineteen thirty-four. Now that was an interesting choice of arrival year, even for a realm-hopping deity with a penchant for the dramatic. Loki stood on a street corner, the cacophony of this “Brooklyn” place assaulting his ears, and took a moment to get his bearings, both geographically and temporally. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of industry and something else… a faint, underlying scent of desperation, like old coffee grounds and stale dreams.

The world, from what Loki could glean from the snippets of shouting newsboys and the discarded, ink-stained broadsheets fluttering in the grimy gutters, was a rather twitchy, irritable beast. Over in what they called “Europe,” a continent that seemed to specialize in flamboyant leaders with questionable facial hair and an even more questionable grasp on international relations, things were apparently simmering nicely. Little mustached men were stomping around, shouting about destiny and lebensraum and other such self-important nonsense that invariably led to people hitting each other with large, pointy objects. It was all terribly predictable. Humanity, it seemed, had a recurring itch for a good, old-fashioned scrap, a primal urge to rearrange the geopolitical furniture with explosives.

And across the vast, churning ocean, this “America” place, this supposed land of opportunity and boundless optimism, was apparently nursing a spectacular hangover from some grand economic party it had thrown for itself. They called it the “Great Depression,” which Loki thought was a wonderfully understated, almost poetic, term for what looked like a collective societal face-plant. People scurried about with a harried, anxious energy, their faces pinched, their clothes a bit too worn. The supposed streets paved with gold seemed to be mostly paved with… well, pavement, and a fair bit of what looked suspiciously like horse manure. So much for gilded pathways.

This particular borough, Brooklyn, was a riot of brick and noise. Tall, soot-stained buildings leaned against each other like drunken sailors, their fire escapes clinging to their facades like rusty iron vines. The streets were a chaotic ballet of sputtering automobiles, horse-drawn carts laden with produce that had seen better days, and throngs of mortals moving with a determined, if somewhat weary, purpose. Children, inexplicably energetic despite the general air of gloom, shrieked and chased each other through alleyways that smelled faintly of cabbage and despair. It was vibrant, in a grimy, overcrowded, slightly desperate sort of way. A melting pot, they called it? More like a pressure cooker, Loki mused, wondering when the lid was due to fly off.

And through it all, underpinning the bluster of nations and the anxieties of individuals, thrummed the familiar, tiresome drumbeat of impending conflict. The whispers of war were no longer whispers; they were becoming insistent, demanding murmurs, seeping from the cracks in the fragile peace like sewer gas. Different flags, different languages, different self-righteous justifications, but the end result was always depressingly similar: mud, blood, and a great deal of shouting.

Loki leaned against a lamppost, the metal cool against his conjured suit, and watched a group of young men across the street engage in a heated, gesticulating argument over something that probably involved a woman or a gambling debt, or both. Mortals. Honestly. They never learned. Centuries, millennia, eons could pass, civilizations could rise and crumble into dust, yet their fundamental nature remained stubbornly, infuriatingly, the same. Give them half a chance, a vaguely plausible excuse, and they’d be at each other’s throats with the gleeful, self-destructive abandon of lemmings charging towards a particularly scenic cliff.

“War,” Loki murmured to the grimy air, a faint, cynical smile playing on his lips. “Such a remarkably persistent hobby.” It was almost… endearing, in a tragic, face-palming sort of way. Like watching a particularly dim-witted pet repeatedly run into the same glass door, expecting a different outcome each time. Midgardians, bless their short, violent little lives, were nothing if not creatures of habit. And their favorite habit, it seemed, was finding new and inventive ways to make each other miserable on a grand scale.

But, well, none of that global kerfuffle was actually Loki’s problem, was it? The impending doom of nations, the squabbles of mortals – fascinating sociological study, perhaps, for a dull afternoon, but hardly his concern. He had his own agenda, his own rather sparkly blue thingy to locate.

Loki, in his usual Æsir form, presented the picture of youthful elegance, though perhaps a touch out of place in the gritty landscape of 1934 Brooklyn. He appeared, by Midgardian standards, to be a lad of about sixteen years. Except, well, he was dressed rather more… impeccably. A tailored beige jacket, crisp white trousers that looked like they’d never encountered a speck of dust, and an air of casual sophistication that screamed “misplaced scion of immense wealth.” His movements were fluid, almost ethereal, and his posture held an innate grace that no amount of rough-and-tumble Brooklyn upbringing could replicate. He carried himself with a quiet confidence that bordered on regal, a stark contrast to the hunched shoulders and furtive glances of many of the locals. His features, undeniably beautiful, held a certain delicate refinement, a subtle androgyny that was intriguing rather than overt.

As he strolled down the cracked sidewalks, his emerald eyes, cool and appraising, swept over the dilapidated storefronts and the curious faces that turned to stare. He was an anomaly, a splash of expensive champagne in a world of cheap beer, and the mortals knew it. Their gazes lingered, a mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and perhaps a touch of envy. Loki, naturally, paid them no mind whatsoever. Their fleeting opinions were as relevant to him as the buzzing of a particularly irritating fly.

He wandered, a languid predator in a concrete jungle, a growing sense of boredom beginning to settle in. There wasn't a whisper, not a faint shimmer, not even a particularly enthusiastic blue glow to indicate the Tesseract’s presence. He knew, with a frustrating lack of specificity, that the blasted cube was somewhere on this mudball of a planet. Pinpointing its exact location, however, was proving to be a bit of a drag.

Again, prophecy wasn’t exactly his forte. He could do all sort of spells, even nasty ones. But peering into the murky, convoluted currents of the future to divine the location of a lost cosmic artifact? No, not that. Besides, Loki wasn’t entirely convinced that the nebulous art of seeing the future was particularly useful for, you know, finding things . It seemed more geared towards vague pronouncements of doom and inconveniently timed heroic quests.

Midgard, or at least this particular grimy corner of it, was starting to feel decidedly… dull. The initial novelty of the squalor and the frantic energy of its inhabitants was wearing thin. It was all so… predictable. So human.

With a sigh that was more theatrical than genuinely weary, Loki found himself at the edge of a patch of green masquerading as a park. A few spindly trees, their leaves already tinged with the grime of the city, offered scant shade. He spotted a low-hanging branch on one of them, sturdy enough to bear his slight weight. With an effortless leap, he was perched, legs dangling, idly kicking at the air.

He surveyed the scene – children shrieking, old men playing checkers with a grim intensity, a couple smooching rather enthusiastically on a nearby bench – and found it all profoundly uninspiring. Perhaps a change of scenery was in order. Paris had a certain reputation for… diversions. London, with its perpetual fog and air of faded grandeur, might offer some atmospheric charm. Or perhaps he should venture further afield. Those “Asian” countries he’d read about in some of the more esoteric Asgardian texts sounded suitably exotic and potentially less… aggressively beige than this current locale. The possibilities were, as always, numerous. And far more appealing than continuing to wander aimlessly through the streets of Brooklyn, waiting for a glowing blue cube to conveniently fall into his lap.

Loki sighed, a delicate exhalation that barely stirred the grimy leaves around him. He idly brought a slender finger to his dark hair, twirling a stray lock around it, a habit he fell into when boredom threatened to consume him.

His mind drifted back to his previous jaunts to this realm. Centuries ago, wasn't it? Two hundred years? Three? Who kept track of such trivialities when time stretched before you like an endless, often tedious, road? His main impression of Midgardians back then was that they were… remarkably gullible. Delightfully easy to manipulate into all sorts of shady bargains and delightfully self-destructive enterprises. It had been a rather amusing pastime, a way to alleviate the crushing ennui of Asgard, slipping away to stir up a bit of chaos amongst the mortals. Good times.

He recalled, with a faint, nostalgic smirk, the time he’d caused an entire fledgling nation to collapse into anarchic disarray simply by whispering a carefully crafted lie into the ear of a seemingly insignificant beggar boy. A few well-chosen words, a nudge in the right direction, and poof – societal implosion. Humans were so wonderfully susceptible to suggestion, so eager to believe the worst of each other. It was almost too easy.

Loki made a small, contemplative “tch” sound with his tongue. Perhaps, he mused, a more proactive approach was needed to locate this errant Tesseract. Wandering around aimlessly was clearly getting him nowhere. Maybe he should just find one of these self-important “national leaders” he’d been reading about, subtly nudge their feeble minds with a whisper of his will, and have them expend the effort of locating the cube. It would be efficient, at the very least. And potentially quite entertaining to watch them scramble.

He pouted, a fleeting expression of petulant boredom, then shrugged. With a sudden, impulsive movement, he pushed himself off the branch, intending to land lightly on the ground below.

In his momentary distraction, lost in thoughts of global manipulation and the delightful gullibility of mortals, Loki failed to notice the figure directly beneath his chosen landing spot. His descent, usually so graceful and controlled, became an uncharacterૢcharacteristic tumble.

He landed, not on the hard-packed earth of the park, but squarely on top of another youth.

The impact was surprisingly soft, cushioned by the slender frame of the unfortunate individual beneath him. Loki found himself sprawled, rather undignifiedly, atop a boy who let out a surprised “oof!” sound.

The lad he’d so unceremoniously flattened was… striking, in a fragile sort of way. He was thin, undeniably so, with limbs that seemed almost too delicate for his frame. His clothes, though clean, were worn and a little too large, hinting at a physique that struggled to fill them. Yet, despite the skinniness, there was an underlying handsomeness to his features. A shock of blond hair, the color of sun-bleached straw, had fallen across his forehead. His eyes, when they fluttered open, were a startling, clear blue, wide and dazed. There was a gentleness about his face, a kindness etched into the lines around his mouth, even in his current state of bewildered shock.

Loki, momentarily winded himself, pushed up slightly, resting his weight on his hands, which were planted firmly on either side of the boy’s narrow chest. He stared down, a flicker of annoyance mixed with surprise on his own face.

The boy beneath him blinked, his blue eyes struggling to focus. He looked up at Loki, who was currently framed by the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves above, his dark hair haloed by the light, his expression one of ethereal, if slightly irritated, beauty.

A soft, breathy sound escaped the boy’s lips. He seemed utterly disoriented, his gaze hazy, lost in some post-impact dreamscape.

“Angel?” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, filled with a dazed, almost reverent wonder.

A gentle breeze rustled the leaves overhead, sending a cascade of gold and russet fluttering down around them, like nature itself was attempting to stage-manage a romantic, if somewhat accidental, encounter. The sunlight, filtering through the canopy, dappled Loki’s dark hair and illuminated the fine features of his face, creating an almost otherworldly glow. It was, Loki had to admit, a rather picturesque scene. At least, it probably was for the boy currently gazing up at him with wide, star-struck eyes. For Loki, it was just… an inconvenient collision.

With a huff of irritation, Loki scrambled to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from his pristine beige jacket. He shot a quick, annoyed glance at the boy still sprawled on the ground, looking utterly bewildered. Honestly, mortals. Couldn't they watch where they were… lying?

Loki let out another sigh, this one tinged with a reluctant sense of obligation. He extended a hand towards the fallen youth. “Sorry about that,” he muttered, his tone more exasperated than apologetic. “Didn’t see you there.”

The boy blinked, his dazed expression slowly clearing. He reached up and took Loki’s offered hand. As Loki pulled him to his feet, he was genuinely surprised by how little the boy weighed. It was like lifting a bundle of well-arranged sticks. The lad swayed slightly as he stood, still looking a bit unsteady.

Now that they were both upright, Loki got a better look at him. And wow. This “little lad,” as Loki mentally dubbed him, was truly, remarkably, almost alarmingly thin. He was tall enough, but his frame was so slight, his shoulders so narrow, that he looked as if a strong gust of wind could snatch him up and carry him away like a stray leaf. His cheap clothes hung loosely on him, emphasizing his fragility. Yet, despite the skinniness, that gentle, handsome quality to his face persisted, along with an air of quiet resilience in those clear blue eyes.

Before Loki could offer any further, perhaps slightly less begrudging, pleasantries, or even properly assess the structural integrity of his accidental landing pad, a group of other youths materialized from behind a nearby cluster of trees. There were three of them, all roughly the same age as the boy Loki had just bowled over, but built along far more… robust lines. They swaggered forward, their expressions a mixture of arrogance and mean-spirited amusement.

“Well, well, well,” one of them sneered, a hulking brute with a face like a squashed potato. He nudged one of his companions, a weaselly-looking fellow with shifty eyes. “Look what we got here, boys. Little Stevie saving damsel in distress again?”

The potato-faced one then turned his sneer towards Loki, his gaze openly contemptuous as it raked over Loki’s fine clothes and delicate features. “And who’s this, Stevie? Your new… faggot lover?” He spat the word out like it was something vile he’d found stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

Loki’s eyebrows shot up, his expression instantly hardening. He’d encountered that particular slur before, in his less… savory explorations of Midgardian society. It was a crude, ugly word, wielded by crude, ugly minds. And these particular specimens of Midgardian thuggery were rapidly escalating from “mildly irritating background noise” to “actively infuriating.”

His emerald eyes, which had been coolly observant a moment before, now glittered with a dangerous, icy light. This was becoming significantly less boring.

Loki’s gaze, sharp and cold as a shard of Jotunheim ice, flicked over the approaching thugs. His lip curled almost imperceptibly, a silent expression of profound disdain. He wasn't impressed. At all. They were textbook bullies: loud, aggressive, and radiating an almost palpable aura of insecurity masked as bravado. Pathetic, really.

He then turned his attention to the thin boy beside him, who was now looking distinctly uncomfortable, his earlier dazed expression replaced by one of weary resignation. “And who,” Loki inquired, his voice carrying a note of bored disdain that cut through the thugs’ sneering, “are these pigs? They’re ugly, aren’t they?” He didn't bother to lower his voice.

The effect was instantaneous. The potato-faced leader’s already ruddy complexion deepened to an alarming shade of purple. His eyes bulged. “Why you little...!” he roared, his voice cracking with fury. He and his two cronies, equally incensed by the insult, surged forward, fists clenched.

“Hold on!” the thin boy - Stevie, or Steven, or Steve, honestly, Loki didn't give a fuck - interjected, stepping slightly in front of Loki, his hands raised in a placating gesture. He looked hopelessly outmatched, a sparrow trying to halt a charging rhinoceros, but there was a stubborn set to his jaw. “There’s no need for—”

But Loki, never one to let others fight his battles, especially not when the opponents were so laughably inept, moved with a speed that was almost a blur. He sidestepped Stevie, a flicker of dark hair and pale skin.

As the potato-faced brute lunged, Loki’s leg shot out in a deceptively casual sweep. It connected with the thug’s ankle with pinpoint accuracy. The brute, caught completely off guard by the sudden, unexpected attack, let out a yelp of surprise as his feet went out from under him. He crashed to the ground with a heavy thud that probably registered on the local seismograph.

Loki didn’t even spare him a glance. He pivoted, fluid and graceful as a striking serpent. The weaselly-looking thug, who had been following close behind his leader, found himself suddenly off-balance as Loki’s foot hooked behind his knee. His leg buckled, and he stumbled forward with a cry of pain. Before he could regain his footing, Loki’s other foot lashed out in a sharp, precise kick that connected squarely with the weasel’s chest. The air rushed out of the thug’s lungs in a wheezing gasp, and he crumpled to the ground, clutching his ribs.

The third bully, a lanky, pimply youth who had been bringing up the rear, finally registered that his companions were no longer upright. He skidded to a halt, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and dawning fear. He made a clumsy attempt to swing a wild punch at Loki.

Loki swayed effortlessly to the side, the punch whistling harmlessly past his ear. He moved with an almost contemptuous ease, like a dancer avoiding a particularly clumsy partner. Then, in a movement too quick for the pimply youth to follow, Loki’s hand chopped down, connecting with the back of the thug’s neck in a sharp, precise blow. The youth’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, landing in a boneless heap beside his already fallen comrades.

It was over in a matter of seconds. Three thugs, dispatched with an almost surgical, if brutal, efficiency. Loki stood amidst the fallen bullies, not a hair out of place, his breathing even, his expression one of mild, almost bored, satisfaction. He delicately dusted off his hands, as if he’d just been engaged in some particularly vigorous, if slightly distasteful, gardening.

Loki surveyed the groaning, twitching pile of bullies at his feet. He flicked his wrist in a dismissive gesture, as if shooing away a particularly bothersome swarm of gnats. “Now,” he said, his voice calm and utterly devoid of exertion, yet carrying an unmistakable edge of command, “be good little dogs and scurry off.” He wrinkled his nose slightly, regarding them as one might regard a particularly unpleasant piece of refuse one had unfortunately stepped in.

The bullies, to their credit, didn’t need to be told twice. Fear, stark and primal, had replaced their earlier bravado. They scrambled to their feet, whimpering and clutching at their various aches and bruises, and practically fell over each other in their haste to vacate the immediate vicinity. They didn’t look back.

Loki watched them flee, a roll of his eyes the only indication of his thoughts. Pathetic. Utterly pathetic. All that bluster, all that aggression, and not an ounce of actual strength or skill between them. Bullies, he mused, were invariably cowards at heart. It was a universal truth, applicable across all realms, it seemed.

He then turned his attention back to the thin boy, Stevie-Steve-whatever-his-name-was. The lad was staring at him, his jaw practically on the ground, his blue eyes wide with a mixture of shock, awe, and perhaps a touch of apprehension. Loki gave him a brief, appraising glance, then, deciding he’d had enough excitement for one afternoon, offered a curt wave. “Bye,” he said, already turning to leave. He’d had his fill of Brooklyn’s local color.

“Wait!” the boy blurted out, his voice suddenly urgent. He took a hesitant step forward. “My name… it’s Steven. Steven Grant Rogers.” He offered the information with a sincerity that was almost painful to witness. “What’s… what’s yours?”

Loki paused, one foot already set to carry him away. He didn’t turn around fully, merely glanced back over his shoulder. He brought a hand up to tuck a stray strand of dark hair behind his ear, a gesture that was both casual and elegant. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corners of his lips. The name that sprang to his mind was an amusing little concoction, a nod to his new home and his old tricks.

“Louis,” he said, his voice smooth as silk, carrying easily on the afternoon breeze. “Louis Frost.”

And with that, he continued on his way, melting into the throng of oblivious Midgardians, leaving Steven Grant Rogers standing alone in the slightly battered park, wondering if he’d just had a particularly vivid, and rather violent, hallucination.

Chapter Text

Turns out, finding a glowing blue cube of unlimited power on a planet teeming with loud, squishy, and remarkably oblivious mortals was a bit more of a headache than Loki had initially penciled in. He’d figured, you know, cosmic artifact, immense energy signature – it should stick out like a Jotun in a sauna. Apparently, Midgard had a peculiar talent for misplacing things of universe-altering significance. Or perhaps, its own chaotic, messy energies were just very good at hiding shiny, powerful objects.

Loki, in his dapper “Louis Frost” disguise, had spent the first few weeks employing his usual, more refined methods of information gathering. A subtle whisper of magic here, a carefully planted suggestion there, slipping into the minds of those who fancied themselves “in the know”. He’d “chatted” with ambitious senators in smoke-filled backrooms, “conversed” with sharp-eyed intelligence chiefs behind imposing mahogany desks, and even “shared a drink” - metaphorically speaking, of course, he wouldn't actually touch their ghastly beverages - with a few shadowy figures who pulled strings from even deeper in the murk. The results were uniformly, and irritatingly, zero.

These supposed leaders, these self-proclaimed masters of their grubby little domains, knew absolutely nothing. Nada. Zip. They could prattle on for hours about international tensions, economic woes, and the shocking decline in moral standards, but mention a cube of near-infinite power? Blank stares. Sometimes, a nervous little laugh, as if he’d told a particularly obscure joke.

“Honestly,” Loki muttered to himself one evening, perched on the gargoyle of some ostentatious new skyscraper overlooking the glittering, indifferent lights of the city, “you'd think a celestial paperweight capable of rewriting reality might have, oh, I don't know, made the news”. The sheer ignorance was baffling. He was Loki. He was used to people being either terrified of him, trying to curry favor with him, or, at the very least, acknowledging his vastly superior intellect. Being met with widespread, genuine cluelessness was a novel, and deeply annoying, experience.

It wasn't that they were deliberately hiding it from him specifically. He could tell the difference between genuine ignorance and a well-rehearsed lie. These mortals, for all their bluster and self-importance, were simply oblivious. The Tesseract hadn't pinged on their primitive radar. Which, when he thought about it, was perhaps even more insulting. For an object of such magnitude to just vanish into the mundane clutter of Midgard without so much as a ripple in their collective consciousness? Preposterous.

His best hope, the scenario he clung to with a sliver of optimistic cynicism, was that some clandestine group, some shadowy cabal of mortals with more ambition than sense, had gotten their grubby little mitts on it. A secret society, perhaps, dabbling in things far beyond their comprehension. The thought was almost amusing. Midgardians, with their short lifespans and even shorter attention spans, forming a secret organization to hoard cosmic power? Adorable. And, more importantly, traceable. A secret, by its very nature, implied someone knew it. And if someone knew it, Loki could find them. He could nudge them, persuade them, or, if necessary, extract the information in a manner that was significantly less pleasant for them but far more efficient for him. He rather relished the thought of outwitting a bunch of self-important mortals playing at being cosmic puppet masters.

The alternative, however, was a far more depressing, and frankly, tedious prospect. What if the Tesseract wasn't being hoarded? What if it hadn't fallen into the hands of some shadowy organization or power-hungry dictator? What if it had simply… gotten lost? Truly, properly, utterly lost. Plunked down in the middle of one of this planet's vast, untamed wildernesses. Sunk to the bottom of one of their ridiculously deep oceans. Buried under miles of sand in a forgotten desert. Frozen solid in one of their desolate polar ice caps.

The sheer scale of Midgard, when you actually stopped to consider it as a hiding place, was rather daunting. It was a big, messy, sprawling marble, full of inconveniently large empty spaces. Searching for a single, relatively small cube in all that… well, it was like looking for a specific snowflake in a Jotunheim blizzard. Possible, perhaps, with enough time and an almost superhuman level of patience - neither of which Loki possessed in abundance when it came to tedious, thankless tasks.

He sighed, the sound swallowed by the city wind. This was not how he’d envisioned his grand return to meddling in inter-realm affairs. He was supposed to be subtly manipulating empires, not playing cosmic hide-and-seek with a recalcitrant blue box. This was rapidly veering into the realm of actual, honest-to-Norns work . And Loki, as a general principle, was not a fan of work. Especially when it involved wandering around a primitive planet asking, “Excuse me, have you seen a glowing cube of immense power? No? Oh, alright then”.

This entire endeavor was proving to be a monumental pain in his perfectly sculpted posterior.

So, Loki found himself back in the charmingly squalid streets of Brooklyn. And “cranky” was an understatement. Imagine the distilled frustration of a celestial being forced to play detective on a planet that smelled vaguely of wet socks and disappointment, and you'd be getting close. His patience, already a finite resource, was wearing thinner than the plot of a Midgardian opera. Every rattling streetcar, every shouting newsboy, every gust of grimy wind seemed specifically designed to irritate him further.

And it really, really didn't help matters when, turning a corner onto a street that looked depressingly identical to the last ten he'd traversed, he heard familiar sounds. Not the general cacophony of Brooklyn life, but something more specific. The thud of fist on flesh. Grunts of pain. The jeering laughter of bullies. It was a symphony of idiocy he recognized.

With a sigh that could curdle milk, Loki veered towards a narrow, refuse-strewn alleyway from which the delightful acoustics were emanating. And there, in a scene of pathetic predictability, was the skinny lad. Steven Grant Rogers, wasn't it? Looking even worse for wear than the last time Loki had encountered him in a state of horizontal distress.

He was curled on the damp cobblestones, trying, rather ineffectually, to shield his head as the same trio of Neanderthals from their previous park encounter took turns aiming clumsy kicks and punches at his slender frame. The potato-faced one was particularly enjoying himself, his grunts punctuated by delighted snorts.

Loki watched for a beat, an eyebrow arched in a mixture of disgust and profound boredom. Honestly. Again? Did this boy have some sort of perverse talent for attracting low-grade thuggery? Or were these particular cretins just exceptionally persistent in their pursuit of pointless violence?

He stooped, picked up a small, sharp-edged pebble from the grimy ground, and weighed it thoughtfully in his palm. Then, with a flick of his wrist that was almost too quick to see, he sent it spinning through the air.

“Hey!” Loki called out, his voice sharp and clear, cutting through the bullies' gleeful thuggery.

The pebble struck the weaselly-looking thug, the one who was currently winding up for a particularly enthusiastic kick, squarely in the throat. The impact was precise, brutal. The weasel let out a strangled, gurgling sound, his eyes bulging in shock and sudden, intense pain. He clutched at his neck, stumbled backwards, and then dropped to his knees, gasping like a landed fish.

The other two bullies froze, their fists still raised, momentarily confused by the sudden incapacitation of their comrade. They looked around wildly, trying to locate the source of the interruption. Their gazes landed on Loki, who was leaning casually against the alley wall, a picture of nonchalant menace.

The potato-faced leader blinked, recognition slowly dawning in his dim little brain. Then, apparently remembering the swift and painful outcome of their last encounter with this impeccably dressed, surprisingly dangerous youth, his bravado seemed to deflate like a punctured lung. He exchanged a panicked glance with the pimply thug, who looked equally eager to be anywhere else.

Without a word, they grabbed their still-gagging companion, hauled him unceremoniously to his feet, and bolted, scrambling over overflowing dustbins in their haste to escape the alley. They didn't even bother with a parting insult.

Loki watched them go, a faint smirk playing on his lips. So easily spooked. Predictable.

He then turned his attention to the figure still huddled on the ground. He strolled over, his footsteps echoing softly in the sudden quiet of the alley. He peered down at the boy, who was slowly, painfully, pushing himself up into a sitting position. One eye was already starting to swell, and there was a trickle of blood from his split lip. His cheap clothes were torn and stained with grime.

Loki tilted his head, his emerald eyes coolly assessing the damage. “Steven Grant Rogers, isn't it?” he inquired, his voice smooth and devoid of any particular emotion. He paused, letting his gaze linger on the boy's bruised and battered face. Then, with a sigh that was pure, unadulterated Loki, he delivered his verdict.

“Damn, you look like shit”.

The bruised and battered boy looked up at Loki, his one good eye squinting against the dim alley light. A small, unexpected sound escaped him, a huff of air that might have been a laugh if his ribs weren't protesting so vehemently. He saw the expression on Loki's face - that fascinating, almost comical mixture of detached curiosity and thinly veiled disgust - and found it, despite his current predicament, strangely amusing.

“Yeah,” He managed, his voice raspy. “I am”. He winced as the word stretched his split lip, sending a fresh throb of pain through his jaw. He gingerly touched the corner of his mouth, his fingers coming away stained with blood.

Loki opened his mouth, a perfectly crafted, bitingly sarcastic remark poised on his tongue. Something about the inadvisability of using one's face as a punching bag, perhaps. Or a cutting observation on the general lack of self-preservation instincts in certain Midgardians. But then… the words just wouldn't come. He looked at this kid - this ridiculously skinny, stubbornly resilient, currently bleeding kid - and the usual wellspring of sardonic wit simply dried up.

Wow , Loki thought, a flicker of genuine, almost bewildered surprise running through him. Look at me. A so-called cruel god, the master of lies, the architect of chaos… and I’m actually feeling something vaguely resembling… pity? For a Midgardian whelp? This was… unexpected. And frankly, a little disconcerting. He wasn't supposed to do pity. It wasn't in his repertoire.

With an internal sigh that was far more weary than his usual theatrical exhalations, Loki lowered himself to sit on an overturned wooden crate beside Steven. He casually slipped a hand into the pocket of his impeccably tailored jacket, a picture of nonchalance. In the hidden confines of the pocket, however, his fingers danced with a faint shimmer of green magic. A small, silver tin materialized in his grasp.

He pulled it out, snapping it open with a practiced flick of his thumb. Inside was a clear, cool-looking balm that emanated a faint, refreshing scent, like crushed mint leaves and a hint of something distinctly… otherworldly. It was one of his own concoctions, a minor healing salve whipped up from various exotic ingredients he’d “acquired” during his travels. Good for bruises, cuts, and general mortal fragility.

Without a word, Loki dipped a slender finger into the balm and, before Steven could protest or even fully register what was happening, gently began to apply it to the cut on the boy’s lip and the rapidly purpling bruise forming around his eye. His touch was surprisingly light, almost hesitant.

“Do they… make a habit of this?” Loki asked, his voice carefully neutral, his attention focused on dabbing the cool salve onto a particularly nasty scrape on Steven’s cheekbone.

Steven winced slightly as the balm touched a tender spot, but then a small, wry smile touched his lips - or, well, the uninjured side of his lips. “Only when I make ‘em mad,” he said, his voice still a bit rough.

Loki paused in his ministrations, his emerald eyes narrowing slightly. He tilted his head, regarding Steven with a look that was part exasperation, part grudging admiration. “And I’m guessing you make them mad… what? Seven days a week?”

Steven didn’t answer, just offered a small, self-deprecating shrug. He looked away, his gaze fixing on a particularly interesting patch of damp moss growing on the alley wall. That silence, that quiet acceptance of his lot, was what really got to Loki. It wasn't anger he felt towards the boy - quite the opposite. It was a strange, unfamiliar surge of frustration. Not at Steven, but at… well, at everything. At the inherent unfairness of life, at the casual cruelty of bullies, at a society that allowed such imbalances to persist. It was messy. And irritating.

Loki resumed applying the salve, his touch a little firmer this time, almost brusque. He kept his voice cool, detached, fighting back the unfamiliar surge of… something. “Well,” he said, his tone deliberately nonchalant, “some people are just like that, aren’t they? Find a reason to be angry about everything. Even when, and perhaps especially when, they themselves are complete and utter shitheads”.

As he finished dabbing the salve onto the last visible scrape, Loki leaned back slightly, regarding Steven with a look that was both appraising and faintly exasperated. “Steven Grant Rogers,” he began, his voice laced with a dry sort of patience, “seriously, though. What exactly did you do to provoke such a… spirited response?”

The boy offered a small, almost sheepish smile, which immediately made his bruised face ache. “You can just call me Steve,” he said, his voice a little stronger now, perhaps thanks to the cooling effect of the balm, or perhaps just the unexpected company. “My friends do”.

Loki raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, his expression utterly unimpressed by the attempted familiarity. The unspoken “And you think we're friends?” hung heavy in the air. Steve, however, seemed to take Loki's stoic silence in stride, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards again.

He explained, his gaze steady despite the swelling around his eye, “They were… hassling some of my friends from class. You know, pushing them around, trying to take their lunch money. So, I… I told them to stop”. He said it simply, as if it were the most natural, obvious thing in the world to do.

Loki’s hand, which had been about to recap the silver tin, froze mid-air. He closed his eyes for a long moment, a slow, deliberate inhale, then an equally slow exhale. He could almost feel a headache forming behind his temples. This kid. This infuriatingly, ridiculously, good kid. He opened his eyes and, with a renewed sense of weary obligation, resumed gently applying the balm to a particularly dark bruise blooming on Steve's cheekbone.

“Okay,” Loki said, his voice deliberately flat, devoid of any inflection. “So, how many of your 'friends' stepped in to do the same for you when those troglodytes decided to rearrange your face?”

Steve went still. The faint smile vanished. He stared down at his own scuffed knuckles, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the distant rumble of city traffic. He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Loki shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible movement. He didn't press the issue. There was no point. The answer was painfully, glaringly obvious. He capped the tin of balm and slipped it back into his pocket.

Life, Loki mused, his gaze drifting to the grimy brick wall opposite them, was indeed a remarkably unfair proposition. Some people, it seemed, were just destined to be the ones who stood up, while others were content to stand by. Or, worse, to join the kicking. He hoped, with a detached sort of academic interest, that this boy, this Steve, would eventually grasp that rather fundamental, if somewhat bleak, truth. It might save him a few beatings in the long run. Or, more likely, it wouldn't. Some people were just stubbornly, hopelessly, themselves.

“Even the teachers… the grown-ups… they don't really care,” Steve murmured, his voice barely audible, still staring at his hands as if they held the answer to some complex, unsolvable riddle. The words were heavy with a quiet, resigned disappointment.

Loki flicked a stray lock of dark hair back from his forehead with an impatient gesture. “Of course they don't,” he stated, his tone matter-of-fact, almost bored. “And trust me on this, skinny boy,” he added, his emerald eyes glinting with a cynical amusement, “on the rare occasion they do decide to 'care', you'll somehow end up being the one at fault. The troublemaker. The one who 'provoked' the situation”. He'd seen that particular brand of adult hypocrisy play out countless times, in countless worlds. It was a depressingly universal constant.

He pushed himself to his feet, stretching languidly, like a sleek black cat uncurling after a nap. The movement was graceful, effortless, a stark contrast to Steve’s still-aching stiffness. Then, with another casual dip into his seemingly bottomless jacket pocket, he produced a different container. This one was a small, elegantly carved wooden box, and when he flicked it open, it revealed a neat row of what looked like brightly colored, jewel-like candies.

Before Steve could even register the movement, Loki had plucked one out - a vibrant, sapphire-blue lozenge - and, with a surprising swiftness, popped it into Steve’s mouth. The boy blinked, startled, the unexpected sweetness flooding his senses. The candy had a cool, slightly sharp taste, like winter berries and a hint of something… electric.

“Go home,” Loki instructed, his voice still holding that edge of detached authority. He gestured vaguely towards the alley entrance. “And think. Properly. About… things”. He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. Or perhaps, he simply couldn't be bothered.

With that, Loki gave a curt, almost dismissive wave of his hand - not a goodbye, more of a “shoo” - and turned on his heel. He strode out of the alley without a backward glance, melting back into the indifferent flow of Brooklyn's afternoon crowd, leaving Steve sitting alone on the overturned crate, the strange, sweet-tart taste of the candy dissolving on his tongue, and a whole host of new, unsettling thoughts beginning to swirl in his bruised, bewildered mind.

It wasn't long before their paths crossed again. In fact, a mere three days later, Loki found himself seeking a brief respite from the increasingly tedious, and thus far fruitless, hunt for the Tesseract. He’d commandeered a park bench, shaded by a surprisingly resilient oak tree, and was attempting to wade through a Midgardian novel he’d “borrowed” from a dusty bookshop. The plot, involving a brooding detective, a femme fatale with questionable morals, and a missing diamond necklace, was, in Loki’s esteemed opinion, remarkably… mid. And rather boring. He’d orchestrated far more complex deceptions before breakfast.

From the corner of his eye, he registered movement. Steve Rogers, looking slightly less like he’d been used as a practice dummy for a boxing class, but still radiating that same air of earnest fragility, was approaching. Loki had, admittedly, been paying a sliver more attention to his immediate surroundings since the… unfortunate landing incident. One didn’t make a habit of unceremoniously squashing the local fauna, even the human kind.

Steve stopped a few feet from the bench, his thin frame silhouetted against the afternoon sun. He seemed to gather himself for a moment, then, his voice surprisingly firm, he stated, “Teach me how to fight”.

Loki slowly lowered the novel, his finger marking his place - not that he particularly cared about losing it. He looked up at Steve, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arching in a silent question. The boy's gaze was unwavering, his clear blue eyes holding a new, almost fiery, determination. It was… interesting. And, Loki had to admit, a little bit strange, in a way he couldn't quite pinpoint.

He tilted his head, a faint, curious smile playing on his lips. “Why?” Loki asked, his voice smooth and deceptively mild.

Steve let out a small sigh, a gust of air that seemed to carry the weight of too many lost fights. “To protect myself,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. He hesitated for a moment, then added, his gaze dropping briefly to the ground before snapping back up to meet Loki’s, “And… and to protect others”.

Loki's eyes rolled so far back in his head they almost got stuck. Oh, great , he thought, a wave of familiar irritation washing over him. “Protect myself, protect others”. Such a noble, self-sacrificing sentiment. The kind of earnest, do-gooder tripe that usually made Loki want to hex someone into their grave. He actively disliked such blatant, unadulterated idealism. It was… naive. And usually led to a great deal of unnecessary suffering, mostly for the idealist in question.

“I'm sure,” Loki drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “there are numerous… 'dojos' or 'boxing gyms' or whatever quaint establishments you mortals frequent for such pursuits. Places where burly men in pajamas will happily teach you to flail about for a modest fee”.

Steve’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. “I… I can't afford it,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The admission seemed to cost him a measure of pride.

The young god didn't even bother to look up from his contemplation of a particularly uninspired sentence in the novel. “And you imagine,” he continued, his tone coolly indifferent, “that I would offer my… considerable expertise… free of charge?”

Silence descended. A thick, awkward, decidedly uncomfortable silence. The distant shouts of children playing and the rumble of city traffic seemed to fade into the background. Loki could feel Steve’s unwavering gaze on him, a silent plea mixed with that stubborn, fiery determination.

Loki let out another sigh, this one tinged with a reluctant sort of resignation. He slowly raised his head, a cutting remark, something about the audacity of expecting charity from a superior being, already forming on his lips. But then, for the second time in their brief, accidental acquaintance, the words died unspoken. He met Steve Rogers’ eyes, and something in that clear, unwavering, ridiculously earnest gaze just… disarmed him. It was profoundly annoying.

Just then, a cheerful, tinkling bell sounded from across the park. Loki glanced over, his gaze landing on a brightly painted cart being pushed by a man in a white apron. Frozen confectionery of some sort, by the looks of it.

An idea, sudden and slightly absurd, sparked in Loki’s mind. He pointed a slender finger towards the cart. “Buy me one of those,” he said, his voice regaining a measure of its usual cool authority. “And I'll teach you”.

Steve followed Loki’s gesture, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Ice cream?” he asked, his voice laced with disbelief.

Loki nodded, a flicker of amusement in his emerald eyes. “Sure,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “Ice cream, frozen delight, whatever you call it”.

The blond boy’s eyes widened, first in surprise, then with a sudden, almost desperate hope. Without a word, he scrambled to his feet and practically sprinted towards the ice cream cart, his lanky limbs pumping with an unexpected burst of speed. Loki watched him go, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. The kid was certainly… eager.

He saw Steve fumbling in his pockets, extracting a small, crumpled handful of coins - what Loki presumed was probably the entirety of his worldly wealth, or close to it - and exchanging them for one of the frozen treats. The poor boy. Spending his last pennies on a sugary confection to appease a capricious, otherworldly being. It was almost… pitiable. In an amusing sort of way.

To be fair, Loki didn’t actually need the “ice cream” … or whatever it was. He’d already, in that brief, inexplicable moment of weakness when confronted with Steve’s ridiculously earnest gaze, made the decision to teach him something. Not how to throw a punch or execute a fancy kick, of course. The boy was built like a particularly underfed scarecrow; he barely had the muscle mass to stand upright against a stiff breeze, let alone engage in fisticuffs with Brooklyn’s finest thugs. No, Loki had other, more… subtle methods in mind.

Besides, things were undeniably dull. The Tesseract was proving elusive, Midgardian society was a predictable circus of folly, and he was, frankly, bored. This… project… might provide a mildly entertaining diversion. A little experiment, if you will. Could he, Loki, master of arcane arts and subtle manipulations, actually transform this earnest, fragile reed of a boy into someone capable of defending himself? It was a challenge. And Loki, despite his protestations, rather enjoyed a good challenge, especially when the odds seemed so laughably stacked against success.

After all, Loki mused, a flicker of his old, predatory cunning returning to his eyes, there were myriad ways to incapacitate an opponent, particularly one who relied on brute strength. Ways that didn't require matching them blow for blow. Ways that involved wit, agility, and a healthy dose of trickery. And who knew more about that than Loki Laufeyson?

Steve trotted back, a slight flush on his cheeks from the exertion, carefully holding a single, rather precarious-looking ice cream cone. It was a swirl of pale pink and white, perched atop a fragile, wafer-thin cone. Surprisingly, the sight of the mundane treat actually caught Loki’s attention. He’d seen mortals consuming similar concoctions, but he’d never been particularly tempted to try one himself. They usually looked… sticky.

The raven-haired boy tilted his head, his emerald eyes fixed on the cone with a genuine, almost childlike curiosity. “What is this… precisely?” he inquired, his voice holding a note of genuine inquiry rather than his usual sarcastic drawl.

Steve Rogers looked a little bewildered by the question, but he dutifully held out the cone. “Uhm… ice cream?” he offered, as if stating the obvious.

Loki accepted it, his long, slender fingers carefully taking the fragile cone. He sniffed at it suspiciously, his brow furrowed in a frown of intense concentration, as if it might suddenly explode or attempt to recite bad poetry. Then, with a small, almost hesitant lick, he sampled the frozen confection.

His eyes immediately widened. A jolt of pure, unexpected pleasure shot through him. It was… cold, yes, but also incredibly sweet, creamy, with a delightful burst of fruity flavor. He took another, larger lick, then a decisive bite, the cone crunching satisfactorily. This… this was surprisingly, almost alarmingly, good.

He devoured another mouthful, a look of intense, focused enjoyment on his face, momentarily forgetting his regal composure, his carefully constructed air of sophisticated detachment. For a brief, shining moment, he wasn't Loki, the exiled prince, the god of mischief, the reluctant planetary landscaper. He was just… a kid, enjoying a really, really good ice cream cone on a sunny afternoon in a Midgardian park.

Loki polished off the ice cream cone with a speed and enthusiasm that would have surprised anyone who knew his usual disdain for mortal foodstuffs. His mind, however, was already racing. This… this is revolutionary, he thought, a spark of entrepreneurial genius igniting within him. Cold, sweet, ridiculously addictive… Jotunheim would go mad for this. He could already envision it: grand ice cream parlors carved from shimmering glaciers, Jotnar queuing for miles, his brothers developing entirely new levels of sibling rivalry over the last scoop of “Helblindi’s Horned Rabbit Ripple” or “Byleistr’s Berry Blizzard”. It would be a sensation. Even in Asgard… urg. He mentally recoiled. Why was he even thinking about Asgard? Gross. Focus, Loki. Focus on the important things. Like interstellar ice cream empires.

He licked a stray drop of melted ice cream from his finger, his expression one of thoughtful satisfaction. Then, he looked up at Steve, who was still standing there patiently, a curious, hopeful look on his face.

“Okay,” Loki announced, his voice regaining its customary cool authority, though perhaps with a lingering hint of sugar-induced contentment. “We need somewhere… quieter. Less prone to interruption by belligerent imbeciles”.

Steve brightened. “My place… it's not far. There's a small yard out back,” he offered, a little hesitantly, as if unsure whether his humble abode would meet with Loki’s approval.

Loki shrugged, a dismissive wave of his hand. “Whatever. Lead the way”. He wasn't particularly interested in the architectural merits of Steve's dwelling, as long as it provided a modicum of privacy for their… training.

Fortunately, “not far” turned out to be remarkably accurate. A short walk through a few more grimy Brooklyn streets, and they arrived at a small, unassuming terraced house. It was undeniably modest, the brickwork a little faded, the paint on the window frames peeling slightly. But it was clean, and there was a stubborn little pot of geraniums on the front step that spoke of someone trying to inject a bit of cheer into the prevailing gloom. Decent enough, Loki supposed, especially considering the general air of economic despair that clung to this era like cheap cologne. It could have been significantly worse. He’d seen worse. Much, much worse.

Loki had no intention of venturing inside the actual house. He had a strong suspicion it would be small, cluttered, and probably smell faintly of boiled cabbage and resignation. Instead, he followed Steve around the side of the building, through a narrow wooden gate, into the promised “small yard”.

It was, indeed, small. A patch of uneven earth, mostly dirt with a few stubborn clumps of grass, enclosed by a rickety wooden fence on one side and the blank brick wall of the neighboring house on the other. A clothesline sagged forlornly in one corner. It wasn't exactly a grand training arena, but it would suffice.

Loki surveyed the space with a critical eye, then, spotting a stack of what looked like burlap sacks filled with soil or some other uninteresting granular substance leaning against the back wall, he sauntered over and perched himself on top of them with an air of casual disdain. He wasn't overly concerned with the specifics of his impromptu seating arrangements. Comfort was a secondary consideration when one was about to impart wisdom to the unenlightened.

“Okay,” Loki began, his voice sharp and businesslike, cutting through the quiet afternoon air. He leaned back slightly against the sacks, one ankle casually crossed over the other, looking for all the world like a bored monarch about to deliver a rather tedious decree. “Think back. That first time I… dealt with those charming pigs in the park. What did you notice? What were their weak spots?”

Steve stood before him, his brow furrowed in concentration. He scuffed the toe of his worn shoe against the dirt, his gaze distant as he replayed the scene in his mind. After a moment, a flicker of understanding lit up his blue eyes. “Their legs,” he said, a note of dawning realization in his voice. “They… they went down pretty easily when you went for their legs. Lost their balance”.

Loki nodded, a small, almost imperceptible sign of approval. Good, he thought. He’s not entirely devoid of observational skills. This might be less painful than I anticipated. Working with someone who possessed a functioning brain cell or two would certainly make things… easier.

“Exactly,” Loki confirmed, his tone crisp. “Most of those idiots who only know how to swing their fists? They don't pay much attention to what's happening below the waist. All top-heavy, all bluster. Their legs?” He made a dismissive gesture. “Twigs. Basically. So, the best way to handle that type of moron is to take out their foundations. Make them trip, make them stumble, make them fall on their stupid faces”.

Steve nodded again, his expression one of keen interest. He was hanging on Loki's every word, a surprisingly attentive student.

Loki casually flicked a non-existent piece of lint from his impeccably clean trousers. “Now,” he continued, his voice taking on a more instructive tone, “when I say 'attack the legs', I'm not talking about some fancy martial arts kick you’ve seen in those moving picture shows. You don't have the build for that, and frankly, it's unnecessarily flashy”. He paused, his emerald eyes meeting Steve's.

“We're talking about targeting specific points. Pressure points. Nerves. Places that, with minimal effort from you, will cause maximum instability and a rather satisfying collapse from them”.

Loki gave another dismissive flick of his dark hair. “Now, this approach,” he conceded, his voice carrying a note of practical realism, “might not be your go-to strategy against someone who's genuinely strong and actually has a few brain cells rattling around upstairs. But let's be honest, the kind of clowns who get their kicks from bullying smaller people? Not exactly known for their towering intellects, are they?”

He paused, a cynical little smirk playing on his lips. “And if,” he added, his emerald eyes glinting with a hint of amusement, “you ever find yourself genuinely up against someone who is both physically formidable and whip-smart? Well, then, my dear boy, the best advice I can give you is to run. Very fast. Preferably in the opposite direction”.

Steve nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense,” he admitted, a flicker of a smile touching his own lips. He seemed to appreciate Loki’s pragmatic, if somewhat brutal, honesty. “So,” he pressed, his gaze earnest again, “which parts of the leg should I be aiming for?”

Loki held up a hand, stalling him. “Right,” he said, “before we get to the practical application - which, trust me, you're not quite ready for - we need to cover a bit more theory. Let’s talk about the human body’s many, many delightfully vulnerable spots. Not just the legs. Think bigger picture”.

“Oh! Hang on,” Steve interjected, his eyes suddenly bright with an idea. He turned and darted back into the house. A moment later, he reappeared, clutching a slightly battered sketchpad and a well-worn pencil.

He quickly flipped to a blank page and, with a speed and dexterity that genuinely surprised Loki, began to sketch. In a matter of moments, a remarkably detailed and anatomically accurate drawing of a human leg took shape on the paper. The lines were clean, confident, the shading subtle yet effective.

Loki leaned forward slightly from his perch on the sacks, his usual air of bored detachment momentarily forgotten. He watched Steve’s fingers fly across the page, his emerald eyes narrowed in genuine, if slightly grudging, surprise. The kid could actually draw. Really well, in fact.

“You're… quite good at that,” Loki commented, his voice holding an uncharacteristic note of sincere, unadorned praise. It wasn’t a compliment he bestowed lightly.

Steve looked up, a faint flush coloring his cheeks. He offered a small, almost shy smile. “Thanks,” he said, his gaze dropping back to his drawing. “It's… just a hobby”.

Loki pursed his lips, a flicker of his usual nonchalance returning. “Okay, whatever,” he said, dismissing the compliment almost as quickly as he'd given it. Art was… nice, he supposed. But hardly relevant to the current lesson in applied thuggery evasion.

He leaned closer, pointing a slender finger at various points on Steve's impressively detailed drawing. “Alright, see here? And here?” he indicated specific areas around the ankle, the knee, the thigh. “These are your prime targets. Nerves close to the surface, tendons that can be easily strained, joints that really don't appreciate being hyperextended. A sharp, well-placed nudge in these spots, and even the biggest oaf will be hopping around like a startled rabbit”.

He then straightened up, his gaze sweeping over Steve's thin frame, from the slightly too-large shoes to the shock of blond hair. He flicked his own dark hair back with a characteristic gesture. “But,” he declared, a new thought apparently striking him, “before we even think about you trying to hit anything, you need to learn how to not get hit yourself. Let's start with evasion”.

Steve scratched his head, looking a little bewildered by the sudden shift in curriculum. “Okay,” he agreed, though he clearly had no idea what that entailed.

Loki rose to his feet in a single, fluid movement. “Well, yeah,” he said, pacing a small circle in the cramped yard, his movements economical and precise. “Dodging. Sounds tricky, doesn't it? But there's a knack to it. Especially,” he added, a glint in his eye, “when you're dealing with oversized, under-brained opponents who think brute force is the answer to everything”.

He then demonstrated. A series of short, sharp steps, a subtle shift of his weight, a quick pivot. It looked deceptively simple, almost casual. But Loki moved with a speed and efficiency that was breathtaking. His body flowed, each movement perfectly controlled, nothing wasted. One moment he was standing still, the next he was a blur of motion, anticipating an imaginary blow, sidestepping with fluid grace, then repositioning himself, all within the confined space of the tiny yard. It was less about frantic scrambling and more about precise, economical movements, turning an opponent's momentum against them. It was… elegant, in a deadly sort of way. Minimalist motion, maximal effect.

“See?” Loki said, coming to a smooth halt, not even slightly out of breath. He gestured vaguely, encompassing the imaginary opponent he'd just so effortlessly outmaneuvered. “As long as you're quick on your feet, and you can keep your balance, you can avoid most of the clumsy, telegraphed attacks those oafs favor”.

He paused, his emerald eyes critically assessing Steve’s slender build again. “It doesn't even require much in the way of brute strength,” he continued, a thoughtful expression on his face. “It's about anticipation, timing, and using their own momentum against them. Making them overcommit, then simply… not being where they expect you to be”.

Loki frowned slightly, his gaze still fixed on Steve. “Well,” he conceded, his voice holding a note of dry skepticism, “admittedly, 'quick on your feet' might be a bit of a tall order for you at the moment. You look like you might get winded tying your shoelaces”. He didn't say it unkindly, just as a statement of observable fact.

He shrugged, a dismissive little gesture. “But, what the hell,” he added, a flicker of something almost resembling encouragement in his tone. “It's probably more than enough to deal with those particular brainless thugs. They're not exactly known for their lightning-fast reflexes or sophisticated footwork, are they?”

Steve nodded, his blue eyes bright with understanding. “I think I get it,” he said, his gaze fixed on the spot where Loki had just been a blur of motion.

“Alright then,” Loki instructed, gesturing with a flick of his wrist. “Let's see you try it. Just a few basic steps. Anticipate an incoming blow from an imaginary lumbering brute, and… evade”.

Steve took a deep breath, his thin shoulders squaring slightly. He tried to replicate the movements Loki had demonstrated. And, much to Loki's genuine, if carefully concealed, astonishment, he wasn't half bad. His movements, of course, lacked Loki's preternatural speed and fluid power. He was slower, his steps less assured, and there was an undeniable physical frailty to his attempts. But the form … the form was surprisingly, almost uncannily, accurate. He remembered the sequence, the subtle shifts in weight, the way Loki had pivoted. He was mimicking the core principles with a precision that was startling for a first attempt.

Loki stood to one side, arms crossed, his emerald eyes narrowed in keen observation. A gust of wind, smelling faintly of city dust and distant rain, whipped a stray strand of dark hair across his face. He absently tucked it behind his ear, his gaze never leaving Steve.

A strange, almost conflicted feeling stirred within him. This boy… this lad … was undeniably intelligent. Acutely observant. To watch something once, something as nuanced as Loki’s own practiced movements, and replicate it with such accuracy, even with his physical limitations, was… remarkable. Bordering on genius, perhaps, in his own quiet, unassuming way.

What a waste, Loki thought, a flicker of something akin to regret, or perhaps just detached pity, passing through him. All that innate talent, that sharp mind, that quick grasp of complex mechanics, housed in a body so… fragile. So susceptible to the brutalities of this crude, physical world. It was a cosmic imbalance, a frustrating quirk of fate. He was, in essence, a brilliant mind trapped in a woefully inadequate vessel.

“Keep practicing that,” Loki instructed, his voice regaining its usual clipped tone. He gestured vaguely at the empty space where Steve had just been diligently, if somewhat shakily, practicing his evasions. “Smoothness comes with repetition. And try not to look like you're about to fall over every time you shift your weight”.

He then demonstrated a simple, low kick, aimed at an imaginary ankle. It wasn't a flashy, high-flying maneuver, but a quick, sharp snap of the foot, designed for maximum disruption with minimal effort. “And this,” he said, “is your follow-up. After you've made one of those oafs stumble and lose their footing,” he paused, his emerald eyes flicking to Steve, “your best course of action, frankly, is to run. Preferably in the opposite direction, as previously discussed”.

Before Steve could voice any protest or perhaps express some misguided notion of standing his ground, Loki let out a long, theatrical yawn, covering his mouth delicately with the back of his hand. “And don't,” he added, his voice tinged with weary disdain, “get any heroic ideas about 'honor' or 'finishing the fight'. That sort of sentimental rubbish only has meaning if you're the one left standing, preferably without any new holes in you. For someone of your… current capabilities… strategic retreat is not cowardice, it's common sense”.

Seeing Loki make a subtle move as if to depart, Steve quickly straightened up from his practice stance. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, his chest heaving slightly from the unaccustomed exertion. “Wait!” he called out, a note of anxious hope in his voice. “This… this isn't just a one-time thing, is it? I mean, I can get more ice cream”.

Loki paused, feigning a complete lack of interest. He idly examined his fingernails, as if contemplating matters of far greater import than teaching a scrawny Midgardian how to avoid getting his face pummeled. “Sure,” he drawled, his tone deliberately nonchalant. “Maybe. Two days from now. Same time, this place. Don't think I'm available to play instructor every single day. I have… other, significantly more important things to occupy my time”.

And with that, Loki turned and strolled out of the small, dusty yard, leaving Steve to his newly acquired, and slightly bewildering, training regimen, and the faint, lingering taste of hope.

*

And two days, it was. True to his word, or perhaps simply because he found himself with an unexpected pocket of boredom, Loki reappeared at the designated time. He found Steve already in the small, dusty yard, diligently practicing the evasive maneuvers, his thin frame moving with a newfound, if still slightly awkward, purpose.

However, as Steve turned to greet him, a hopeful smile on his face, Loki’s own expression soured. The boy, yet again, was sporting a fresh bruise. This time, it was a spectacular shiner blooming around his left eye, a vibrant purple against his pale skin.

Loki crossed his arms, his lips thinning into a disapproving line. He let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Are you,” he inquired, his voice dripping with weary resignation, “actually insane?”

Steve, despite the fresh injury, actually grinned. It was a lopsided, painful-looking grin, but a grin nonetheless. “Hey!” he said, a note of genuine pride in his voice. “It worked! I tripped one of 'em! He went down, face-first in the dirt! It was… it was pretty great, actually”.

Loki merely shot him a withering glance, his expression clearly indicating that he did not, in fact, consider getting punched in the face in exchange for a single successful trip to be a noteworthy achievement. “And you acquired that… decorative addition to your eye… how, precisely?” he drawled, gesturing vaguely at the bruise.

Steve's grin faltered slightly. “Well, yeah, the other two were still standing,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “And they weren't too happy about their friend taking a mud nap”.

Loki rolled his eyes heavenward, as if seeking intervention from some higher, less idiotic power. He then strode into the yard, pointed a commanding finger at the familiar stack of burlap sacks, and barked, “Sit”.

Steve, looking slightly chastened but still retaining a spark of his earlier triumph, obediently sat. Loki, with another sigh that spoke volumes about his rapidly dwindling patience, fished out the small silver tin of healing balm from his pocket. He uncapped it and, with an air of resigned duty, began to apply the cool, soothing salve to Steve’s newest contusion.

“Why are you still smiling?” Loki grumbled, his voice a low murmur of disapproval as he carefully dabbed the balm around Steve's swollen eye. “You look ridiculous. Like a particularly dumb raccoon”. Yet, despite the harsh words, his touch was lighter, more gentle than before, his fingers moving with a surprising delicacy.

Steve looked up at Loki, his one good eye taking in the intricate frown creasing Loki's beautiful, and currently rather annoyed, face. He found himself fascinated by the stark contrast - the sharp, cutting remarks paired with this unexpected, almost tender, care. It was… confusing. And strangely compelling.

He kept smiling, that lopsided, bruised grin. “It's the first time,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, a thread of undeniable pride woven through it, “that I actually did something. Made a difference. Even if it was just tripping one guy”.

Loki said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line. He continued his ministrations, his focus entirely on the task at hand, meticulously applying the cool balm. The silence in the small yard was thick, broken only by the distant city sounds and the soft whisper of Loki's movements.

“Ouch,” Steve breathed out, a soft hiss of discomfort as Loki’s finger brushed a particularly tender spot.

“Good,” Loki said, his voice still cool, but lacking its earlier bite. “Remember that feeling. Next time, perhaps you'll be more inclined to prioritize the 'evade' and 'retreat' parts of the lesson”.

But, well, of course, it wasn't quite that easy to “remember,” not when Steven Grant Rogers seemed to possess an almost pathological inability to stay out of trouble. He was, Loki was rapidly discovering, a magnet for misplaced aggression, a lightning rod for every fist-happy idiot in a five-block radius.

The next time, another two days later, when Loki, with a sigh that was becoming a permanent fixture in his interactions with this particular mortal, arrived at the dusty little yard, Steve was already there. And, predictably, he was sporting a fresh injury. This time, it was a rather impressive bruise darkening one entire cheek, giving him a lopsided, rather mournful look, despite the inexplicably cheerful glint in his eyes.

“Seriously?” Loki drawled, planting his hands on his hips, his head tilted in an expression of profound, almost cosmic, exasperation. He rolled his eyes so hard he practically saw the back of his own skull. “Are you collecting these? Is there some sort of prize for the most comprehensively battered lad in Brooklyn?”

So, once again, it fell to Loki to play reluctant medic. He grumbled under his breath, muttering something about the sheer, unadulterated stupidity of certain individuals and the thankless nature of trying to impart even a modicum of self-preservation to those determined to ignore it. But despite his increasingly creative and colorful complaints, despite the exasperated sighs and the withering glares, Steve Rogers just sat there, on his designated stack of sacks, with a bright, almost idiotic grin plastered across his bruised face. It was a smile that was so radiant, so utterly un-dimmed by his current physical state, that it was almost… offensive.

“I got two of 'em today!”

Steve announced, his voice brimming with enthusiasm, as Loki, with a sigh that could freeze fire, began to gently apply the now-familiar healing balm to his swollen cheek.

“Tripped one, like you showed me! And then, the other one, he was coming at me, and I sidestepped, and he ran right into the brick wall! Bam!” He mimed the impact with a gleeful little flourish of his hand, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his bruised cheek.

Loki listened to this triumphant recounting of events with an expression that clearly indicated he found none of it particularly impressive, or indeed, indicative of any significant progress. Getting beaten up slightly less than usual was not, in his esteemed opinion, a victory.

But, honestly, Loki was starting to run out of sarcastic remarks. He was fresh out of withering put-downs. This mortal… this infuriatingly persistent, stubbornly optimistic, walking collection of contusions… seemed to have a personal agenda to acquire as much bodily harm as humanly possible. He was a one-man crusade against the concept of avoiding pain. So, really, why even bother trying to talk sense into him anymore? It was like trying to teach a rock to fly. A particularly dense, bruise-prone rock.

Loki shook his head, a gesture of weary resignation that was becoming all too familiar. He continued to gently, almost meticulously, apply the healing balm to Steve’s latest collection of bruises. This particular salve, one of his more refined creations, was remarkably effective. It could reduce swelling, fade bruises, and knit minor cuts and abrasions overnight, leaving barely a trace. But at the rate Steve was accumulating injuries, Loki’s personal, and rather limited, supply was going to run out alarmingly quickly.

It was his own invention, of course. Potions, elixirs, alchemical concoctions – these were another facet of Loki’s multifaceted genius. He could brew wonders that could heal, harm, or simply cause amusingly inconvenient transformations. He was, after all, brilliant in rather a lot of ways.

But he'd only brought this one small tin with him to Midgard. Frankly, he hadn't anticipated needing it. Loki wasn't foolish enough to allow himself to get into situations where he might sustain actual physical damage. The last time he’d been genuinely injured, truly hurt in a way that wasn't part of some elaborate deception (the whole “dying heroically in Asgard” charade definitely didn't count) , was… ages ago. If he translated it into Midgardian terms, he’d probably been the equivalent of an eight or nine-year-old. A very, very long time ago. And since then, he’d made it a point of pride, and common sense, to avoid any and all forms of unnecessary physical trauma.

“You know,” Loki said, his voice deceptively casual as he smoothed the balm over a particularly dark patch on Steve’s jaw, “this stuff is rather… expensive. And difficult to procure. If you keep insisting on using your face as a practice target, it's going to run out. And when it does,” he paused, his emerald eyes meeting Steve’s, a glint of warning in their depths, “don't come crying to me”.

Steve, predictably, just grinned, his bruised face crinkling in a way that was both endearing and utterly exasperating.

“Don't worry,” he said, his voice filled with that infuriating, unshakeable optimism. “I'm getting the hang of it. I'm pretty sure I'll be able to take them down properly soon”.

Loki froze, his hand hovering over Steve’s cheek. He stared at the boy, his expression one of slowly dawning horror. “You… you intend to 'take them down'?” he repeated, his voice carefully neutral, but with an underlying current of disbelief.

Steve raised an eyebrow, as if the answer were blindingly obvious.

“Well, yeah,” he said. “Of course. What else would I do?”

Loki stared at Steve as if he’d just sprouted a second head, one that was spouting utter, unadulterated nonsense. He held that incredulous gaze for a long moment, then, with a dramatic pout and a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all the foolish mortals in all the Nine Realms, he capitulated.

“Fine,” he declared, his voice laced with a weary sort of fatalism. “Fine. If you're determined to get yourself pulped, you might as well learn how to throw a vaguely effective punch. I suppose it's time you learned how to actually… attack”.

Loki pushed himself upright, dusting off his hands as if ridding himself of some unpleasant residue – perhaps the lingering scent of Steve’s inexplicable optimism.

“Alright,” he began, his tone brisk and businesslike once more. “Just like with the legs, there are… shall we say… 'areas of opportunity' all over the human body. Places where a little nudge, a well-aimed poke, can cause a surprising amount of discomfort and distraction”. He tapped his own temple lightly. “The head, obviously. Eyes, nose, ears - all delightfully sensitive. The throat,” he gestured vaguely, “is another popular choice for those inclined towards causing swift incapacitation”.

He paused, his gaze sharp and appraising as he looked at Steve. “Now,” he continued, a hint of dry amusement in his voice, “the precise level of… unpleasantness… one chooses to inflict depends largely on one's personal inclination towards ruthlessness and a certain willingness to get one's hands dirty. And you, my dear boy,” he drawled, “still strike me as someone who probably apologizes to inanimate objects when you bump into them. So, perhaps we'll start with the less… permanently damaging options”.

He then proceeded to demonstrate a few specific strikes – a sharp jab to the solar plexus designed to knock the wind out of an opponent, a quick, precise chop to the side of the neck that could cause temporary disorientation, a knee strike to the inner thigh that was guaranteed to make even the toughest bully reconsider his life choices. They were all moves that, while undeniably painful and effective, were, from Loki's perspective, relatively merciful. He could have taught Steve things far, far nastier. But he suspected Steve’s delicate sensibilities weren’t quite ready for that level of pragmatic brutality.

Steve watched intently, then began to practice the moves, his brow furrowed in concentration. Loki settled back onto his stack of sacks, observing with a critical, almost detached, air.

After a while, Steve was breathing heavily, his thin chest rising and falling rapidly. A sheen of sweat glistened on his pale forehead. It was clear that these offensive maneuvers, even the relatively simple ones Loki was teaching him, were far more taxing on his limited stamina than the evasive footwork.

He paused, leaning against the brick wall for support, and looked over at Loki. “How… how did you get so good at… at fighting?” he panted, genuine curiosity in his voice.

Loki rested his chin on his hand, his expression thoughtful. “Good?” he mused, tilting his head slightly. “I wouldn't necessarily say 'good.' 'Experienced,' perhaps. One picks things up, here and there, over the time”. He gazed up at the pale blue Midgardian sky, his thoughts momentarily drifting.

The truth was, Loki wasn't a brawler by nature, not in the way Thor was, or even his Jotun brothers. By Asgardian or Jotun standards of hand-to-hand combat, he was probably considered… adequate. Competent, certainly. But his true strength, his overwhelming advantage, had always been his magic. Why bother trading clumsy punches when you could reshape reality with a thought, or incinerate your enemies with a flick of your wrist?

However, that didn't mean he was helpless in a close-quarters engagement. He had his own distinct style, honed over long years of needing to defend himself against those who were physically stronger. It was a style built on speed, agility, misdirection, and a healthy dose of vicious, underhanded tactics. He favored quick, debilitating strikes to vulnerable points, movements designed to incapacitate an opponent swiftly and efficiently, allowing him to disengage and bring his more formidable arcane talents to bear.

But again, he rarely needed to resort to such crude methods. He wasn't foolish enough to allow himself to be drawn into a slugfest if he could avoid it. His magic alone was usually more than sufficient to crush most threats the Nine Realms could throw at him. Why get his hands dirty when he could simply will his enemies into oblivion from a safe distance?

But well, Loki mused, bringing his attention back to the panting, sweating boy before him, since Steve clearly needed to learn something, and since Loki, for reasons that were becoming increasingly obscure even to himself, had decided to be the one to teach him, then teach him he would. In his own, uniquely Loki-ish way. It wasn't as if he had anything better to do. And who knew? Perhaps, just perhaps, some of it might actually stick. It would be a minor miracle, of course, but Loki wasn't entirely averse to the occasional minor miracle. Especially if it involved less bruising for him to attend to.

*

The next time Loki graced the dusty little yard with his presence, he came prepared. The small, silver tin of healing balm was already in his hand before he even pushed open the rickety wooden gate. He had a sinking feeling he was going to need it.

And, as usual, his sinking feelings were remarkably accurate. Steve Rogers looked like he’d been used as a particularly enthusiastic piñata. He was a canvas of fresh bruises, more so than Loki had seen on him yet. A cut adorned his eyebrow, and his knuckles were scraped raw. He looked, in a word, like shit.

But the grin on his face… that was something else entirely. It was radiant, triumphant, stretching from ear to ear despite the obvious discomfort it must have caused his battered features. His blue eyes were shining with an almost manic glee.

The moment he saw Loki, Steve practically bounced on the balls of his feet. “I did it!” he exclaimed, his voice hoarse but jubilant. “Louis, I actually did it! I took 'em all down!” He beamed, radiating a pride so potent it was almost tangible.

Loki just stood there for a moment, his head tilted slightly, observing this bruised, battered, beaming spectacle. A strange, unfamiliar warmth flickered somewhere deep inside him… was that… pride? For this ridiculous mortal? No. Absolutely not. He swiftly, ruthlessly, squashed the absurd notion.

He maintained his carefully cultivated air of bored indifference. “Yeah, well, of course you did,” he drawled, his voice devoid of any discernible emotion. “Consider the quality of your instructor”.

Then, with a sigh that was becoming their traditional greeting, he gestured towards the stack of sacks. Steve, still grinning like an idiot, obediently sat. Loki knelt, uncapped the balm, and began the now-familiar ritual of tending to Steve’s injuries. His touch, as always, was surprisingly gentle, his movements precise.

As Loki worked, Steve launched into an animated, if slightly breathless, account of his victory. He recounted every feint, every sidestep, every well-aimed (or perhaps luckily aimed) blow. He described how he’d used the leg sweeps, how he’d capitalized on their overconfidence, how he’d actually managed to send all three of them packing, yelping and bruised. He was, Loki noted with a detached sort of academic interest, surprisingly good at tactical recall, even in his current state of excited exhaustion.

Loki listened, or at least appeared to listen, his expression unreadable, his hands never faltering in their task. He offered no commentary, no praise, no criticism. Just the steady, methodical application of the cooling salve.

After a while, when the worst of the cuts and bruises had been tended to, Loki finally spoke, his voice quiet but cutting. “You look like something the cat dragged in, Rogers,” he stated, his gaze cool and appraising. “And then dragged back out, and then perhaps played with for a bit before getting bored. Was it worth it?”

Steve’s grin softened, but the light in his eyes didn't dim. He looked directly at Loki, and there was something in that clear blue gaze – a fierce, unwavering conviction – that Loki found himself unable to easily dismiss. “Yeah,” Steve said, his voice firm, despite the weariness evident in his posture. “Yeah, it was. Because it wasn't just for me. I stood up. For them too”.

Loki met that gaze, his own emerald eyes cold, unyielding. “And,” he inquired, his voice like chipped ice, “how many of those precious 'friends' you were so valiantly 'protecting' actually stepped up to help you ? How many even bothered to say thank you?”

Steve’s gaze faltered then. The brilliant light in his eyes flickered, just for a moment. He looked away, a faint flush rising on his bruised cheeks. He didn’t answer immediately. Then, after a beat of silence, he looked back at Loki, a hint of apology in his expression.

“It's… it's not usually this bad,” he explained, his voice a little quieter now. “I have a friend. Bucky. We grew up together. He… he usually looks out for me. Handles the bullies. But he's away with his family right now. Been gone a few weeks”. He paused, then added, a stubborn note creeping back into his voice, “So, maybe… maybe I didn't need to do it. But it still felt… good. Right. I’m proud I did”.

Loki absently ran a hand through his dark hair, tucking a stray lock behind his ear. His beautiful emerald eyes blinked, slowly, once. Then, he turned his gaze away from Steve, looking out at the drab brick wall of the neighboring house, as if suddenly finding its crumbling mortar utterly fascinating.

Steve, still buoyed by his victory, continued, his voice regaining its earlier enthusiasm. “And maybe,” he said, a hopeful note in his tone, “maybe now they'll learn their lesson. Maybe they'll think twice before picking on anyone else”. He sounded so certain, so convinced that his single act of defiance had somehow magically reformed a trio of entrenched bullies.

A cool breeze whispered through the small yard, rustling the leaves of a lone, struggling tree in the corner and carrying the faint scent of distant rain. Loki's gaze remained fixed on that uninteresting brick wall, his emerald eyes, unseen by Steve, holding a chilling emptiness. They were like chips of ancient, eternal ice, reflecting nothing of the boy's optimistic pronouncements.

Fortunately, for both of them, Steve was too caught up in his own triumphant narrative to notice the sudden, profound coldness that had settled in Loki’s demeanor. Loki, in his own detached way, almost appreciated the boy’s unwavering optimism. It was… quaint. And utterly, tragically, wrong.

He knew how this story usually went. Bullies, whether human or any other species foolish enough to engage in such pointless displays of dominance, didn't learn from a single setback. They festered. They plotted. They escalated. Steve Rogers’ small victory, Loki knew with a certainty born of long, cynical observation, was likely just the prelude to a far uglier chapter. To think it would end here, so neatly, was an act of almost breathtaking naivety.

Loki had been about to say something to that effect, to puncture Steve’s cheerful little bubble with a dose of harsh reality. But then he glanced at the boy, at that lanky frame radiating such pure, unadulterated joy, at the hopeful light still shining in those ridiculously blue eyes, and he… he couldn’t. The words died on his tongue. For reasons that continued to baffle and irritate him, he found himself strangely reluctant to crush this particular mortal’s spirit. Not yet, anyway.

Instead, he said, his voice carefully neutral, “Well. Since you’ve achieved such a resounding… triumph… how about we call it a day for the physical exertion? Perhaps you have a book you’d recommend? Or some of that… sketching you do?”

Steve beamed, his bruised face lighting up like a Midgardian festival. “Yeah! Okay! I've got a couple of really good adventure stories inside. And some new charcoal sticks!” He scrambled to his feet, all thoughts of further violence apparently forgotten, his enthusiasm infectious.

Loki watched him hurry towards the house, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. Then, as Steve disappeared inside, the smile vanished. Loki flicked his dark hair back, his expression hardening, a glint of something cold and ruthless flickering in the depths of his emerald eyes.

Later that night, under the cloak of a moonless, star-dusted sky, Loki stood perched on the precipice of a tall, soot-stained building. He looked down, not at the glittering panorama of the sleeping city, but into the shadowy depths of a narrow, refuse-choked alleyway several blocks from Steve’s humble abode.

Faint sounds drifted up to him on the night wind. Hushed, angry whispers. Snippets of frustrated conversation. The words “Rogers,” “make him pay,” “teach him a lesson” were clearly discernible, laced with impotent fury and bruised egos.

Loki didn't even bother to lean closer, to strain his enhanced hearing. He'd heard enough. It was exactly as he’d predicted. Predictable. Pathetic. Rubbish, he thought with a silent sneer, will always be rubbish.

A faint, emerald green light began to glow in the palm of his hand. It shimmered, then intensified, tendrils of pure, malevolent energy snaking between his fingers like small, venomous serpents. They writhed, pulsed, hungry for release.

He looked up at the vast, indifferent expanse of the night sky, a sky that had witnessed countless such petty cruelties, countless such cycles of violence. He rarely intervened so directly in the squabbles of mortals. It was usually beneath him. Messy. Unnecessary.

But then, he thought of a bruised, beaming face, of a stubbornly optimistic spirit that refused to be extinguished. He thought of a boy who, against all odds, against all common sense, kept getting up.

A slow, cold smile touched Loki’s lips. “Worth it,” he murmured to the uncaring darkness, the green fire in his hand flaring brighter.

Chapter Text

Sunday afternoons in Brooklyn had a particular kind of laziness to them. The air, usually thick with the weekday clamor of industry and commerce, seemed to thin out, replaced by the distant chime of a church bell and the drowsy hum of a city taking a breath. It was on one such languid afternoon that Loki, in his now-familiar guise as the impeccably dressed Louis Frost, decided to pay another visit.

He moved through the quiet streets with a liquid grace that was entirely his own, a contrast to the shuffling gaits of the few mortals out for a Sunday stroll. He found the small, dusty yard just as he’d left it: a pocket of quiet concentration amidst the urban sprawl. Steve Rogers was hunched over his sketchpad, his brow furrowed in focus, his pencil flying across the paper with a scratchy, rhythmic sound. He seemed completely absorbed, a world away from the alleyway brawls and bruised knuckles.

Loki leaned against the rickety gate post, observing for a moment before speaking. “Well”, he drawled, his voice cutting smoothly through the stillness, “it’s good to see your face isn't actively decorated with new bruises. That's a refreshing change of pace”.

Steve looked up, startled from his creative trance. A slow, easy smile spread across his face, the kind that made his blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “Hey, Louis”.

Loki sauntered into the yard and settled onto his customary perch atop the burlap sacks. He tilted his head, a gesture of feigned curiosity. “So relaxed”, he observed. “Does this mean you’ve finally run out of local thugs to annoy? Or have they simply grown tired of using you for target practice?”

Steve set his sketchpad down on the dirt beside him, the cheerful expression fading from his face. He let out a long, slow sigh, the kind that seemed to carry more weight than his slender frame should be able to bear. “They're dead, Louis”, he said, his voice quiet, almost flat. “All three of them”.

Loki’s casual, lounging posture vanished. He sat bolt upright, his emerald eyes widening in a flawless performance of shock and disbelief. For a moment, he looked genuinely stunned, the mask of bored superiority completely gone.

“What?” he breathed, the word sharp and incredulous. “How?”

Steve recounted the story as he’d heard it, his voice still holding a note of bewildered disbelief. They’d been messing around, sneaking into a construction site late one night, climbing on the unfinished framework. A chain had snapped, a load of steel beams had come crashing down. There was… nothing left to identify, really.

Loki made a soft 'tch' sound with his tongue, shaking his head slowly. He let his gaze drop, as if contemplating the brutal randomness of fate. “That’s… cruel”, he said, his voice laced with a carefully measured dose of somberness. “A terrible, senseless way to go”.

Then, when Steve’s gaze shifted away for a moment, following a butterfly that flitted past, a ghost of a smile touched Loki’s lips. It was a fleeting, razor-sharp expression, cold and triumphant and utterly devoid of pity. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced once more by his mask of thoughtful solemnity.

Steve nodded, oblivious. “I know. I… I never thought it would end like that”.

Loki leaned back against the sacks, resuming a more relaxed posture. “As much as it was a horrific accident”, he said, his tone shifting to one of practical consolation, “there is a silver lining for you, isn't there? You can stop this… this preoccupation with fighting. Focus on more productive things. Like your drawing. Or reading a book that doesn’t feature a predictably dull detective”.

Steve looked up at him, a mock pout forming on his lips. “Aw, and here I was just getting the hang of it”, he said, his voice feigning disappointment. “I still wanted to learn, you know”.

Loki's feigned solemnity melted away, replaced by a flash of his familiar, mischievous charm. A genuine, playful smile touched his lips. He ran a hand through his dark hair, a casual, elegant gesture. “Well”, he purred, his emerald eyes glinting. “If you insist”.

So, the days continued to spool out, one lazy Sunday bleeding into the next, and their strange, impromptu training sessions became a regular fixture. Loki, true to his word, continued to instruct Steve. Their lessons, however, rarely involved what most would consider traditional “fighting”. Loki had little interest in turning Steve into a brawler; the boy simply wasn’t built for it. Instead, he drilled him relentlessly in the art of movement, of evasion, of turning an opponent's momentum into a weapon against them.

He taught Steve how to read the subtle shifts in a person's posture that telegraphed an attack, how to use the environment to his advantage—a loose cobblestone, a low-hanging sign, the sudden glare of sunlight off a window. It was a curriculum of dirty tricks and clever escapes, a masterclass in not being where a punch was about to land. He was teaching Steve not to win fights, but to survive them with minimal damage and maximum inconvenience to his would-be assailants.

The experience, much to Loki's continued, if private, surprise, was remarkably rewarding. Steve was an exceptionally quick study. His mind absorbed the tactical nuances like a sponge, his body, though frail, learned to replicate the precise, economical movements with an almost eerie accuracy. He possessed an innate grasp of physics and leverage that made him a natural at the kind of defensive acrobatics Loki was teaching. The lessons were less a chore and more a fascinating intellectual exercise for them both.

But their time together began to evolve beyond the dusty confines of the backyard training ground. With the immediate threat of bullies now permanently removed from the equation, a different kind of companionship started to bloom. The afternoons were no longer just about dodging imaginary punches; they were about shared silences and quiet conversations. They would sit for hours, side-by-side on the park bench, each engrossed in a book. Or Steve would set up his easel, his charcoals scratching away, and Loki would lounge nearby, offering the occasional dry, witty, yet surprisingly insightful critique of his work.

One afternoon, Steve, frustrated with a particularly tricky landscape he was trying to capture, offered the charcoal stick to Loki. “Here, you try. Show me how you’d do the light on those clouds”.

Loki accepted it with a theatrical sigh, as if being asked to perform some great and tedious labor. But as his fingers closed around the simple stick of charcoal, a change came over him. His movements became fluid, assured. The lines he drew on the paper were not hesitant or amateurish; they were bold, confident, strokes of breathtaking skill. In a matter of minutes, he had rendered a sky so full of depth and dramatic light that it seemed to breathe on the page.

Steve watched, utterly mesmerized, his own artistic endeavors forgotten. He’d known Louis was clever, knew he was unnaturally graceful and quick-witted. But this… this was something else entirely. “Wow”, he breathed, his voice filled with genuine awe. “Louis… you’re incredible”.

Loki merely shrugged, a faint, almost dismissive smile on his lips. “It’s just lines on paper”, he said, though he couldn't entirely hide the flicker of pride in his eyes. He didn’t elaborate, of course. He didn’t explain that for a being who had spent centuries etching complex, reality-bending runes into the very fabric of existence, for a mage who could paint with pure energy and sculpt illusions from thin air, rendering a simple cloudscape with a stick of burnt wood was… child’s play. It was less complex, in fact, than some of the diagrams he’d sketched for Jotunheim’s new plumbing system.

Slowly, almost without him noticing, Loki’s own priorities began to shift. The hunt for the Tesseract, once the driving purpose of his sojourn on this backwater planet, became less urgent. The thought of tracking down the glowing blue cube felt… tedious. A chore to be put off for another day. He found himself spending less time scouring the city for whispers of cosmic power and more time in a dusty backyard in Brooklyn, or on a sun-dappled park bench, in the quiet, unassuming company of Steven Grant Rogers.

And Loki, a seasoned professional in the art of self-deception, a master of ignoring inconvenient truths, paid this peculiar shift in his own behavior absolutely no mind at all. It was just a diversion, he told himself. A way to pass the time until a proper lead on the Tesseract presented itself. Nothing more.

Their world expanded beyond the familiar confines of the dusty yard and the sun-drenched park bench. The quiet companionship they’d forged began to explore the nooks and crannies of Brooklyn, painting their shared days with new colors and textures.

Sometimes, they would lose entire afternoons in the hushed, hallowed halls of the local public library. Surrounded by the comforting scent of old paper and binding glue, they’d sit at a large oak table, a comfortable silence stretching between them, each lost in their own world of words. But the silence was never empty. It would be punctuated by soft whispers as Loki leaned over to point out a particularly ludicrous passage in a history book, or Steve would slide his own book across the table, his finger marking a line of poetry he found beautiful. They talked about everything and nothing – the grand, foolish sweep of human history, the strange physics of distant stars, the simple, profound beauty of a well-turned phrase.

On other days, Steve would bring his sketchpad, and the library would become his studio. Loki, reclined in a worn leather armchair with a book held loosely in his hands, would become his unwitting, yet perfectly still, model. Loki would pretend to be engrossed in his reading, but every now and then, he’d lower the book just enough to watch Steve from over the top of the pages. He’d see the intense concentration on the boy’s face, the way his tongue would poke out from the corner of his mouth when he was working on a particularly difficult detail. And Loki would smile, a small, secret smile, especially when Steve would stubbornly shield the sketchpad from view, muttering, “Not yet, it’s not done”, a blush coloring his cheeks.

They explored the city together. Steve, bless his hopelessly low stamina, would insist on showing Loki his favorite, often overlooked, corners of Brooklyn. He’d lead him to a tiny, family-run bakery that sold the most amazing cannoli, or to a hidden viewpoint overlooking the river where the city lights looked like fallen stars. Loki would feign boredom, complaining about the walking, but he never refused to go. He’d watch as Steve, his face flushed with exertion and excitement, pointed out landmarks with a fierce, protective pride in his hometown.

Sometimes, they would end up back at Steve’s small, unassuming house. They’d sit in the cramped but tidy living room, drinking some truly god-awful tea that tasted mostly of boiled leaves and disappointment. Yet, wrapped in the warmth of a scratchy wool blanket, the weak, watery brew felt strangely comforting. On those quiet evenings, Steve would sometimes pull out his father’s old, battered guitar. “I’m not very good”, he’d confess, his fingers fumbling as he tried to coax a melody from the strings. He wasn’t. The chords were clumsy, the rhythm unsteady. But Loki would sit and listen, his head tilted, his expression unreadable, giving the clumsy performance his complete and undivided attention.

On a few rare occasions, their quiet afternoons were interrupted by the arrival of Sarah Rogers, Steve’s mother. She was a whirlwind of weary energy, a nurse whose shifts were long and whose presence at home was fleeting. It was obvious she was struggling; the exhaustion was etched in the lines around her eyes, the constant worry about bills and keeping food on the table a shadow that clung to her. But in front of Steve, she was a beacon of relentless cheerfulness. She’d ruffle his hair, ask about his day with a bright, genuine interest, and never let on about the crushing weight on her shoulders. Loki watched her, this small, tired woman fighting so hard to shield her son from the harsh realities of their world, and he felt a strange, conflicting mixture of pity for her struggle and a profound, grudging respect for her strength.

One morning, when Loki arrived at the small house at their usual time, he found the front door unlocked and a strange, heavy silence within. Pushing it open, he stepped into the cramped living room. There was no sign of Steve. A flicker of something that felt suspiciously like concern prompted him to move further into the house, towards the small bedroom at the back.

He found Steve still in bed, tangled in a thin, worn blanket. But he wasn't sleeping peacefully. He was tossing fitfully, his face flushed a feverish red, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. Loki’s usual air of cool detachment evaporated. He was at the bedside in an instant, his hand pressed against Steve's forehead. The heat radiating from the boy's skin was intense, alarming.

Loki’s first, panicked thought was of some arcane illness, some magical malady. But a quick, subtle scan with his own senses revealed nothing of the sort. It was just a fever. A severe one, yes, but a mundane, mortal illness. Loki let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, a wave of relief washing over him, so potent it almost made him dizzy.

He set about caring for Steve with a quiet, focused efficiency. He fetched a bowl of cool water and a cloth from the tiny kitchen, his movements swift and sure. He sat on the edge of the bed and gently began to sponge Steve's face and neck, trying to bring the fever down.

As he worked, he casually took one of Steve's hands in his own, his thumb stroking the back of it gently. It was a comforting gesture on the surface, but his true intent was different. He closed his eyes, channeling a tiny, intricate thread of his own magic into the boy, a diagnostic spell far more sensitive than any mortal instrument. He let his senses travel through Steve's body, assessing, cataloging.

After a long moment, his brow furrowed in a deep, troubled frown. He opened his eyes, staring down at their joined hands. “How”, he whispered to the quiet room, his voice barely audible, “can there be so many things wrong with one body?” The list was staggering. A weak heart, asthmatic lungs, a dozen other chronic ailments and systemic frailties, all woven into the very fabric of the boy's being. It was a miracle he could even walk, let alone endure the beatings he so regularly invited.

His expression, for once, was stripped bare of all artifice. The worry was plain on his face, a raw, unguarded concern. He gently released Steve's hand and reached up, his cool palm resting on the boy's fever-flushed cheek. “How did you even make it this far?” he murmured, his voice soft, full of a bewildered tenderness.

The coolness of Loki's touch seemed to penetrate the fog of the fever. Steve stirred, his eyelids fluttering. He blinked, his dazed blue eyes struggling to focus on the figure beside him. “Louis?” he rasped, his voice weak and scratchy.

Loki continued to gently wipe Steve's face with the damp cloth. “Should I go find your mother?” he asked, his voice soft, solicitous. “Get her to come home?”

Steve managed a weak shake of his head. “No… she’s working. So busy”, he mumbled. “It’s just a fever. I’ll be… I’ll be fine”.

Loki placed the cool, damp cloth across Steve's forehead, not arguing the point. “Sleep”, he said, his voice a gentle command, stroking a stray strand of blond hair back from Steve’s temple. “Just rest for a little while”.

Steve offered a weak, grateful smile and let his eyes drift shut. The simple, trusting gesture sent a strange, unfamiliar ache through Loki’s chest. It was a sharp, uncomfortable twinge, like a muscle he hadn’t used in centuries suddenly being pulled taut. He instinctively wanted to recoil from the feeling, to dismiss it as some mortal sentimentality he'd foolishly contracted.

His first impulse, of course, was to simply fix it. A quick jolt of magic to burn the fever away? A single drop of a potent potion that would have Steve back on his feet in minutes? Loki possessed a dozen ways to cure such a mundane affliction. He could do it. It would be effortless.

But as he looked at the boy's fragile form, at the thin wrists and the hollows of his cheeks, a profound hesitation took hold. After his initial scan of Steve's body, he wasn't so sure. The boy’s entire system was a delicate, precarious balance of chronic weaknesses. Magic, his magic, and the potions he brewed were designed for beings of immense power and resilience - gods, giants, creatures whose bodies could withstand cosmic energies. Using them on Steve… it might be like using a celestial forge to mend a watch spring. The power could overwhelm, shatter the very system he was trying to heal.

Loki pressed his lips into a thin, frustrated line. He thought for a long moment, then, with a soft, almost imperceptible flick of his hand, he wove a different kind of spell. A gentle, cooling energy, as soft as a Jotunheim snowfall, enveloped the bed, lowering the ambient temperature just enough to bring a measure of comfort without being invasive.

He stood up and moved silently into the kitchen. A quick inspection of the small, bare pantry confirmed his suspicions. There was next to nothing here. A half-loaf of stale bread, a shriveled onion, and not much else. He sighed, a sound of pure disdain for mortal poverty.

Checking his own personal storage space - that convenient, invisible pocket of reality only he could access - he pulled out a few choice items. A moment later, a pot was simmering on the stove, a rich, fragrant aroma of meat and herbs beginning to fill the small house.

When the porridge was thick and steaming, Loki retrieved two small, elegant glass vials from his pocket. One contained a liquid the color of arterial blood, the other a deep, calming sapphire blue. He held them over the pot, and with a whisper of magic, two impossibly tiny droplets, each no bigger than a tenth of a normal drop of water, floated from the vials and fell into the porridge, dissolving instantly.

He ladled a small amount into a bowl. With a light touch of his finger to the ceramic, he leached the excess heat from it, cooling it to a perfect temperature. He took a tiny taste himself, his brow furrowed in concentration. Satisfied, he carried the bowl back into the bedroom.

He gently shook Steve awake. “Hey”, he said softly. “Eat something”. He propped the boy up with a pillow and began to spoon the porridge into his mouth.

Steve, though weak, managed to eat, his eyes widening slightly with surprise. “Wow”, he rasped, after a few mouthfuls. “I didn’t know you could cook, Louis. This is… really good”.

A small, private smile touched Loki's lips. He didn’t answer, just offered another spoonful. Of course he was a good cook. Any magic-user proficient in the delicate, precise art of brewing potions - balancing volatile ingredients, managing heat, understanding chemical reactions on a molecular level - was, by default, an excellent chef. It was the same skill set, just with more palatable results.

By the time the bowl was empty, the feverish flush had already begun to recede from Steve’s cheeks. A bit of color was returning to his face. Loki gently wiped the boy's mouth with a cloth. “Alright”, he said softly. “Lie down. Get some sleep. You'll feel better when you wake up”.

The boy, under the subtle, gentle influence of the two minuscule potion drops, was already drifting off, his breathing evening out into a deep, peaceful rhythm.

Loki let out a long, slow sigh. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching the steady rise and fall of Steve’s chest. He reached out and took the boy's hand, his cool fingers lacing through Steve's warm ones. And there he sat, a silent, unmoving sentinel, as the morning sun climbed high in the sky and began its slow descent into the long, quiet shadows of evening.

The light filtering through the small bedroom window had softened from the harsh glare of afternoon to the warm, golden glow of evening when Sarah Rogers finally returned home. The click of the front door was followed by the sound of weary footsteps, then a sharp, indrawn breath from the living room. She appeared in the bedroom doorway a moment later, her face a mask of alarm, her eyes wide as they took in the scene: her son, pale and still in his bed, and this strange, impossibly elegant boy sitting watchfully beside him.

“Oh, my god! Steven!” she cried, rushing to the other side of the bed.

Loki stood up, his movements fluid and unhurried. “He’s alright”, he said, his voice calm and reassuring. “He just had a bit of a fever. It’s broken now. He’s only sleeping”.

Sarah’s frantic energy seemed to drain away, replaced by a wave of crushing relief and guilt. She sank onto the edge of the bed, her hand trembling as she reached out to touch Steve’s cheek, confirming for herself that the burning heat was gone. Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m such a bad mother”, she whispered, her voice choked with self-recrimination. “I should have been here. I should have known he was sick”.

Loki let out a soft sigh. He felt a pang of awkwardness, a feeling he was entirely unequipped to handle. He hesitated for a beat, then reached out and placed a tentative hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Mrs. Rogers”, he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, “You’ve done the best you can. You’re a good mother”.

The simple, sincere statement seemed to undo her. The woman leaned into his touch, her shoulders shaking as quiet, exhausted sobs finally broke free. “Thank you”, she wept into the fabric of his ridiculously expensive suit. “Thank you”.

Loki stood there, frozen in a state of profound discomfort, but he didn't pull away. He simply let her cry, his hand remaining steady on her shoulder, a silent, awkward anchor in her storm of guilt and relief.

After a few moments, her sobs subsided. She pulled back, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. She looked up at him, a watery, grateful smile on her face. “Call me Sarah”, she said, her voice still thick with emotion. She looked from Loki to her sleeping son, and her smile deepened. “Thank you, Louis. I’m so glad Steven has a friend like you”.

Loki went very still. The word echoed in the quiet room, strange and foreign. Friend? Him? Loki? The god of lies, the outcast prince, the architect of chaos… having a friend? The concept was so alien, so utterly outside the realm of his experience, that for a moment, he was genuinely speechless.

A slow, unexpected warmth spread through his chest, chasing away the last vestiges of his earlier awkwardness. The cool, calculating mask he wore so easily seemed to crack, just for a moment. He looked down at Steve’s peaceful face, and the hard edges of his own expression softened. He smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his features, making him look younger, less like a god and more like the boy he appeared to be.

“It's nothing”, he said, his voice soft. “Steve’s a bright young man. I’m the one who’s lucky to be his friend”.

The aftermath of Steve’s fever left Loki with an unexpected, and slightly unsettling, amount of self-reflection. The quiet words of a tired mortal woman had, against all logic, managed to dislodge something fundamental within him.

He replayed the scene in his mind, the weight of Sarah's gratitude, the simple, profound impact of the word 'friend'. He found himself pacing the rooftop of some nondescript Brooklyn building later that night, the city's glittering, indifferent lights spread out below him like a carpet of fallen stars.

A friend.

Yes, he realized, the thought both startling and liberating. He, Loki, could have a friend. It wasn't actually that difficult or complicated. The whole concept had seemed alien to him simply because he'd never had one. In Asgard, he was the second son, the shadow, the trickster to be tolerated or suspected. With Thor and his boisterous cronies, he was an outsider, a target for their thoughtless jests. In Jotunheim, he was a prince, a savior, respected and loved, yes, but still set apart by his unique power and his Asgardian upbringing. He was always defined by his relationship to others, never simply with them.

But now… now things were different. And Loki, standing there under the vast, uncaring Midgardian sky, decided he didn't need to maintain that damned, self-imposed barrier anymore. Fuck it. Yes, he was Loki of Jotunheim. And yes, he had a Midgardian friend. What was so strange about that?

Now, the only problem was keeping said friend alive. And preferably, in one piece. For at least a respectable number of years. The boy was a magnet for trouble and possessed the physical constitution of a wet paper bag. It was a logistical nightmare.

And so, before he even fully processed the decision, before he could erect his usual defenses of cynicism and detached amusement, Loki found himself engaged in a transaction with a bewildered, and suddenly very wealthy, mortal landlord. He bought the small, terraced house right next door to the Rogers'.

He stood on the pavement, the deed to the property a ridiculously flimsy piece of paper in his hand, and immediately began to rationalize. This was just a detour, he told himself sternly. A temporary base of operations. It was a strategic move to ensure his own… mental well-being. A relaxed mind was a sharp mind, after all. And a sharp mind was necessary for the tedious, ongoing hunt for the Tesseract. It had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to be closer to a certain skinny, ridiculously earnest blond boy. Nothing at all. It was just… convenient.

When Loki led Steve next door and, with a casual push of his hand, unlocked the door to what was now his house, the boy was understandably stunned. His eyes went wide, his jaw dropped slightly, but he didn't ask the torrent of questions Loki had been bracing himself for. He didn't ask how, or why, or with what money. He simply accepted it with that same quiet, trusting faith he seemed to apply to all of Loki’s increasingly strange behaviors.

Life fell into a new, even more comfortable rhythm. They spent their days together, as before, but now, with Loki living right next door, their companionship deepened. There was an easy domesticity to it. Sometimes they’d sit in Loki’s sparsely but elegantly furnished living room; other times they’d retreat to the familiar clutter of Steve’s. The proximity, the sheer ease of access, made their bond feel more solid, more real.

And with this new proximity, Loki's secret mission intensified. He was going to cure Steve. He was going to fix every single damned thing that was wrong with that fragile, inadequate body. He was Loki, a magical prodigy, a potions genius. Curing one ridiculously frail mortal? How hard could it be?

Well, as it turned out, it was incredibly hard. He knew next to nothing about human biology. The intricate, messy, and frankly, rather inefficient systems that kept these creatures shambling about were a complete mystery to him. But he could learn. And he would try. Whatever it took.

He became a subtle, relentless force of health and wellness in Steve's life. He cooked for him constantly, delicious, nutrient-rich meals that just happened to appear on the Rogers’ kitchen table. And sometimes, just sometimes, a tiny, almost undetectable drop of one of his specially crafted potions would find its way into the soup or the stew. They were gentle concoctions, designed not for a dramatic, overnight cure, but for slow, steady improvement. They helped bolster Steve’s immune system, strengthen his constitution, bit by tiny bit. The only noticeable side effect was that Steve started sleeping a little more soundly, a little more deeply than before. Loki was careful, spacing out the doses, maybe once a week, never pushing the boy’s delicate system too hard.

The days melted into weeks, the weeks into months, and soon, the crisp autumn air gave way to the biting chill of winter. The city adorned itself with festive lights and decorations for a holiday Loki learned was called “Christmas”, a concept that involved a great deal of saccharine music and the obligatory exchange of gifts.

Loki, naturally, participated. He presented Steve with a magnificent, professional-grade artist’s set – a beautiful wooden case filled with every kind of pencil, charcoal, and pastel imaginable, along with a set of exquisitely ground pigments for painting that shimmered with an almost otherworldly vibrancy.

Steve, in return, looked flustered, almost painfully embarrassed. He shyly handed Loki a small, clumsily wrapped box.

Inside, nestled in a bit of tissue paper, was a small, hand-carved wooden figure. It was a simple, rustic thing, the lines a little rough, the details not quite sharp. But it was unmistakably, recognizably, Loki. A boy with dark hair and a mischievous tilt to his head.

Steve scratched the back of his neck, a blush creeping up his cheeks. “I’m sorry”, he mumbled, his gaze fixed on the floor. “It’s… it's all I could afford to give”.

“No”, Loki cut him off, his voice soft but firm.

He cradled the small wooden statue in his hands as if it were the most precious treasure in the Nine Realms. He looked up at Steve, a brilliant, radiant smile transforming his face. His emerald eyes, usually so cool and guarded, now shone with a light so bright, so full of warmth and affection, that it seemed to hold the entire star-dusted expanse of the galaxy within them.

Steve stared, completely captivated, his heart giving a painful little lurch in his chest. He felt his own face flush an even deeper shade of red, and he quickly looked away, scratching his head again, at a complete loss for words.

The new year rolled in, blanketing Brooklyn in a fresh layer of snow and an air of tentative optimism. For Loki and Steve, however, the turning of the calendar page meant very little. Life continued on as it had before.

And by “as before”, it meant that Loki’s days were almost entirely consumed by Steve. The time spent actively searching for, or even passively thinking about, that troublesome Tesseract had dwindled to a point that would have been alarming to the Loki of a few months prior. Now? Loki barely gave the glowing blue cube a passing thought. It could stay lost at the bottom of an ocean for all he cared.

His entire focus, his singular, driving obsession, was the slow, meticulous, and incredibly complex project of healing Steven Grant Rogers. And it was working. The subtle, carefully administered potions, the nourishing meals, the simple fact that Steve was no longer getting into weekly brawls – it was all having a cumulative effect. Steve’s health was gradually, but undeniably, improving. He had more energy, the persistent cough that had haunted his winters was less severe, and the dark circles under his eyes were starting to fade. Loki, in his secret, magical check-ups, noted the subtle strengthening of the boy’s heart, the clearing of his lungs, and felt a quiet, profound satisfaction with his work.

Of course, it was working. He was Loki, after all. The greatest magic-user in the history of the Nine Realms - a title he’d bestowed upon himself, but whatever, it was probably true. Curing one ridiculously frail mortal? It was a challenge, yes, a delicate and frustratingly slow one, but hardly an insurmountable obstacle for a being of his prodigious talents. Of course he could do it. There was never any real doubt.

Another slight change, now that Loki was a fixture in the neighborhood, was the inevitable introduction to Steve’s other acquaintances. Chief among them, and certainly the most… noteworthy, was James Buchanan Barnes. “Bucky”, as Steve called him.

He was, apparently, Steve’s best friend. Or at least, he had been, before Loki’s arrival - a correction Loki quite enjoyed making in the privacy of his own mind. Bucky was… decent enough, Loki supposed, if you went in for that sort of thing. Tall, handsome in a rugged, all-American sort of way, with an easy smile and a confident swagger. He was energetic, popular, the kind of boy who seemed to move through the world with an effortless charm that drew people to him. To be honest, Loki couldn’t have cared less.

He found it amusing, however, that Steve seemed to go to great lengths to keep the two of them from interacting too much. Whenever Bucky would swing by to drag Steve out to a dance or a ball game, Steve would make excuses, invent reasons why Loki was busy, why they couldn’t all hang out together. It was a strange, almost protective, gatekeeping that Loki found baffling, but again, he wasn’t particularly invested. Bucky Barnes and his world of boisterous, mortal socializing held absolutely zero appeal.

As Steve's health improved, other, more visible changes began to take place. He started to grow. First it was subtle, an inch here, an inch there. But soon, it became undeniable. He shot up, his lanky frame finally starting to fill out. He was still slender, still leaner than most boys his age, but the alarming fragility was gone, replaced by a wiry strength.

His mother was overjoyed. She tearfully attributed his newfound vitality to a late growth spurt, but her grateful eyes often rested on Louis. She knew, with a mother's intuition, that this quiet, elegant boy who had so seamlessly entered their lives was somehow responsible. She started bringing over small gifts, tokens of her immense gratitude. Mostly food - a freshly baked apple pie that smelled of cinnamon and home, a sweet berry tart, whatever she could manage on her meager budget.

They were, to Loki’s genuine surprise, delicious. And soon, he found himself spending his weekend afternoons in the Rogers' tiny kitchen, a dish towel tucked into his trousers, patiently learning from Sarah how to make Steve’s favorite dishes. He, a god, a prince, a master of cosmic arts, stood at a worn wooden countertop and dutifully learned how to peel potatoes and knead dough. The absurdity of it was not lost on him, but he found a strange, quiet contentment in the simple, domestic ritual.

By the time July rolled around, bringing with it the thick, humid heat of a New York summer, and, more importantly, Steve's birthday, the change was dramatic. He now stood a full head taller than Loki - a fact that Loki found intensely, monumentally, annoying.

One afternoon, they were standing in the yard, and Steve looked down at him, a wide, pleased grin on his face. “Hey”, he said, his voice full of amusement. “I’m taller than you now”. He reached out, his gesture easy and familiar, and gently tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind Loki’s ear.

Loki felt a blush creep up his neck, a warmth that had nothing to do with the summer heat. He pouted, turning his face away. It was true. He was a bit on the shorter side, especially when compared to his towering Frost Giant brothers. A “runt”, some might have unkindly called him. But it was also a matter of their vastly different lifespans. By Asgardian or Jotun standards, Loki was still very much a teenager. He’d probably stay this way for a good two hundred years before he hit his next major growth spurt. It was a minor, but persistent, annoyance. But whatever. It wasn’t important.

Steve’s seventeenth birthday dawned bright and clear, a perfect July day. For the first time in what felt like ages, Sarah had managed to get the day off, and the three of them spent a quiet, peaceful morning together. The small house felt full, not with clutter, but with a gentle, shared happiness.

Later, Bucky arrived, all swagger and charm, insisting that Steve’s seventeenth was the perfect occasion for his first legal (or at least, Bucky-approved) drink. Sarah shot him a look that was laced with disapproval, but she relented with a weary sigh. Loki, for his part, agreed that it was only right for Steve to spend time with his other friends, though a small, irrational flicker of annoyance sparked within him.

By the time Steve returned, the sun was sinking low, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The three of them shared a cozy, celebratory dinner that felt far more grand than the simple dishes on the table.

Later that evening, Loki and Steve sat in Steve’s bedroom, the soft glow of a single lamp casting long shadows on the walls. Steve seemed to be practically vibrating with a quiet, contented joy.

Loki sat cross-legged on the bed, hugging a pillow to his chest. “So”, he asked, his voice soft, “how was your first taste of mortal spirits?”

Steve, who had just downed a glass of water, sat down on the edge of the bed. He shook his head. “Not bad”, he admitted. “But… I don’t think it’s really for me”.

Loki smiled. “Nothing wrong with a single glass on occasion”.

Steve winked, a playful glint in his blue eyes. “Don’t tell Bucky”, he whispered conspiratorially, “but I liked having dinner with you and Mom a lot more than I liked the bar”.

Loki winked back, a mischievous sparkle in his own emerald eyes. “No promises”.

Steve picked up his guitar and strummed a simple, cheerful tune, making up silly lyrics on the spot that made Loki laugh, a bright, clear sound that filled the small room. As the laughter faded, Loki rested his head back against the pillow, his expression turning thoughtful. “You don’t seem to want me to meet Bucky, do you?” he asked quietly. “Or your other friends”.

Steve went still, the cheerful melody dying under his fingers. He slowly set the guitar aside. He turned to face Loki, a flicker of awkwardness in his posture, but he seemed to steady himself quickly.

He scratched the back of his head, a nervous habit Loki had come to recognize. “Well”, he began, his gaze not quite meeting Loki’s, “it’s just… Bucky’s handsome, and strong, and… he’s so full of life”. He paused, then finally looked at Loki, his expression earnest and vulnerable. “I was afraid… I was afraid you’d like him more than me”. He said the words in a rush, and then a deep, furious blush spread across his face, from his neck to the tips of his ears.

Loki, still hugging the pillow, stared at him, momentarily stunned into silence. Then, a slow, gentle smile spread across his own face. He felt his own cheeks grow warm. He ducked his head, burying his face in the pillow, his voice muffled but clear. “That’s never going to happen”.

A quiet, charged silence filled the space between them. Steve reached out, his hand hesitantly touching Loki’s. He gently pulled the pillow away.

Before Loki could fully process the shift, he found himself lying back on the bed, with Steven-fucking-Grant-Rogers hovering over him. His breath caught in his throat. They stared at each other, their eyes filled with a strange, burning emotion that neither of them could name.

Loki’s face was flushed, his heart hammering against his ribs. He slowly, tentatively, reached up, his arms looping loosely around Steve’s neck.

It was all the permission Steve needed. He lowered his head, his gaze never leaving Loki’s. Their mouths met.

It was a soft, gentle kiss, hesitant and chaste, a simple, questioning touch of lips. It was over in a second. They pulled back, just an inch, breathing heavily, their foreheads almost touching.

Loki had never imagined his first kiss would be like this. With a human, a fragile, mortal boy. But… fuck it. A wave of shyness washed over him. He gave a small, almost imperceptible tug on the front of Steve’s shirt.

The blond boy smiled, a slow, tender smile that made Loki’s heart ache. He leaned down again, and this time, the kiss was longer, deeper, more confident.

It was a perfect night.

*

After that, in a way, everything was the same. Their days still fell into that comfortable, familiar rhythm of shared books, quiet sketching sessions, and long, meandering walks through the city.

But, well, now it involved more. More stolen glances that held a new, deeper meaning. More hands brushing against each other, then lingering, fingers intertwining. More soft, whispered words in the quiet of the evening. More nights spent not in their own separate houses, but tangled together in one small bed, the warmth of another body a comforting anchor against the vast, lonely darkness.

And at this point, some silly blue cube of cosmic power had been completely, utterly, and blissfully forgotten. It didn't stand a chance of appearing in Loki's mind, not when his days, and his nights, were so completely, so wonderfully, filled with the simple, profound joy of a boy named Steve.

One day, a sudden summer rainstorm had trapped them in the small, cluttered warmth of a used bookstore. The air smelled of old paper, leather, and rain-soaked pavement. They sat cross-legged on the floor in a narrow, forgotten aisle, a fortress of books towering around them.

“Listen to this”, Steve said, a grin in his voice. He was reading from a battered copy of some lurid pirate adventure novel. “‘Blackheart’s cutlass sang a song of death as it cleaved the air, thirsting for the blood of his cowardly foes!’” He delivered the line with a dramatic, swashbuckling flourish that made Loki roll his eyes.

“That is, without question, the most ridiculous sentence I have ever had the misfortune of hearing”, Loki declared, his tone dripping with mock disdain. He was curled up against a stack of encyclopedias, looking for all the world like a sleek, elegant cat that had deigned to grace this dusty establishment with its presence.

“Oh, come on, it’s fun!” Steve protested, laughing. “It’s an adventure!”

“It’s literary vandalism”, Loki sniffed. He picked up his own book, a dense, scholarly tome on ancient mythologies. “Now, this”, he said, tapping a page with a slender finger, “is proper writing. ‘The cosmic serpent, its scales shimmering with the light of dying nebulas, uncoiled from the heart of the void…’”

Steve listened, a fond smile on his face. “Yours sounds… a lot bigger”.

“Of course it does”, Loki said, a smug little smirk on his lips. He closed the book and set it aside. The rain drummed a steady, soothing rhythm against the shop window. He looked at Steve, his emerald eyes soft in the dim light. “You know”, he said, his voice losing its teasing edge, “you’re the only person I’ve ever met who actually enjoys listening to me read from dusty old books”.

Steve’s smile softened. He reached out and took Loki’s hand, his fingers lacing through Loki’s cool, slender ones. “That’s because you have a nice voice”, he said simply. “And because… I just like hearing you talk”.

Loki’s breath hitched, just for a second. He looked down at their joined hands, at Steve’s warm, calloused fingers wrapped around his own. He squeezed gently. “Idiot”, he murmured, but there was no heat in the word, only a profound, heart-stopping tenderness. They sat there for the rest of the afternoon, the rain falling outside, their hands clasped together, perfectly content in their quiet, paper-bound world.

*

Another night, the city was asleep. The only light in Steve’s small bedroom came from the moon, casting a silver glow across the rumpled sheets. They were lying side-by-side, the comfortable silence of the late hour wrapped around them like a blanket.

“I can hear your heart”, Loki said, his voice a soft murmur in the darkness. He was lying on his back, his head turned on the pillow to face Steve.

Steve, who had been on the verge of sleep, opened his eyes. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” he whispered back, his voice thick with drowsiness.

“It’s… steady”, Loki said, a note of quiet wonder in his tone. “Stronger than it used to be”. He reached out, his cool fingers gently tracing the line of Steve’s jaw. “It’s a good sound”.

Steve smiled in the darkness. He rolled onto his side, facing Loki, and captured Loki’s wandering hand, lacing their fingers together. “Yours is fast”, he murmured, pressing Loki’s hand to his own chest.

Loki fell silent. He could feel the steady, solid beat of Steve’s heart against his back, and his own traitorous pulse quickening in response. He never thought he’d find comfort in such a mundane, mortal rhythm.

“Maybe it’s just trying to keep up with yours”, Loki whispered finally, his voice barely audible. He squeezed Steve’s hand, a silent admission in the quiet dark. In that small room, under the silver light of a distant moon, two very different heartbeats found a shared, steady rhythm.

*

A few weeks later, they were walking home from the bookshop, the streets slick and shining from a recent downpour. As they turned onto their street, Steve suddenly stopped and pulled Loki back into the shadows of a darkened doorway.

“What is it?” Loki asked, his senses instantly on alert.

“Shh”, Steve whispered, a grin in his voice. He pointed across the street. A young couple was standing under a streetlamp, caught in a classic, movie-ending kiss, the light haloing them in a golden glow.

“Oh, honestly”, Loki scoffed, rolling his eyes. “How utterly cliché”.

“I think it’s romantic”, Steve countered, his voice a low murmur. He turned to face Loki in the narrow space of the doorway, his body close, his blue eyes sparkling in the dim light.

“You would”, Loki retorted, but there was no bite in his words. His heart was beating a little faster.

“Maybe we should try it”, Steve suggested, his voice dropping even lower, laced with a playful challenge.

“Try what? Standing under a streetlamp and inviting the ridicule of any passing person?” Loki asked, one eyebrow arched.

“No”, Steve said, his grin widening. He leaned in, his hands coming up to cup Loki’s face, his thumbs gently stroking his cheekbones. “This”.

And then he kissed him. It wasn’t a soft, hesitant kiss like their first, or a quiet, tender kiss like the ones they shared in the privacy of their rooms. It was a joyful, laughing kiss, full of the giddiness of their evening and the simple, undeniable happiness of being together. It tasted of rain and popcorn and the sweet, dizzying feeling of falling hopelessly in love.

When they finally broke apart, both breathless, Loki rested his forehead against Steve’s. “You’re an idiot”, he murmured, a smile in his voice.

“Yeah”, Steve breathed back, his own smile radiant. “But I’m your idiot”.

*

The topic of the future, inevitably, began to creep into their shared world, a quiet, insistent whisper at the edges of their perfect present.

One clear, cold night, they were huddled together on the flat roof of Loki's house, a vantage point that offered an uninterrupted view of the star-dusted sky. A thick wool blanket was wrapped around both of them, a cocoon of warmth against the crisp air. Steve’s arm was wound securely around Loki’s waist, pulling him close, and Loki had his head rested comfortably on Steve’s shoulder.

“This is nice”, Steve murmured, his voice a low, contented rumble against Loki’s ear.

Loki made a soft, cat-like sound of agreement, a little hum deep in his throat, and nodded. He could feel the gentle, absentminded stroking of Steve’s fingers against his hip, a familiar, comforting touch.

“I hope we can stay like this forever”, Steve continued, his voice full of a quiet, earnest sincerity. “When I’m older, I’ll get a good office job. Something steady. I can take care of Mom… and you”.

The words, so simple, so full of love and naive optimism, hit Loki like a physical blow. His heart stuttered, a painful lurch in his chest.

As Steve continued to speak, painting a picture of their beautiful, shared future - a small house, maybe a garden, quiet evenings spent together - Loki’s mind began to race. A cold, hard reality he had been so skillfully, so willfully ignoring, came crashing down on him.

He wasn't human. He had a lifespan so vast it was nearly incomprehensible to a mortal mind.

When Steve was a grown man, settled in his “steady office job”, Loki would still be here, in this same youthful form, looking exactly as he did now. And when Steve grew old, his hair turning grey, his body beginning to fail… Loki would still be a teenager.

The thought was a blade twisting in his gut, a pain so sharp, so profound, it stole his breath. He had never, in all his long, tumultuous existence, felt a hurt like this. It was a cold, desolate agony that threatened to swallow him whole.

Steve, ever attuned to Loki's moods, must have felt the sudden tension in his body. “What is it?” he asked, his voice soft with concern.

Loki, the master of lies, the architect of a thousand deceptions, summoned all his skill. He forced a relaxed sigh and snuggled a little closer into Steve’s side. “Nothing”, he lied, his voice smooth and even. “Just a little tired, that’s all”. He managed a small smile. “Your plan sounds wonderful”.

Later that night, Loki lay beside Steve in the quiet darkness, but sleep was a distant, unattainable shore. He lay perfectly still, listening to the steady, rhythmic sound of Steve’s breathing, and his own thoughts churned, a relentless, agonizing storm. The more he thought about their disparate futures, about the inevitable, heartbreaking chasm of time that lay between them, the more the pain in his chest grew, a cold, heavy weight that felt as if it might crush him from the inside out.

In the days that followed, the pain remained, a constant, dull ache in Loki’s chest. It would recede during the day, pushed to the background by the simple, grounding presence of Steve. The shared laughter, the quiet companionship, the gentle touch of a hand—these moments were a balm, a temporary reprieve.

But at night, when the city fell silent and Steve slept peacefully beside him, the agony would return, gnarled and sharp, to gnaw at him from the inside out. He would lie awake for hours, staring into the darkness, his mind a relentless torment. The thought of their borrowed time, the brutal, fleeting nature of their shared existence, felt like a thousand tiny knives twisting in his heart.

He couldn't bear it. He couldn't imagine a future, a century, a millennium, without Steve. The thought of this world, this universe, continuing on without the warmth of the boy’s embrace, without his earnest blue eyes and his lopsided grin, was a void so vast and terrifying that Loki couldn't even bring himself to fully contemplate it.

He thought of all the power he possessed. The ability to reshape reality, to bend time and space, to command cosmic energies. And yet, against the simple, inexorable march of mortal aging, he was helpless.

No, he thought, a fierce, desperate resolve hardening within him as he lay there in the dark. No. He was Loki. He did not accept helplessness. He did not bow to fate.

He needed to do something.

Months passed, a blur of stolen moments and quiet happiness, each one precious, each one tinged with the bittersweet knowledge of its own impermanence. The silent, gnawing dread in Loki’s chest never truly went away, but he learned to live with it, to push it down, to focus on the now.

One night, they were lying in bed, tangled together in the comfortable darkness. Steve was wrapped around him from behind, a solid, warm presence at his back, his chin resting gently on Loki’s shoulder.

Loki took a deep breath, the words catching in his throat. “I think”, he began, his voice barely a whisper, “I might have to go away for a while”.

Steve said nothing. The silence stretched, and Loki’s heart began to hammer against his ribs, bracing for the inevitable questions, the hurt, the confusion.

But then, Steve simply sighed, a long, slow exhalation against Loki’s neck. “Back to your home planet?” he asked, his voice calm, matter-of-fact.

Loki went completely still. After a long moment, his own breath still caught in his chest, Steve’s arms still holding him tight, he managed to speak. “How long have you known?”

“From the start”, Steve murmured, his voice a low rumble against Loki’s ear. “There’s no earthly salve that can make a black eye vanish overnight”.

A soft, incredulous laugh escaped Loki’s lips. It was a watery, shaky sound, full of a strange mixture of shock and relief. “You’re clever, you know that?”

Steve chuckled, a warm, breathy sound. He pressed a soft kiss to the side of Loki’s neck. “What’s your real name?”

Loki hesitated for only a second. “It’s Loki”.

“Loki”, Steve repeated, testing the name on his tongue. “Like the Norse god?”

Loki nodded against Steve's shoulder. “Yes”, he said, his voice soft. “Like the Norse god”.

Steve’s arms tightened around him. “Then, Loki”, he murmured, his voice soft and steady, “just make sure you come home soon”.

Loki twisted in his embrace, turning to face him, burying his face against the thin but warm expanse of Steve’s chest. The familiar, comforting scent of him, of soap and clean cotton and something that was just uniquely Steve, filled Loki’s senses. “I will”, he promised, his voice muffled by the fabric of Steve’s shirt. “I’ll be back as soon as I can”.

After a long, quiet moment, a wave of despair washed over him, raw and overwhelming. “I don’t want to go”, he confessed, his voice thick with a misery he couldn’t hide. “I don’t want to leave you at all. But… there’s no other way”.

Steve just chuckled softly, a gentle, reassuring sound. He smoothed a hand down Loki’s back. “Don’t worry”, he said, his own voice impossibly calm. “I’ll wait for you”.

Loki pulled back, lifting his head to look at Steve, his own emerald eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Really?” he asked, his voice small, vulnerable.

Steve smiled down at him, a tender, loving smile that made Loki’s heart ache. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Loki’s forehead. “Really”, he confirmed, his voice a quiet vow. Then, he cupped Loki’s face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking his cheekbones, and lowered his mouth to his, sealing the promise with a kiss that was full of love, and trust, and a quiet, unshakeable certainty.

The Sunday Loki was to leave felt stolen. It was a perfect, sun-drenched bubble of time, suspended against the inevitable reality of his departure. They didn’t do much of anything, which meant they did everything. They sat in the small yard, not training, just existing in each other's space. They walked to the park, not to evade bullies, but to sit on their bench and share a single ice cream cone, their hands brushing, their shoulders pressed together. The entire day was a quiet, desperate attempt to cram a lifetime of mundane, beautiful moments into a few precious hours.

As evening fell, casting long, melancholic shadows across the city, the weight of the impending farewell settled heavily in the small bedroom. Loki stood in the middle of the room, the familiar space suddenly feeling alien, like a stage set for a tragedy. He let out a long, slow sigh. “It’s time”, he said, the words feeling like stones in his throat.

Steve didn’t argue, didn’t plead for one more minute. He just said, “Okay”, and pulled Loki into a hug so tight it felt like he was trying to memorize the shape of him, to hold him there through sheer force of will.

Loki fought the knot of grief tightening in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to be the strong one, the celestial being in control. He pulled back, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and extended a trembling hand towards the empty space in the room.

A tear in reality formed at his fingertips, a slash of pure, silent black against the mundane wallpaper of the room. The portal pulsed gently, a quiet invitation to other worlds, other times.

He took a step towards it, then hesitated, turning back to look at Steve one last time. He wanted to burn the image into his memory: the earnest blue eyes, the stubbornly optimistic set of his jaw, the boy who had somehow, impossibly, become his entire world.

“I love you, Loki”, Steve said, his voice quiet but clear in the still room.

The carefully constructed walls of Loki’s composure didn’t just crack; they shattered. A choked sob escaped him, and he didn’t even think, he just moved, launching himself back into Steve’s arms. Steve caught him, holding him just as tightly as before, his mouth finding Loki’s in a kiss that was desperate and deep, a frantic attempt to convey a universe of feeling in a single, breathless moment.

“I promise I’ll be back soon”, Loki whispered against his lips, the words a raw, fervent vow.

Steve pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “I believe you”, he said, and the simple, unwavering trust in his voice was more devastating than any tearful plea.

It was agony to pull away. Every instinct, every fiber of his being, screamed at him to stay, to close the portal and never leave this small room. But he forced himself to step back, his gaze locked with Steve’s until the very last second.

With a final, heartbroken look, Loki turned and stepped through the crack in space. The darkness enveloped him, cold and absolute, but the pain of leaving was already crystallizing into something else, something hard and sharp and unyielding.

He had never felt so determined in his entire, long life.

Chapter Text

“So, what’s cooking in that genius brain of yours?”

King Laufey’s voice was a low, quiet rumble, a contrast to the chaotic symphony of bubbling liquids and scratching quills that filled the workshop. He leaned against the stone doorframe of the tower chamber, arms crossed over his massive chest, his ruby eyes taking in the scene with a patient, knowing air.

This space, usually as pristine and meticulously organized as Loki’s own mind, now looked as though a localized blizzard had torn through it. Scrolls of arcane text were piled precariously on every flat surface, some spilling onto the floor in waves of aged parchment. Open books lay splayed like fallen birds, their pages filled with frantic, spidery notations. Strange, glowing artifacts hummed softly from dusty corners, and in the center of it all, a large iron cauldron bubbled with a viscous, amethyst-colored liquid that periodically spat violet sparks.

And in the eye of this self-made hurricane sat Loki. He was perched on a high-backed chair, hunched over a large sheet of vellum, one hand scribbling furiously with a quill while the other absently stirred the ominous purple brew with a long, silver rod.

“Father”, Loki answered without looking up, his voice distracted. “I’m just doing a little research, that’s all”.

“Researching how to turn a Midgardian into an Æsir?” Laufey asked, his tone deceptively mild, but the question was as sharp and direct as a shard of ice.

The quill in Loki’s hand froze mid-stroke. He remained motionless for a long beat, the only sound the aggressive bubbling of the cauldron. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his head and turned to face his father, his emerald eyes narrowed. “Did Helblindi spill something again?”

Laufey sighed, a soft puff of mist in the cool air of the tower. He tilted his head towards a large slate blackboard that hung on the far wall, a surface so densely covered in complex equations, biological diagrams, and runic sequences that it was barely visible beneath the chalk dust. “Based on what’s written up there, it doesn’t take a king’s wisdom to figure out what you’re trying to do”, he said. Then, a faint smile touched his lips. “But yes, Helblindi did give me a warning”.

Loki let out a quiet sigh of his own, the sound laced with frustration. He lowered his head, his gaze returning to the half-finished schematic on the table, and resumed writing, though with less of his earlier frantic energy. “Who knew he could be such a blabbermouth?” he muttered.

Laufey shrugged, pushing himself off the doorframe and taking a few steps into the cluttered workshop. “That boy may be a wild one”, he rumbled, picking up a strange, pulsating crystal and examining it with casual curiosity before setting it down again. “But he has his moments of responsibility”.

The king leaned his hip against the edge of a heavy worktable, his expression turning serious. “So, Loki. You want to talk about what’s really going on?”

The workshop fell silent again, save for the glug-glug of the purple potion. Loki’s hand stilled. For a long moment, he just stared at the parchment, at the impossible formulas and the desperate hope they represented. Finally, still not looking up, he spoke, his voice quiet, stripped of its usual artifice.

“I met a boy on Midgard. He’s a good person. A ridiculously good person. And we… kissed”.

Of course. With that one, simple admission, the entire chaotic picture of the workshop snapped into focus for Laufey. The frantic research, the volatile potions, the desperate energy radiating from his youngest son - it all made a terrible, poignant kind of sense.

“And you’re trying to make him an Æsir. Or at least give him their lifespan”, Laufey stated. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes”. Loki finally closed his eyes, a flicker of pain crossing his features. He opened them again and looked up, meeting his father’s gaze, his own emerald eyes shimmering with a profound, aching sadness. “He’s the first one. Outside of our family, he’s the first friend I’ve ever had. The first person who ever… loved me”.

“Sounds like a good boy”, Laufey said, his voice soft, a simple affirmation.

“Yes”, Loki whispered, his voice catching slightly. “And that’s why I have to do this. I can’t lose him, Father. I can’t”.

Loki didn’t stop there. The words began to pour out of him, a torrent of memory and emotion he hadn't realized he’d been holding back. He spoke of Steve, of his quiet strength, his unwavering kindness, his ridiculous, stubborn courage. He recounted their shared afternoons, the easy laughter, the comfortable silences, the way Steve’s presence had somehow, impossibly, made the chaotic, messy world of Midgard feel like a sanctuary.

Laufey listened, his massive form a silent, steady presence in the cluttered workshop. He said nothing, offered no judgment, just an occasional, faint smile as Loki’s stories painted a vivid picture of the boy who had so completely captured his son’s heart.

“We dreamt of our future”, Loki said, his voice thick, his emerald eyes turning a little red around the edges. “And when I think about him leaving, about him growing old while I still look like this… it feels like my heart is going to shatter, Dad”.

Laufey shook his head slowly, still saying nothing, simply allowing Loki the space to voice the pain that had been eating him alive.

Loki took a deep, shuddering breath, visibly forcing himself to regain some measure of composure. He turned back to his work, his hands moving with a renewed, almost desperate, energy. “I will do this”, he declared, his voice tight with resolve. “Whatever it takes, I will make this work”.

He glanced over at his father, a hint of challenge in his gaze. “You have no opinion on this?”

Laufey, finally being asked directly, let out a slow, considered breath. “Okay”, he rumbled, his voice a low, thoughtful counterpoint to the workshop’s frantic energy. “Let’s say you succeed. Let’s say you create this miracle elixir, this potion that can turn a human into an Æsir”.

He paused, letting the hypothetical hang in the air. “Will the boy accept it? Will he drink it?”

“A long life… for some, that isn’t a blessing. How will he feel when his mother dies? When all his friends are gone, and he is still here, unchanged? And what will you do if he refuses? Shove it down his throat?”

Loki’s hand went limp. The quill slipped from his fingers, clattering softly onto the table. He stared down at the intricate, hopeful diagrams on the parchment, his expression suddenly vacant, lost.

The king sighed, a sound of profound, weary sympathy. He moved to stand behind Loki, his large, cool hand settling gently on his youngest son’s small shoulder.

“There’s a reason”, Laufey said, his voice soft, “that of all the Nine Realms, only Midgard is separate, unaware of the existence of the others”.

“But… I won’t stop you”.

Laufey’s other hand came up, gently tilting Loki’s chin so that the boy was forced to meet his gaze. “You are a wise and strong-willed child”, he said, his ruby eyes full of a deep, unwavering affection. “And though you are the youngest, you are, by far, the most stubborn of my three sons. This is your choice to make. I will not stand in your way”.

“But you must think about this. Truly think”.

“You can continue on this journey, this war against the natural order of things. Or… you can cherish the time you have left together, and when the day comes, say goodbye to the boy. Properly”.

He gave Loki’s shoulder another gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Think about it, my son”.

The king turned and left the workshop, his heavy footsteps echoing softly down the tower stairs, leaving Loki sitting alone amidst his chaotic creations, as still and silent as a statue carved from ice, his face a mask of hollow, desolate grief.

*

Loki found himself in Asgard. Because, true to his father's words, he really was a stubborn, stubborn child.

The night was cool and star-dusted, the very eve of Asgard's grand Harvest Festival. And the Harvest Festival, of course, meant one thing: Idun's orchard. Which, as it happened, was the sole reason for Loki’s clandestine visit.

He had managed, through a combination of arcane knowledge, inter-realm thievery, and sheer, bloody-minded determination, to acquire all the other rare and volatile ingredients for his ultimate elixir. Only one remained: a golden apple. And by “golden apple”, he meant a true golden apple, from the sacred heart of Idun's grove.

A crucial distinction needed to be made. Yes, Idun’s orchard was vast, filled with countless trees, all bearing fruit that shimmered with a golden light. But the true Golden Apples, the ones that sustained the very immortality of the gods, were a different matter entirely. They were impossibly rare, harvested only once a century, with a yield of maybe one or two fruits, if the cosmos was feeling particularly generous. Even Thor, the cherished golden prince of this gaudy realm, had never been granted so much as a single taste.

So, one could only imagine the level of security currently suffocating Idun’s precious orchard. It would be formidable. It would be layered. It would be, Loki thought with a flicker of a smirk, a delightful challenge.

Loki’s fingers twitched, a barely perceptible gesture. In the next instant, he wasn’t there anymore. The air where he had stood shimmered for a moment, then settled, empty.

Illusion had always been his playground, his native language. Becoming invisible was as natural to him as breathing, a simple trick of bending light and perception around himself. It was more than enough to slip past the eyes of the common rabble, and even, he thought with a flicker of smug satisfaction, that glorified, perpetually constipated gatekeeper, Heimdall.

As he strolled, unseen, through the glittering, ostentatious streets of Asgard, a familiar, low-grade disgust curled in his stomach. He still hated this place. The gilded towers, the self-important pomp, the sheer, unadulterated gaudiness of it all - it set his teeth on edge.

The Harvest Festival was in full swing, and the city was teeming not just with its usual boisterous Asgardians, but with visitors from other realms. Light Elves from Alfheim, their movements graceful and their laughter like wind chimes, mingled with the more robust, earthy Vanir from Vanaheim. The air was thick with a cacophony of languages and the cloying scent of spiced wine and roasting meats.

Loki moved through the throng like a ghost, a whisper of wind that parted the crowds without touching a soul. He was a phantom in their midst, his purpose singular, his presence entirely unknown. He was almost to the palace gates when a snippet of conversation snagged his attention, pulling him to a halt.

A small Light Elf child, her eyes wide with wonder as she took in the spectacle of the city, tugged on her mother’s hand. “Can we see Prince Thor?” she chirped, her voice high and melodic.

Her mother, an elegant elf with hair like spun moonlight, shook her head gently. “I don’t think so, little star”.

“Why not?” the child pouted.

An Asgardian standing nearby, a portly merchant with a booming voice, leaned in conspiratorially. “The prince hasn’t been seen in public much”, he rumbled. “Not since the accident”.

“The accident?” the child echoed, her curiosity piqued.

“It’s not important, dear”, her mother said quickly, but then she turned to the merchant, her own voice lowered. “The Wyvern attack?”

The merchant nodded grimly. The Light Elf sighed, a soft, sad sound. “That’s fair, I suppose”, she murmured. “The poor prince. To lose his brother like that, after all”.

Loki didn’t wait to hear more. He moved on, the words echoing in the silent space where he walked, leaving the conversation and its inconvenient sentiments behind him.

Idun's orchard, a jewel of verdant life nestled close to the sprawling golden mass of the royal palace, was currently enjoying a level of security that would have made Odin's own treasure vault seem like an open house.

Squads of guards patrolled the perimeter with a relentless, overlapping rhythm. They weren't just the usual burly, blond-haired Asgardians in their gleaming armor. Loki spotted the distinctive, leaf-patterned chainmail of Alfheim's elite guard, and the more rugged, bear-pelt-and-steel aesthetic of warriors from Vanaheim, all moving with a grim, unified purpose. It seemed the security of the apples was a matter of inter-realm importance.

Loki watched from a safe, shadowed distance, his emerald eyes scanning the fortifications. A soft 'tch' sound escaped his lips as he recognized a familiar, intricate pattern of runes etched into the high stone walls surrounding the grove. They glowed with a faint, pulsing light, a web of arcane energy designed to repel any unauthorized entry.

It was one of his own designs. A particularly clever, layered warding scheme he'd developed years ago, back when he still entertained the foolish notion of contributing his genius to the betterment of Asgard.

A familiar, bitter taste filled his mouth. This place. These people. They scorned magic, dismissed it as a coward's trick, a woman's art. And yet, here they were, using it - using his magic - to protect their most precious assets. The hypocrisy was so blatant, so deeply ingrained, it was almost breathtaking.

But hey, he thought, a slow, cold smile spreading across his features as he stepped out from the shadows, still cloaked in his invisibility. Maybe it was time for a little test. Time to see just how much stronger he'd become.

By dismantling his own creation.

As Loki prepared to move, he paused, a silent, invisible wraith in the Asgardian twilight. He took a moment, not for rest, but for accounting. A mental ledger of larceny and miracles, a final inventory before the last, most audacious acquisition.

The list of ingredients for his grand, impossible elixir was long, numbering well over a hundred rare and volatile components, each sourced with varying degrees of difficulty and moral flexibility. But the core components, the true pillars of the potion, were few.

The heartstring of a great Sea Serpent from the forgotten depths of Vanaheim’s oceans had been, as he’d mentally noted at the time, “a little tricky”. That was Loki’s understated way of describing a harrowing, three-day hunt in the crushing blackness of the abyss. It hadn't been a brute-force battle - Loki wasn't Thor. It had been a delicate, terrifying dance of illusion and misdirection, luring the colossal, city-sized beast with shimmering phantom schools of its favorite prey, then darting in with a single, perfectly aimed severing spell to pluck a single, resonating fiber from its cosmic heart before vanishing back into the shadows. Tricky, indeed.

The ten-year Moon Mushroom, a fungal growth that absorbed a decade of pure starlight and earthen magic, was notoriously difficult to find. Legends said it only grew in one hidden grotto, deep within the most ancient forests of Alfheim. Well, as it turned out, it was significantly easier to simply walk, unseen, into the Royal Vault of the Light Elf palace and relieve them of the one they had painstakingly harvested and put on display. A casual shopping trip, really. They were far too trusting with their security.

Then there was the dragon’s blood. Not just any dragon’s blood, but a single, perfect drop from the most ancient and notoriously ill-tempered black dragon in all the Nine Realms, a beast so old and powerful she treated cosmic entities like bothersome gnats. Loki hadn't fought her. That would have been suicidal. Instead, he’d talked to her. For two straight days, he had perched on a ledge outside her smoldering mountain lair and engaged in the conversational equivalent of a ballet. He’d flattered her ancient vanity, appealed to her vast, cynical intellect, debated philosophy, and traded stories of ages long past. He had deployed every ounce of his silver-tongued charm, every trick of rhetoric, every drop of charisma he possessed. In the end, the ancient dragon, amused and perhaps a little impressed by his sheer audacity, had extended a single, obsidian claw and allowed him to draw one, single, shimmering crimson drop.

The Tear of the Sunset was a different kind of challenge. It was the name given to the single drop of dew that formed at dawn on the petals of the Sun-petal flower, a plant of impossible rarity that grew only on the highest, most inaccessible peak in Jotunheim. Luckily, that peak was on his home turf. The journey was arduous, a climb through biting, razor-sharp winds that could strip flesh from bone, but it was less a theft and more a pilgrimage. He had waited, patient and still, through the long, frozen night, watching the twin suns of his homeworld rise, and had carefully collected the single, perfect droplet as it glistened on the fiery orange petal. That one, at least, hadn't required stealing anything or talking his way out of being incinerated.

And now, only one piece remained. The final, crucial ingredient. The golden apple of Asgard.

He had come this far. He had faced down leviathans and sweet-talked ancient wyrms. He had pilfered from elven kings and scaled impossible mountains. He had poured all of his genius, all of his will, all of his desperate, aching love for a mortal boy into this quest.

He was so close. And Loki, standing there in the shadows of the place he loathed most, made a silent, cold vow.

He would not fail.

“Now then, what to do, what to do…” Loki whispered to the empty air, his voice a silken murmur of contemplation.

His fingers twitched, a small, almost imperceptible gesture.

Above, the placid, star-dusted night sky shattered.

With a deafening crack that sounded like the universe itself tearing in two, a jagged fissure of pure darkness split the heavens. It spread rapidly, a spiderweb of black against the celestial velvet, then ripped open. From the void beyond, a monstrous head emerged, its scales the color of bleached bone, its eyes blazing with a furious, ruby-red light.

It was a White-Winged Wyvern.

A collective shriek of pure, unadulterated terror rose from the festive crowds below, a wave of panic that washed over the glittering city.

Loki watched the chaos unfold from his shadowed vantage point, calmly tucking a stray raven lock behind his ear.

Well, yes. That whole “Wyvern accident” all those years ago? Most of it, in fact, had been Loki’s handiwork.

First of all, it really had been Thor’s spectacularly idiotic idea to go hunting for a Wyvern Core. That part, Loki had nothing to do with. He couldn’t be blamed for his brother’s monumental lack of foresight.

But, the idea that a young, white-winged Wyvern would just happen to get separated from its pack and conveniently present itself to Thor like a gift-wrapped catastrophe? The odds of that were astronomically, laughably, low.

Furthermore, of all the myriad Wyvern species scattered across the Nine Realms, for Thor to randomly encounter the most notoriously aggressive, vengeful, and pack-oriented of them all? That wasn't just bad luck. That was meticulously engineered misfortune.

That part, Loki claimed full credit for.

The moment he’d learned of Thor’s foolhardy plan, Loki had seen the glimmer of an opportunity. And being Loki, he hadn’t just seen it; he’d seized it, shaped it, and orchestrated the ensuing disaster with the precision of a master composer. It was a chance to sever his ties with Asgard, a dramatic exit strategy, and he had pulled the strings with practiced ease.

Kidnapping a juvenile Wyvern and making it appear lost and vulnerable? Child’s play.

Capturing, imprisoning, and systematically starving a fully-grown, mature Wyvern to stoke its rage to a fever pitch? A bit more challenging, certainly. It required a delicate balance of potent containment spells and sheer, bloody-minded nerve. But still, it was hardly outside the realm of his considerable talents.

And now, this. Releasing that same, enraged Wyvern here, now, to serve as the ultimate distraction? This was a feat of a different magnitude entirely. Tearing a stable rift in reality large enough to accommodate a beast of that size required a colossal expenditure of magical energy, a drain that would leave a lesser mage a desiccated husk. But for Loki, it was… manageable. A strain, yes, but entirely within his capabilities.

The Wyvern, a hundred times more ferocious than its natural state due to its long imprisonment and gnawing hunger, roared its defiance at the glittering city below. But it was already faltering.

It didn't matter. It wasn’t meant to cause any real damage. Weakened by starvation, alone against the massed, vigilant might of Asgard’s finest, it stood no chance. Its true value wasn’t in destruction. It was in pure, glorious, unadulterated chaos. A perfect diversion.And a perfect diversion it was. As the enraged Wyvern descended upon the city, its roars echoing off the golden towers, the carefully organized security around Idun’s orchard dissolved into frantic, disorganized chaos.

Guards abandoned their posts, their disciplined patrols breaking as they scrambled to join the fray, their shouts of alarm adding to the general din. The Elves and the Vanir, caught between their duty to the apples and their instinct to defend the city, hesitated for a crucial, chaotic moment.

In that beautiful, fleeting instant of pure pandemonium, Loki moved.

Those long, slender fingers twitched again. On the high stone wall, the intricate web of runes began to glow softly, responding to the silent command of their creator.

Well, he had made them, after all.

Loki waved a dismissive hand, and a section of the glowing wards flickered and died, a gaping hole appearing in the once-impenetrable magical fence. He slipped through it, a shadow merging with other shadows.

Now for the real task: finding the one true golden apple in this entire, sprawling grove.

He moved like a whisper of wind through the moon-dappled orchard, his eyes scanning, assessing. Row after row of trees, each laden with shimmering, golden fruit that pulsed with a faint, lesser magic. Not these.

Finally, in the very heart of the grove, he saw it. A single, ancient tree, its bark gnarled and silvered with age, standing apart from the others. And nestled amongst its leaves, a single, perfect apple. It didn't just shimmer; it blazed with an inner light, a miniature sun radiating pure, unadulterated life force.

Well, Loki thought with a private, malicious smirk, looks like the good people of Asgard will have to enjoy their festival this year without their customary dose of immortality. A pity.

A shimmering, golden barrier, woven from a different, more potent magic, pulsed around the base of the special tree. A personal ward.

Loki let out a soft, cold huff of air.

He let his invisibility dissolve, revealing his form, cloaked and hooded in stark black. He reached out a pale hand and placed it flat against the shimmering golden shield.

An intense, biting cold, the very essence of Jotunheim’s eternal winter, radiated from his palm. The golden barrier crackled, spiderwebbing with frost, and then, with a sound like shattering crystal, it exploded into a shower of glittering, harmless dust.

Loki plucked the apple from its branch, its warmth a contrast to the cold fury simmering within him.

“Please, put that down”.

The voice was soft, melodic, but held an edge of steel. Loki turned. It was Idun herself, the goddess of youth, her face pale, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and defiance. And the fucking bitch had the nerve to point her staff at him.

In an instant, a gale of frigid wind erupted from behind Loki, a furious, focused blast that slammed into the goddess, sending her flying backwards with a startled cry.

Loki leaped into the air, a blur of black cloth, a split second before a bolt of pure cosmic energy incinerated the spot where he had just been standing.

It was Odin, his one eye blazing with fury, the tip of his spear, Gungnir, still smoking. And behind him, dozens of Asgard’s finest warriors, their weapons drawn, their faces grim.The air crackled, thick with the scent of ozone and spilled magic. Loki landed lightly on a high branch of a nearby apple tree, a wraith in the moonlight, the golden apple held loosely in one hand. He looked down at the assembled might of Asgard, a slow, cold smile playing on his lips.

“Wow”, Loki drawled, his voice a low, mocking purr that carried easily through the tense silence. He surveyed the scene below - the grim-faced Allfather, the bristling ranks of warriors. “Look at them all. So brave. So strong”. He let out a soft, dismissive laugh. “What a joke”.

Just looking at their self-righteous faces made the familiar, bitter anger rise in his throat like bile. It was a struggle, a genuine physical effort, not to unleash the emerald fire coiling in his gut and burn this entire, hypocritical orchard to ash.

In the distance, the Wyvern let out one last, agonized shriek, a death cry that was abruptly cut short. Probably dispatched by the combined might of the other realms' warriors.

Loki clicked his tongue in mild annoyance. With a dramatic sweep of his black cloak, a thick, swirling bank of ice fog erupted from the ground, instantly obscuring the entire grove in a disorienting, pearlescent haze. He melted into it, a phantom gliding through the mist.

It wasn't that he was afraid of them. Far from it. But the current situation dictated that a strategic retreat was the most efficient course of action. He didn't have time to play games with these oafs.

Besides, he couldn't use his signature green fire, his true magic. The color was too unique, too recognizable. It would instantly betray his identity. And while his control over his innate ice magic had grown exponentially, he wasn't yet confident enough to wield it in a full-blown confrontation against the likes of Odin himself.

Of course, the pack of idiots below wasn't about to let him go.

They charged into the fog, shouting commands, their movements clumsy and uncoordinated in the thick haze. Bolts of golden energy from Gungnir sliced through the mist, narrowly missing Loki as he weaved through the trees, his speed supernatural. They were hunting him, a blind, lumbering beast chasing a shadow.

Soon, the other realms’ warriors, having dealt with the now-deceased Wyvern, joined the chaotic pursuit. Showers of razor-sharp elven arrows, glowing with a faint, deadly light, whistled through the mist. Blasts of raw, elemental magic from the Vanir mages exploded around him, scorching the earth and shattering ancient trees.

Loki moved through the storm of projectiles with a fluid, contemptuous grace. It was… a little annoying, he had to admit. A nuisance. Like being swarmed by a particularly persistent cloud of magical mosquitos.

A volley of arrows, perfectly aimed, zeroed in on him. With a sharp gesture, a series of thick, jagged ice walls erupted from the damp orchard ground, shielding him from the deadly barrage. The arrows thudded harmlessly into the ice, their magical tips sizzling as they were neutralized by the intense cold.

The chase spilled out of the fog-shrouded orchard and into the grand plaza that fronted the palace.

Loki didn’t slow. With a casual flick of his wrist, the ornate, multi-tiered fountain in the center of the square exploded upwards in a geyser of pressurized water.

Another gesture, and the cascading streams of water froze mid-air, instantly transforming into glittering, serpent-like tendrils of solid ice. They whipped through the air, snaking around the ankles and legs of the charging warriors, ensnaring those who weren't quick enough to dodge, binding them in cold, unyielding shackles.

A sphere of water, pulled from the shattered remnants of the fountain, coalesced in the air before Loki. It swelled, bristled with impossibly sharp spikes of ice, and then launched itself across the plaza, rolling with a terrifying, grinding momentum. Its primary purpose wasn't slaughter though, if Loki had truly desired it, he could have turned this plaza into a frozen abattoir. No, its true function was far more practical. It was a bowling ball, and the assembled warriors of the Nine Realms were the pins. It certainly helped clear his path.

An energy beam, raw and golden and pulsing with the power of a dying star, seared the air where Loki's head had been a microsecond earlier. Gungnir. There was a damn good reason that spear was the traditional weapon of Asgard’s kings. It was dangerously potent.

Loki twisted, a blur of black against the chaos, narrowly avoiding another blast. As he spun, a volley of razor-sharp, spinning discs of ice shot from his outstretched hand. They sliced through the air, aimed not at Odin, but at the spear itself. The discs struck Gungnir with a series of high-pitched cracks, the impact jarring the weapon from the Allfather’s grasp, sending it skittering across the stone plaza.

Immediately following, a series of towering ice walls erupted from the ground, a miniature, jagged mountain range instantly sealing off the area. They held for a beat, then exploded outwards in a blinding, disorienting cloud of ice dust and frigid mist.

Loki used the chaos, the precious seconds of confusion, to vanish. He darted into a deserted, shadow-choked side alley, his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, triumphant drumbeat. He leaned against the cold stone wall, the golden apple clutched tightly in his hand, and allowed himself a small, breathless smile.

He had it. He’d actually done it.

He quickly, almost frantically, tore a fresh crack in the fabric of reality, a shimmering wound of darkness against the alley wall. He scrambled towards it, a bright, beautiful future with Steve so close he could almost taste it.

But the moment he stepped through, the very instant his foot crossed the threshold into the void between worlds, a colossal bolt of pure, vengeful energy slammed into the portal from behind. Odin, having already recovered his spear, had arrived.

“Fuck”, Loki whispered, a single, sharp exhalation of disbelief and dawning horror.

He desperately tried to collapse the rift, to sever the connection, but it was too late. He felt the portal destabilize, the cosmic energies twisting, imploding.

Then, with a deafening, silent roar, everything went black.

*

Everything was black.

That was the first, terrifying thought that registered when Loki’s eyes fluttered open again. A profound, absolute blackness, so complete it felt like a physical weight pressing in on him from all sides. Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him. He gasped, his own ragged breath sounding unnaturally loud in the crushing silence.

Then, a faint, soft light. He looked down. Cradled in his own hands, the golden apple pulsed with a gentle, reassuring warmth, its light pushing back the suffocating darkness just enough for Loki to see his own trembling fingers, the pristine fabric of his black cloak. He wasn’t blind. The relief was so profound, so dizzying, that he almost laughed.

He clutched the apple to his chest, a desperate, protective gesture. He had it. Despite everything, he still had it. With a swift, practiced movement, he slipped the precious fruit into the hidden pocket of reality he kept for such things, and the small golden glow vanished, plunging him back into near-total darkness.

He pushed himself up, trying to get his bearings, but the movement felt wrong. There was no ground beneath him, no sense of up or down. His body drifted, weightless, in the silent void. Disorientation washed over him.

Green fire, his signature emerald flame, ignited in his palm. It cast his pale, strained features in a ghostly, verdant light, but the darkness beyond the reach of the flames remained absolute, impenetrable. It swallowed the light, yielding no hint of walls, or stars, or anything at all.

He tried to sit up properly, but his body tumbled in the emptiness. He was floating. Suspended. Lost.

“Damn it all”, he whispered, the words swallowed by the vast, silent dark. “Where in the nine hells am I?”

He reached out, his fingers tracing a complex pattern in the air, trying to coax a tear in reality, to open one of his familiar portals. Nothing happened. No shimmer, no spark, no response at all. The very fabric of this place felt… inert. Dead to his magic.

He tried another spell, a simple divination to get his bearings, to find a direction, any direction. Again, nothing. The magic dissipated from his fingertips, absorbed by the oppressive void without a trace.

Panic, a cold, creeping tendril, began to wind its way around his heart. He forced it down, his jaw tight with grim determination. Fine. If he couldn’t bend this place to his will, he would move through it. He focused his power inwards, not to create a portal, but to propel himself, to push his own body through the blackness.

He moved for a long, long time, a tiny, self-illuminated speck in an infinite, featureless ocean of night. But no matter how far he traveled, no matter how much power he expended, the view never changed. It was always, endlessly, the same crushing, silent black.

No, no, no, no, no.

He shook his head, a frantic, desperate gesture. He pushed himself harder, faster, a silent scream of frustration building in his chest. This couldn’t be it. He couldn’t be trapped here. Not now. Not when he was so close.

He flew through the void, a desperate, solitary comet with no destination, fueled by sheer, bloody-minded will. He had no idea where he was going, no concept of distance or direction. He just knew he had to keep moving. He had to keep pushing forward. Maybe, just maybe, if he went far enough, he’d find a wall. An edge. An exit.

But after an eternity, after so long that time itself seemed to lose all meaning, there was still only the black.

The moment he fell, it wasn’t a conscious decision. His magic simply… gave out. The last reserves of his power sputtered and died, and the frantic forward momentum ceased. He tumbled, boneless and exhausted, in the silent, indifferent dark.

A shudder wracked his small frame. Then another. And then, for the first time in centuries, Loki, the god of lies, the prince of Jotunheim, the master of his own fate, began to cry. The tears, hot and silent, traced paths down his cold cheeks, freezing into tiny, glittering crystals in the void.

“Steve…” he whispered, his voice a broken, ragged sound. “Father… brothers…”

The last of his strength ebbed away, leaving him adrift, a small, lost boy floating alone in an endless, starless night.

He lay there, adrift in the endless, silent dark. Time had become a meaningless concept, a river that had ceased to flow. It could have been hours, or days, or centuries. It felt like an eternity.

With a final, desperate surge of will, Loki summoned the last dregs of his power. A single, tiny flame flickered to life on the tip of his finger.

But it was wrong. His fire, normally so vibrant, a brilliant, emerald green that crackled with life and mischief, was now dull, listless. It burned with a sickly, greyish hue, a weak, dying ember in the overwhelming black.

He could feel it, the life force draining out of him, his magic being leached away by the hungry, silent void. His “green”, the very core of his power, the energy that had defined him, was abandoning him.

A single, crystalline tear traced a path down his cold cheek.

“I’m so lonely”, he whispered, his voice a raw, broken rasp. He had lost count of how many times he had wept.

And then, the flame on his fingertip sputtered, flickered one last time, and died.

That was the last of it. The last of his magic. The last of his hope. He was empty.

*

The moment the last flicker of green guttered and died, he felt it.

The cold.

It was a cold unlike any he had ever known. Not the crisp, biting cold of ice and wind, not the familiar, bracing chill of his Jotunheim home. This was something else entirely. A silent, creeping, absolute cold. It was the cold of the void, the utter absence of heat, of life, of hope. And it was hungry.

It seeped into him, a quiet, invisible predator, gnawing at him from the inside out. The chill, sharper than any blade, worked its way into his every pore, a violation that made his skin crawl. It invaded his body, and a pain unlike any physical blow blossomed in his core, as if a million microscopic knives of pure frost were shredding him from within.

A soft, agonized moan escaped his lips. His body convulsed, a violent, wracking spasm, and he choked, spitting something warm and wet into the darkness. The coppery tang of it filled his senses. Blood.

He went limp, floating listlessly in the black. He was beyond panic now, beyond fear. There was only a profound, hollow weariness, an utter depletion of spirit.

The torment stretched on for an eternity. The cold and the pain were his only companions in the endless dark. He would drift, lost in a haze of agony, sometimes succumbing to the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness, only to wake again to the same silent, black reality, the same soul-deep, flesh-rending chill.

It had been so long. So, so long.

And then, after an age of silent suffering, something began to shift. A subtle, almost imperceptible change deep within the core of his being. Something that had long been dormant, suppressed, was beginning to stir.

The cold, which had spent eons trying to tear his body asunder and failed, seemed to change its tactics. It swirled around him, within him, as if finally admitting defeat. The invasive, tearing chill remained, still seeping into his very marrow, but the agonizing pain began to subside.

It was no longer an attack. It was becoming… something else. A cleansing. A transformation. The absolute cold, the very essence of the void, began to mend the damage it had wrought, to scour his body from the inside out, washing away the last vestiges of his foreign, vibrant 'green' and leaving only a pure, pristine emptiness in its wake.

But Loki was too weak, too utterly spent, to react, to even comprehend the change. He could only lie there, adrift in the endless night, a silent, solitary prayer for a miracle his only remaining thought.

*

Something stirred within him.

Deep in the core of his depleted being, a flicker of awareness. He could feel it now, the “ice”, his innate Jotun power, finally responding to him. That frigid, untamed energy, the wild river he had always struggled to contain, was now as placid and pliable as a slumbering kitten, its currents circulating gently within him, a silent, steady rhythm.

The “ice” continued its silent work, passively absorbing the absolute cold of the void, drawing it in, making it a part of him. Loki let it happen. He was too weary, too utterly broken, to resist, to even question it.

Until, in a single, silent moment, something snapped.

With a sudden, sharp intake of breath, Loki sat up.

Beneath him was no longer an empty void, but a solid surface. Ice. A vast, smooth plane of it, stretching out into the darkness. It glowed with a soft, internal light, a pale, ethereal blue that carved a landscape out of the oppressive black.

The light was bright enough now for him to see himself clearly. He looked down at his own hands, and a deep frown creased his brow. They were… different. Longer, more elegant, the hands of a man, not a boy.

With a flick of his wrist, a sheet of flawless, shimmering ice rose from the surface before him, shaping itself into a mirror. It reflected his own image with perfect, brutal clarity.

Loki stared. Then, his legs gave out from under him, and he slumped back onto the glowing ice.

In the mirror was no longer the boy who had stepped through the portal. Staring back at him was an adult. The face was still his, the raven-black hair, the pale skin, the delicate, almost androgynous features. But it was older. Sharper. The jawline more defined, the cheekbones higher, the hint of youthful softness completely gone, replaced by an air of weary, ancient grace. He looked… he looked to be the same age as Helblindi now.

“How long has it been?” he whispered, and the sound of his own voice startled him. It was still clear, still melodic, but it held a new depth, a lower timbre, etched with the faint, unmistakable trace of passing centuries.

For a Frost Giant to transition from adolescence to young adulthood was a process that took, at the very least, five hundred years. And one was not considered truly, fully grown until they had seen eighteen centuries pass.

The warmth of fresh tears spilling down his cheeks felt alien against his cold skin. He looked closer, into the eyes of the stranger in the mirror. They were no longer the vibrant, emerald green of his youth. They were grey. A flat, cold, desolate grey, like a winter sky heavy with unshed snow.

“I should have stayed”, he whispered, the words a raw, broken sound in the vast silence.

“I promised I’d be back soon”.

He choked on a sob, and the smooth ice beneath him cracked and groaned, tendrils of frost radiating outwards from where he sat, a physical manifestation of his overwhelming grief. He cried, his body shaking with the force of his sorrow, for a very, very long time.

Eventually, the storm of tears subsided, leaving only a hollow, aching emptiness. He looked into the mirror again, his expression one of utter, hopeless exhaustion.

With a flicker of will, he let his true form surface.

And a fresh wave of horror, so profound it felt like a physical blow, ripped through him. He had changed. Irrevocably.

The deep blue of his Jotun skin had faded, bleached by the void to a pale, almost translucent, glacial white. The intricate, familiar patterns that marked him as Laufey’s son were no longer a deep, contrasting black, but a stark, ghostly white. And his eyes… his ruby-red Jotun eyes, the mark of his heritage, were gone. In their place were two blank, milky-white orbs.

“What have I become?” he breathed, his voice a strangled, horrified whisper.

He screamed, a raw, animalistic sound of pure despair, and his fist lashed out, shattering the ice mirror. He watched his own fractured, distorted reflection splinter into a thousand pieces and dissolve back into the glowing surface.

He collapsed onto the ice, curling into a tight ball, the tears flowing freely once more.

“Maybe”, he sobbed into the cold, unforgiving silence, “I should have just died here”.

Slowly, the pale, weary Æsir form settled back over Loki. The ghostly white of his true self receded, leaving the familiar, yet now subtly altered, human guise in its place.

He pushed himself up again, his movements stiff, mechanical. He extended a trembling hand, his grey eyes fixed on the empty space before him, and tried once more to tear a hole in reality.

Still nothing. The void remained inert, mocking his efforts.

He let his hand fall, a gesture of utter defeat. He roughly wiped at the unending stream of tears with the back of his sleeve, then lay back down on the glowing ice, staring blankly up at the absolute, suffocating darkness above.

He closed his eyes. Maybe, he thought, a flicker of morbid curiosity stirring in the hollow pit of his despair, maybe I should just try stabbing myself. See what happens. It couldn’t be any worse than this endless, silent torment.

But before the thought could fully form, before he could even summon the will to conjure a blade, the very fabric of the reality around him twisted. It felt like being turned inside out, a nauseating, disorienting lurch that stole his breath.

Loki’s eyes snapped open. He was somewhere else.

The absolute black was gone. In its place was an endless, featureless white. A brilliant, sterile whiteness that stretched to an unseen horizon in every direction, so bright it made his eyes ache.

“Welcome to the Valley of Time and Space”.

The voice was neither male nor female, old nor young. It simply… was. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, echoing softly in the stark, white emptiness.

Loki scrambled to his feet, spinning around. In the far, hazy distance, a single figure stood, a dark silhouette against the overwhelming white.

Loki stared at the figure, his breath catching in his throat. He went completely still, his mind, for a moment, utterly blank.

After a long, silent beat, he found his voice, though it sounded strange and thin in the vast emptiness. “Where is this place? Who are you?”

“This”, the figure replied, its voice calm, patient, “is where those who become lost between time and space eventually arrive. And I… am the guardian of this place”.

Loki remained silent, his mind racing, trying to process the impossible. He waited.

“In this valley”, the guardian continued, its voice holding a note of serene finality, “you may exchange something of value for something you desire. As long as the price is fair”.

Loki’s grey eyes widened, a sudden, desperate spark of hope igniting in their desolate depths. “Then… can I go back?” he asked, the words rushing out of him, sharp and urgent. “Can I go home?”

The distant figure inclined its head, a slow, deliberate nod. “You may. As long as the price you pay is… appropriate”.

“The price?” Loki asked, his mind latching onto the familiar, transactional nature of the offer. He could work with this. “What is it you desire? Gold? Jewels? I can procure anything”.

“No”, the guardian’s voice echoed gently through the white expanse.

“The price is something you already possess. The most precious thing you carry within you”.

A flicker of unease went through Loki. “My magic?” he guessed. It was the most obvious answer, the source of his power, his identity. To lose it would be like losing a limb.

“No”.

The guardian repeated, its voice soft, yet insistent. “It is the thing you are most afraid of losing”.

Loki frowned, his mind racing. Inside me? The thing I’m most afraid of losing? If not my magic, then what? His memories? His intellect? He searched his own soul, casting about for what he held most dear, what loss would leave him truly, irrevocably broken.

And then, with a jolt like a physical blow, he knew.

He looked down at his own two hands, and a tremor ran through him, a deep, shuddering vibration that started in his core and spread to his fingertips.

“A high price, isn’t it?” the guardian’s voice was laced with a profound, ancient sadness. “I have no other way”.

Loki squeezed his eyes shut, his hands clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists. He took a deep, shuddering breath, then another, forcing a semblance of calm into his shattered spirit. After a long, agonizing moment, he lifted his head. His grey eyes, cold and resolute, met the distant silhouette.

“Fine”, he said, his voice a flat, dead thing. “Take it”.

A sad, tired smile seemed to flicker across the distant figure. It raised a hand, a simple, graceful gesture. And instantly, it was done.

Loki felt… nothing. No searing pain, no sense of loss. Just a quiet, sudden emptiness, like a room that had been full of noise and light suddenly falling silent and dark.

He looked up at the guardian, his expression now unreadable, a blank, placid mask. “Send me back”, he said, his voice devoid of its earlier desperation.

“I will return you to the furthest point in time that I am able”, the guardian replied.

A perfect, circular portal, shimmering with a soft, inviting light, materialized in the white emptiness before Loki. He walked towards it, his steps steady, measured. But just before he stepped through, he paused. He looked back at the solitary figure.

“And what about you?” Loki asked, his voice holding a note of cool, detached curiosity. “What was the price you paid?”

The guardian seemed to look at him, a long, silent gaze that felt as if it spanned eons. When it finally spoke, its voice was a mere whisper, carried on the non-existent wind.

“Everything”.

Loki nodded once, a curt, final gesture of acknowledgement. Then, without another word, he stepped through the portal, leaving the stark white valley and its lonely guardian behind.

The figure in the distance sighed, a sound of infinite weariness. It raised a hand and ran its fingers through a familiar mane of raven-black hair.

“Good luck, Loki”, it whispered to the empty, silent white.

*

Midgard. New York. Brooklyn. It looked… familiar. The specifics had blurred over the long, dark centuries, but the essence remained. The gritty brick, the defiant weeds cracking through the pavement, the faint, persistent scent of soot and humanity. It was late afternoon, the sun sinking low, casting the familiar streets in long, melancholic shadows.

Loki walked, the ostentatious black cloak of his Asgardian escapade gone, replaced by a simple white shirt and dark trousers. His steps were measured, unhurried, as he followed the well-worn path of memory back to a small, terraced house.

It was still there. Steve’s house. A soft, warm light glowed from within.

He reached the front door and, without knocking, pushed it open.

But the familiar, comforting clutter of the small living room was gone. The worn armchair, the sagging sofa, the faint scent of Sarah’s baking—all replaced by a tasteful, impersonal neatness. And sitting on the unfamiliar sofa, a cup of tea cradled in her hands, was not Steve, not Sarah, but a young woman he had never seen before.

“Who are you?” Loki asked, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth or curiosity. “Where is Steve?”

The woman looked up, her expression one of mild surprise. But as she took in Loki’s face, her eyes widened slightly in recognition. She stood up, smoothing down her skirt. “You must be Mr. Frost”, she said, her voice holding a crisp, British accent. “Louis Frost?”

“Where is Steve?” Loki repeated, his tone unchanged.

The woman, Peggy, looked at him, and her expression softened into one of profound, inexplicable pity. “Perhaps you should sit down”, she suggested gently.

Loki did as she asked, sinking into the armchair opposite the sofa, his movements graceful, detached.

“My name is Peggy”, she began, her gaze steady. “Peggy Carter. I was a friend of Steve’s”.

“I don’t recall Steve having a friend with that name”, Loki stated, his voice a cool, level thing.

Peggy nodded. “That’s right. We met after he joined the army”.

Loki blinked, the only sign of his internal processing. “Steve joined the army?”

Peggy sighed, that same pity welling in her eyes, a look that Loki still couldn’t comprehend. She rose, walked over to a bookshelf, and retrieved a small stack of newspapers. She brought them over and placed them on the coffee table in front of him.

“Perhaps you should read these first”, she said softly.

They were all headlines about Captain America.

As Loki’s grey eyes scanned the bold, sensationalist text, Peggy began to explain. She told him everything. How Steve, driven by that same stubborn, unshakeable sense of duty, had volunteered for a secret military experiment. How the frail, skinny boy he knew had been transformed into a symbol of hope, a super-soldier. How he had fought, bravely, tirelessly, on the front lines of a war that had engulfed the world.

Loki listened, his face a blank mask, his fingers methodically turning the brittle, yellowed pages of the newspapers. The final one was a stark, black-and-white photograph of a plane spiraling into a frozen wasteland, the headline screaming of a hero’s tragic demise in the line of duty, fighting terrorists.

“Oh”, Loki whispered, the sound devoid of any emotion. He closed his eyes, just for a second. Then he opened them again, his gaze as flat and grey as a winter sea. “When did this happen?”

“Five years ago”, the woman replied.

“Okay”, Loki said, his voice a perfect, steady monotone. “And his mother? Sarah?”

Peggy hesitated, her own expression clouding with sadness. “She passed away when Steve was eighteen. Tuberculosis”.

“Oh”. Loki sat there, his eyes vacant, staring at nothing.

Peggy reached into her handbag and pulled out a worn, battered sketchbook. “The Captain left this”, she said, her voice soft. “I think… I think it belongs to you”.

Loki accepted it. He opened the sketchbook.

The first page was a portrait. A perfect, breathtakingly rendered drawing of… him. As he had been. A boy with dark hair and mischievous, emerald eyes.

He turned the page. And another. And another.

Each page was filled with drawings of him. Loki reading in the library. Loki laughing in the park. Loki sleeping, his face peaceful and unguarded. And as the pages turned, the figure in the drawings began to change, to mature. The lines of the face grew sharper, the frame taller. He was growing up on the page, aging alongside the artist. The last few drawings were almost identical to the man Loki had become.

On the final page, there was a single, finished piece. A drawing of the two of them, Steve and Loki, both grown men, standing side-by-side in front of a small, cozy-looking house. Beneath it, in Steve’s familiar, neat handwriting, were a few simple words.

I love you, Loki. Forever.

Loki closed the sketchbook. He looked up at Peggy, who was holding out a tissue. It was only then that he realized his face was wet.

“Thank you”, he said, his voice still flat as he took the tissue and wiped at the tears he couldn’t feel. He stood up. “Thank you, again, for telling me what happened”.

“Of course”, Peggy said, her voice thick with an empathy Loki couldn’t comprehend. “Any friend of Steve’s is a friend of mine”.

Loki nodded once. “I have to go”, he said, and walked towards the door.

Outside, a gentle snow had begun to fall.

Peggy followed him to the doorway. “Where are you staying? Do you need a ride?”

“No, thank you”.

He clutched the sketchbook to his chest and stepped out into the cold. The wind whipped his dark hair across his face, the snowflakes melting on his pale skin. He turned and looked back at the house one last time, then down at the sketchbook in his arms.

He opened it again, to that final, heartbreaking page, his grey eyes tracing the familiar, beloved script.

Behind him, a colossal spike of pure, jagged ice erupted from the frozen ground with a deafening roar, scattering panicked pedestrians.

He brought a hand up to his cheek to find it wet again.

“I should have died”, Loki whispered to the falling snow. “He’s dead. And I don’t feel anything”.

He had traded his emotions for this. To return to this. For what?

Yes. That had been the price. His capacity to feel. Joy, sorrow, anger, love… all of it, gone. Sucked into the void to pay for his passage home. He was something else now. Not a god, not a monster. Just… empty. He wasn’t even sure what he was anymore. A hollow thing in the shape of a man, a cold-blooded creature going through the motions of life.

Loki closed the sketchbook, hugging it tightly to his chest as if it were the only source of warmth left in the universe. Then, he began to walk, his steps steady, purposeful.

He merged with the stream of faceless, bustling mortals, a ghost in the falling snow. And then, he was gone.

Chapter Text

Jotunheim had known many long, quiet winters, but the years following the third prince’s second return felt different. The silence that settled over the ice-hewn palace was heavier, imbued with a melancholy that clung to the air like a persistent frost. A few years had passed, a mere blink in the lifespan of a Jotun, yet it felt like an age had been carved between what was and what now was. The third prince was home, yes, but he was also gone, a ghost haunting the halls of his own life.

For the common people of Jotunheim, the Jotnar who tilled the magically-coaxed soil and fished in the newly teeming oceans, their youngest prince had become more myth than man. They whispered stories of his miraculous return, of the prosperity he had brought to their harsh world, but they rarely saw him. The slender, dark-haired figure who had once walked among them, a spark of mischievous green in his eyes, was now a recluse. He remained confined to the solitary, elegant tower his father had built for him, a spire of white stone that pierced the pale sky, as remote and untouchable as a distant star.

For his family, however, his presence was a constant, dull ache, a wound that refused to heal. They saw him. They spoke to him. And in doing so, they were confronted daily with the profound, devastating emptiness that had taken root in his soul.

He had returned to them a man. The delicate, boyish features had sharpened, the frame had broadened just enough to shed the last vestiges of adolescence. He carried himself with a weary grace that spoke of centuries, not decades. The physical change was startling, but it wasn't the problem. They would have loved him if he’d returned as a gnarled old man or a talking snow-weasel. They just loved him. The problem, the deep and agonizing problem, was the chilling stillness behind his eyes. Those once-vibrant emerald pools were now a flat, desolate grey, like a winter sky just before a blizzard, holding no light, no warmth, no flicker of his former spirit.

He tried. Hel, how he tried. They saw the effort in every carefully constructed sentence, in every polite, hollow smile. It was a masterful performance, the kind of flawless deception only Loki could conjure. He would sit with them at the evening meal, asking Helblindi about his latest hunting expedition with a perfect imitation of interest. He would discuss matters of state with his father, his strategic insights as sharp and brilliant as ever. He would listen as Byleistr quietly described the progress on the great wall, nodding in all the right places. He played the part of the returned son, the beloved younger brother, with a chilling, heartbreaking perfection.

But it was all a lie, and they knew it. The laughter never reached his eyes. The wit in his voice was a practiced echo, devoid of its former mischievous spark. He was a perfect, beautiful shell, meticulously painted to look alive, but inside, there was only ice. A vast, silent, eternal glacier where his heart used to be.

His tower workshop, once a place of vibrant, chaotic creation, was now a sterile monument to a finished task. The scattered scrolls, the bubbling cauldron, the cryptic equations scrawled across the blackboard - they all remained exactly as he’d left them before his ill-fated trip to Asgard. The final, crucial ingredient, the golden apple, rested on a velvet cushion under a stasis field, its light seeming muted and sad in the dusty air. But the work on the elixir had ceased. Loki hadn't touched it since his return. He didn’t have the will. Or perhaps, he simply no longer had the reason.

He spent most of his days in the highest room of the tower, a circular chamber with windows that offered a panoramic view of the endless, white expanse of Jotunheim. He would sit for hours in a high-backed chair, a book open in his lap, though the pages never seemed to turn. And always, within reach, was the worn, battered sketchbook. He would pick it up, his long, pale fingers tracing the lines of the drawings within, his grey eyes staring at the portraits of a laughing, emerald-eyed boy he no longer recognized as himself. He would stare at the final page, at the drawing of two men standing together, at the words scrawled beneath, and he would feel… nothing. Not a flicker of sorrow, not a ghost of a memory’s warmth. Just a cold, logical acknowledgement that he was supposed to feel something. That the person who had once inhabited this body would have been shattered by this. But he was not that person anymore.

The years bled into one another, a slow, silent river of ice and time. The seasons in Jotunheim were a subtle affair, marked not by the browning of leaves but by the shifting angle of the pale sun and the depth of the snow drifts against the great white walls of the capital. The land remained a testament to the beautiful, brutal power of cold, a landscape of stark whites and deep blues, forever harsh, forever unforgiving. But within that unchanging vista, life was undeniably better. The herds of shaggy bison grew fat on the magically resilient grasses, the fishing holes yielded ever-greater bounties, and a quiet, steady prosperity settled over the thousand souls of the Frost Giant realm like a warm, thick pelt.

And within the palace, a different kind of season was turning. The prince began to descend from his tower. At first, it was infrequent, a fleeting appearance in a corridor, a shadow at the edge of a council meeting. Then, with the same gradual, inexorable pace as a glacier carving its path through a mountain, his presence became more regular. He began to walk among his people again. He spoke. He even, on occasion, smiled. He was learning the rhythms of life once more, a brilliant actor rehearsing a role he had once known by heart. He attended feasts, his wit as sharp and cutting as ever, though the laughter that followed his jests was a perfect, hollow echo. He walked the half-finished ramparts of the great wall with Byleistr, his strategic advice on the placement of defensive runes as flawless and insightful as it had always been. He consulted with the hunters and the farmers, his knowledge of animal husbandry and agriculture, gleaned from a thousand stolen texts, proving invaluable. He was contributing, he was participating, he was performing the part of the third prince with a chilling, masterful precision. He was, to all outward appearances, becoming more and more like the boy he had once been.

The most undeniable shift, the one that silenced whispers and drew every eye whenever he passed, was his appearance. He had grown taller in his long absence, the last vestiges of his adolescent slightness finally shed, though he still remained on the shorter side when measured against the towering frames of his brothers and the other Jotnar. He was a finely crafted dagger in a hall of broadswords, yet the way he held himself, the innate, unshakeable confidence in his posture, the cool, appraising sweep of his gaze - it created an illusion of height, a commanding presence that made even the tallest Frost Giant feel as though they had to look up to meet his eyes.

His hair, which had always been dark, now seemed to have absorbed the very essence of the void. It was blacker than a starless night, a spill of pure, liquid shadow that fell to his slender shoulders, catching the pale light in a way that seemed to absorb it rather than reflect it. It swayed with a life of its own as he moved, a soft, silken curtain framing a face of impossible, heartbreaking beauty. The features were still delicate, the lines soft and elegant, reminding the older Jotnar of their long-dead queen, Fárbauti. But his beauty was something more, something sharper and more ethereal than hers had ever been. It was as if every master craftsman from all the Nine Realms had conspired, pouring all their skill into carving a single, perfect visage from moonlight and ancient sorrow, a masterpiece of celestial craft that was almost painful to behold in its flawlessness.

And his eyes. The emerald had come back, a startling, vibrant green that seemed to hold all the secrets of forgotten magic. But it was different now. It was a colder green, the green of deep glacial ice, and when the light of the twin suns caught it just right, it shimmered with flecks of brilliant, electric blue. The change was subtle, but profound. The old, mischievous warmth was gone, replaced by a crystalline, almost frightening, clarity. They were the eyes of a being who had looked into the abyss and had not flinched. The third prince of Jotunheim, Loki, was, without question, the most beautiful creature any of them had ever laid eyes on.

A quiet, persistent curiosity rippled through the populace whenever he passed. If this was his Æsir form, this breathtaking vision of pale skin and raven hair, then what must his true Jotun form look like now? The thought sparked the imagination. It must be a sight of equal, if not greater, splendor, a being of perfect, sculpted ice and otherworldly grace.

And yet, no one ever saw it. For in all the years since his return, through all the feasts and councils and quiet walks through the snow-dusted capital, Loki never once let his true Jotun skin show.

But it didn't matter. Not really.

The transformation of Jotunheim’s capital was no longer a distant dream sketched out on dusty scrolls, it was a living, breathing reality of white stone and quiet strength. The great defensive wall that now encircled the sprawling settlement, a colossal ring of tamed mountains and magically-hewn blocks, was finally complete. Its construction, a monumental undertaking that had occupied Byleistr and his teams for years, had reached its final, perfect stage. Inside that protective embrace, the city itself was a work in progress, a vibrant hub of activity in the middle stages of its grand redesign. The old, scattered dwellings were giving way to a new, unified vision.

Large, robust buildings, scaled to the immense stature of the Frost Giants, rose from the frozen earth. They were not clad in the ostentatious, look-at-me gold of Asgard, nor were they the crude, simplistic shelters of a primitive people. This was something else entirely, a style born from Loki’s own unique aesthetic and a deep, practical understanding of the realm. The architecture was a perfect, harmonious balance of form and function. Massive, angular structures of milky-white stone conveyed a sense of unshakeable endurance, while clean, elegant lines and subtly glowing inlays of captured starlight gave them a strange, austere beauty. The palace and the sprawling city that now surrounded it were a different world from the one Loki had first arrived in, a testament to a people who were not just surviving, but thriving.

A cool, crisp wind, carrying the scent of distant snow, whipped a few strands of raven-black hair across Loki’s face. He stood atop the highest rampart of the new wall, his pale hand resting flat against the impossibly smooth, cold stone. He had been standing there, motionless, for the better part of an hour, a slender, dark figure against the vast, pale expanse of the Jotunheim sky. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he drew his hand back. The faintest shimmer of blue light flickered across the surface of the stone where his palm had been, and then vanished. The last intricate thread of the grand rune matrix was woven. The work was done.

This was his newest, and perhaps greatest, creation in the arcane arts. It was a defensive ward so complex, so layered with overlapping spells and interconnected triggers, that it made his previous work look like a child’s clumsy scrawling. And the most beautiful part of it, the part that brought a flicker of detached, intellectual satisfaction to his cold eyes, was its utter invisibility. To any observer, this was just a wall. A very big, very impressive wall, but a wall nonetheless. There was no tell-tale glow, no humming of contained energy. The runes had sunk into the very essence of the stone, like breath fogging a cold pane of glass, then vanishing without a trace, leaving the surface clear but forever changed.

Its purpose was twofold, a masterpiece of defensive and informational magic. First, and most obviously, it reinforced the physical structure to an almost impossible degree. The wall could now withstand a direct, sustained assault from the mightiest siege engines or the most devastating magical bombardments. It didn't just block the attacks, the runic network was designed to absorb the kinetic and magical energy of any blow, dispersing it harmlessly throughout the entire length of the wall, rendering even the most powerful strike as ineffective as a snowball thrown against a mountain.

But its second function was what truly made it a work of genius. The matrix acted as a vast, silent nervous system for the entire capital. It was alive, in a way, constantly sensing, listening. It could feel the footstep of an uninvited guest a mile from the gates, detect the unique magical signature of any being that crossed its perimeter, and distinguish between a stray horned rabbit and a potential threat. It was a silent alarm that would scream, not with sound, but with pure information, directly into the heart of the palace.

Deep within the fortified core of the newly reconstructed palace, in a chamber built specifically for this purpose, that information found its destination. The security room was a space of stark, quiet efficiency. In its center, resting on a pedestal of polished obsidian, was not a clanking machine of gears and wires, but a single, large, flawless crystal. It pulsed with a soft, internal light, and suspended within its depths was a perfect, three-dimensional, holographic map of the entire settlement and the surrounding valley. This crystal was the brain, the central hub to which every inch of the wall’s runic network was connected. It was a system of absolute security, a silent, sleepless guardian, and it was beautiful in its brutal effectiveness.

The sound of a solid, yet surprisingly light, footstep on the stone behind him didn't make Loki flinch. A heavy hand, cool and steady, came to rest on his shoulder.

“Is it finished?”

Loki didn’t turn, his gaze remaining fixed on the endless, ice-locked horizon. He simply gave a small, slow nod.

Byleistr, the second prince of Jotunheim, moved to stand beside him, a silent, formidable presence. After all these years, he too had finally mastered the subtle art of shifting, and he now stood in his Æsir form. He was only a fraction shorter than their boisterous older brother, Helblindi, but his frame was undeniably broader, thicker with a dense, solid muscle that spoke of immense, contained power. His face, a more severe, angular version of Loki’s own, was perpetually serious, framed by dark hair cropped close to his scalp. His eyes, a calm, steady reddish-brown like ancient stone, surveyed the completed wall with a quiet satisfaction.

“You did good, little brother,” Byleistr said, and a smile, a rare and fleeting thing, touched the corners of his lips. The expression felt foreign on his usually stoic features, but it was genuine, reaching those calm eyes and making them soften for a moment. “With this wall… I doubt the entire might of Asgard could scratch the paint on this thing”.

A perfect, placid curve formed on Loki’s own lips, a flawless imitation of a smile. He raised a pale hand, elegantly tucking a few stray strands of raven hair behind his ear as they were whipped by the wind. “That’s true,” he agreed, his voice a smooth, melodic murmur. Though he seriously doubted those people in Asgard, or Odin at least, would ever be stupid enough to try a frontal assault. They were arrogant, not brainless.

His smile vanished as if it had never been there. His head snapped up, his gaze fixed on a distant point in the sky.

Suddenly, and with a speed that defied nature, the fog rolled in. It wasn't a gentle mist rising from the ice, but an invasion, a silent, grey tsunami that poured over the horizon. Byleistr’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of a sword that wasn't there, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he watched the phenomenon with disbelief. In the space of two heartbeats, the thick, cold, and unnaturally dense fog had completely swallowed the pale light of the twin suns, plunging the entire capital into an eerie, disorienting twilight.

The second prince whipped his head around to look at his younger brother, one thick eyebrow raised in a silent, demanding question. “What’s going on?”

Loki’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon, his newly green eyes, flecked with brilliant blue, turning cold as deep glacial ice. “Someone with a very persistent eye has finally decided to look this way after all these years…” he whispered, his voice a low, chilling murmur that was almost lost in the howling wind. The emerald depths swirled with something that looked a lot like ancient, settled hatred. “I may need to pay him a visit though”.

Before Byleistr could respond, Loki raised a hand. The air before him shimmered, not with the violent, jagged tear of his old portals, that chaotic vortex of black and purple, but with something new. A perfect, shimmering circle of light materialized before them, stable and calm, its edges glowing with a soft, inviting blue. It hummed with a quiet, immense power that was utterly controlled.

Loki turned and, with no backward glance, no final word, he stepped through it. The portal wavered for a second, then contracted, vanishing as silently as it had opened, leaving Byleistr standing alone on the rampart, swallowed by the sudden, inexplicable fog.

*

The Bifrost bridge stretched out like a solidified rainbow, a ribbon of impossible light connecting Asgard to the cosmos. Upon its shimmering expanse stood a solitary, golden figure, as constant and unwavering as the northern star. Heimdall, the guardian, the all-seeing eye of the realm, stood at his post, a silent sentinel against the endless night. It was time for the ritual, the annual check, a duty performed with the same meticulous patience he applied to watching the slow dance of distant galaxies. He turned his gaze, that legendary sight that could pierce through darkness and distance, towards the frozen jewel of Jotunheim.

He expected the familiar emptiness, the canvas of frozen desolation he had observed for untold centuries since the last great war. It was always the same: a quiet testament to a defeated enemy, a realm of endless ice and lifeless stone, slumbering under its grey sky. Nothing ever changed in Jotunheim. It was a constant in a universe of flux, a predictable, frozen footnote in the grand history of the Nine Realms.

But this time, it wasn't the same. His gaze, which could unravel the secrets of a dying star, met a wall. A roiling, opaque barrier of grey fog, so thick and absolute it seemed to swallow the light. It wasn't natural mist, it was an invasive presence, a shroud deliberately drawn over an entire world. The bridge keeper’s brow furrowed beneath his golden helm, a flicker of confusion stirring in his ancient, patient mind. This was new. This was wrong.

And then, he felt the cold. It was not the crisp, familiar chill of an Asgardian winter. This was a different entity altogether, a predatory cold that leeched the warmth from the air, that sank its teeth into the very light of the Bifrost. The brilliant, multi-hued glow of the bridge itself seemed to dull, frosted over by an invisible rime. The world, through his all-seeing eyes, bled into a haze of white and blue, the colors of a dying man's last breath. The air before him began to shimmer, distorting like a heat haze in reverse. It buckled, then tore open with a sound like tearing silk, revealing a perfect, shimmering circle of sapphire light. From the serene blue of the portal, a figure stepped out, and the sight of it made Heimdall’s stoic heart lurch, his breath catching in his throat.

He couldn't speak. He couldn't move. His millennia of training, his warrior's instincts, all frozen solid by the sheer, paralyzing shock of the impossible. It all happened too fast, a blur of motion and a sudden, biting chill that was colder than the void between worlds. In one moment, the figure was there, an apparition of a dead prince. In the next, a gesture, a flicker of will, and a serpent of jagged, translucent ice erupted from the bridge floor, slamming forward with impossible speed. It pierced through his golden armor, through flesh and bone, and out his back, the tip of it steaming in the suddenly frigid air.

Heimdall fell. Not with a crash, but with a silent, heavy collapse, his strength devoured in an instant by the venomous chill spreading from the wound in his stomach. There was no fire, no searing agony. Just a deep, corrosive cold that turned his very lifeblood to slush in his veins, a creeping frost that stole the feeling from his limbs and clouded his thoughts. He stared up, his eyes wide with a disbelief so profound it bordered on madness, as the figure stepped closer, its boots making no sound on the crystalline bridge.

“Pri… prince… Loki…” he managed, the words a frosty puff of air.

Yes, it was him. The boy they had mourned, the prince believed to be ash on the wind. He stood there, his raven-black hair stirring in the unnatural breeze, his eyes the same startling, impossible green. But the familiar, mischievous spark was gone, replaced by the deep, bottomless cold of a frozen grave.

“I don't like prying eyes,” the prince said. His voice was the same, a smooth, melodic thing, but it was utterly flat, stripped of all emotion, all warmth. He looked down at the dying guardian with the placid disinterest one might afford a fallen statue. And Heimdall knew, in that final, chilling moment, that the prince wasn't wrong. He was already a dead thing, just waiting for the last bit of warmth to be extinguished.

“Ragn…” the bridge keeper rasped, a final, desperate warning bubbling up from his freezing lungs. The frost was creeping into his vision now, the world fracturing. But he never finished the word. Everything just… ended. His vision splintered, cracking like a frozen pane of glass, and then shattered into a million pieces of darkness. The Eyes of Asgard were closed, forever.

Loki stood over the corpse, his expression unchanged. He looked at the still, golden form, then let his gaze sweep across the silent, empty expanse of the Bifrost, his calm so absolute it was terrifying. It was as if he had done nothing more significant than brushing a piece of dust from his sleeve. He turned, the air beside him shimmering once more into a placid blue circle. Without a sound, he stepped through it and was gone, leaving behind only a silent bridge, a corpse growing cold, and the first whisper of an unnatural, encroaching winter.

*

Life went on. For most people, in most of the Nine Realms, the great, lumbering beast of existence simply continued its trudging, indifferent march forward. Suns rose and set, seasons turned, and the small, personal dramas of mortals and gods alike played out against a backdrop of cosmic normalcy.

In Jotunheim, things were not just normal, they were better than they had been in millennia. The quiet prosperity that had taken root under Loki’s guidance had blossomed into a full-blown renaissance of ice and stone. Too good, some of the older, more cynical Jotnar might have muttered into their mugs of fermented berry wine. It felt unnatural, this sudden abundance, this deep, settled peace in a realm born from harshness. The great defensive wall, a seamless ring of tamed mountains and magically-infused stone, stood as a silent, unbreachable testament to their newfound security. As the years trickled by, the housing projects within its protective embrace were completed. The sprawling, disorganized settlement of old had been replaced by a magnificent capital, simple in its design but breathtaking in its scale and austere elegance.

With the fundamental worries of shelter and sustenance banished, the realm turned its focus to other, more joyful pursuits. A new sound echoed through the broad, clean-swept avenues of the city, a sound that had been rare for centuries: the cry of newborn infants. With their futures secure, the Jotnar embraced family, and a generation of children, larger than any in living memory, was born into the long winter, their laughter a bright, warm promise against the eternal cold. Jotunheim was a different world now, a far cry from the desolate, starving realm of memory.

And through it all, the third prince was there. He walked the ramparts, he advised the councils, he graced the feasts. His smile was always perfect, a flawless, beautiful curve of his lips that never wavered. He was the architect of their new age, a figure of serene, benevolent power.

But, of course, there were things the common people would never know. There were truths hidden behind the stone walls of the royal palace, secrets that played out in the quiet moments between the public triumphs.

The royal dining hall was not a grand, echoing chamber built for feasts and ceremony. The family had no taste for such ostentation. It was a small, simple room, warmed by a central hearth, with a single heavy table and enough chairs for the four of them. Loki sat in his usual place, a silver fork in his hand, gracefully cutting into a piece of roasted rabbit. He looked completely at ease, a portrait of serene contentment.

To his father and his two older brothers, however, the picture was slightly… warped.

King Laufey cleared his throat, the sound a low rumble in the quiet room. He looked at his youngest son, his ruby eyes holding a carefully neutral expression. “Loki,” he asked, his voice gentle, “what are your plans for the coming days?”

Loki looked up from his plate, his perfect smile instantly in place. It was a beautiful expression, yet it didn't quite reach the cold, crystalline green of his eyes. “Just a bit of research here and there, Father,” he said, his voice a smooth, melodic thing. “Nothing major planned.”

His father nodded slowly. “Good. If you need anything, just let me know.”

Loki smiled at him again, a gesture of flawless filial respect, before turning his head slightly. He looked towards the empty chair at his side, and his smile softened, becoming something more intimate, more genuine. He gave a small, distinct nod, as if acknowledging a silent comment from an unseen companion.

There were five chairs at the dining table. And on the polished stone surface, five portions of food had been served. Yet, only four people were present.

Helblindi watched Loki nod at the empty space, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. A flash of raw, frustrated anger darkened his features, and he opened his mouth to speak, to shatter the fragile, painful illusion. But before a single word could escape, Laufey’s gaze, sharp and commanding as a shard of glacial ice, fell upon him. The eldest prince of Jotunheim swallowed his words, the anger curdling in his gut. He turned his attention back to his plate, stabbing at a piece of roasted vegetable with unnecessary force.

Across the table, Byleistr’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. A flicker of pity, of profound sorrow, passed through his quiet eyes as he looked at Loki, but he quickly smoothed his expression, becoming a mask of calm neutrality once more.

After the meal, Loki excused himself and retreated to the solitude of his tower. He walked through the silent corridors, his posture perfect, his steps measured and graceful. But the moment the heavy stone door of his private chambers sealed him within his solitude, the mask crumbled.

He stumbled into the adjoining bathroom, a stark chamber of polished black stone, and collapsed to his knees before the toilet. A violent, wracking heave tore through his slender frame, and he vomited, the perfectly prepared meal he had just consumed with such placid grace now being violently rejected. He stayed there for a long moment, trembling, his head bowed, ragged breaths tearing from his lungs.

Finally, the tremors subsided. He slowly lifted his head, his face pale and slick with a cold sweat. He looked at the empty space on the floor beside him, and the hollow, exhausted look in his eyes was replaced by a soft, gentle smile, a shadow of an expression so full of tenderness it was heartbreaking. “I'm alright,” he whispered, his voice a raw, shaky thing. “Just felt a little unwell, that’s all.”

There was nothing there. No one to hear him, no one to answer.

But in Loki’s eyes, in the world he now inhabited, Steven Grant Rogers was sitting on the floor right next to him. He was just as Loki remembered him from their last perfect day, his frame still on the slender side but filled with a quiet, new-found strength. And his smile was a gentle, reassuring thing, his blue eyes full of a quiet, unwavering love.

He pushed himself up from the cold stone floor, his movements fluid, imbued with an elegance that seemed entirely out of place amidst the raw, ugly aftermath of his body’s revolt. He walked to the basin, the polished black stone reflecting his pale face in distorted ripples as he turned on the tap. The water that flowed was bitingly cold, a shock of pure, physical sensation against his skin as he splashed it onto his face. It was a grounding feeling, a brief, sharp anchor in a sea of unreality.

Loki lifted his head, droplets of water tracing paths down his cheeks like silent tears. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, and for a long, silent moment, he just stared. The face looking back was a perfect, beautiful mask. The features were flawless, the skin like porcelain, but the eyes were hollow, vacant things. Soulless. Emotionless. A stranger wearing his face. But the moment he turned, his gaze falling upon the empty space on the floor beside the toilet, the mask transformed. A perfect, warm, and utterly convincing smile blossomed on his lips, a light so brilliant it seemed to chase the shadows from the room.

“Let’s read a book, shall we?” he said, his voice a soft, intimate murmur, as if sharing a secret with a cherished confidant.

In the bedroom, two comfortable, high-backed chairs were positioned to face each other on either side of the grand, arched window that overlooked the sprawling, snow-dusted landscape. Loki walked to one and curled up in it, tucking his feet beneath him, making himself small. He looked, for a moment, like a child swallowed by the sheer size of the chair, a fragile figure seeking refuge. He reached down and picked up a heavy, leather-bound book from the floor beside him, its pages worn and softened by use. He flipped it open, his long, pale fingers tracing the lines of text as he began to read, his lips moving silently with the words.

Every few minutes, he would pause. He would lift his head, his gaze shifting to the empty chair opposite him, and the soft, private smile would return to his face, an expression of pure, unadulterated affection for the phantom seated there. The silence in the room was absolute, yet for Loki, it was filled with the comfortable, shared peace of a quiet afternoon spent with the one he loved.

After a little while, he looked up again, his smile widening slightly. “It's so good that we can be together like this, isn't it?” he asked the empty air, his voice a contented whisper. He turned his head, his gaze drifting to the window. Outside, fat, lazy snowflakes had begun their slow, silent descent, each one a tiny, perfect crystal against the grey sky. Loki’s smile was a gentle, wistful thing now. He raised a hand, elegantly tucking a stray lock of raven hair behind his ear. “We've spent so many winters together, haven't we?” he murmured, a question that required no answer.

His voice regained its perfect, practiced cheerfulness, a bright, melodic sound that felt entirely at odds with the desolate landscape outside. “When spring comes, let's go on a picnic, shall we?” He looked over at the empty chair, his green eyes sparkling with a flawless imitation of joy. “That’s right, a picnic. Just the two of us.”

Outside, the wind began to howl, picking up its mournful song. The snow, no longer falling gently, was now a driving, horizontal blizzard, obscuring the horizon in a swirling curtain of white. Inside the tower, the scene was one of utter peace, a sanctuary of quiet companionship. A perfect, fragile, and utterly heartbreaking tableau, built for an audience of one, in a silence filled with the ghost of a voice that would never speak again.

Meanwhile, in a sheltered corner of the palace, Byleistr stamped his feet on the stone floor, shaking a fine powder of snow from the thick furs of his cloak. The second prince had just completed his early evening patrol, a thankless task in the face of the sudden, furious blizzard that had descended upon the capital. He found his older brother, Helblindi, leaning against a massive ice-carved pillar, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a quiet, pensive stillness as he stared out into the swirling white chaos.

Helblindi let out a long, weary sigh, his breath a cloud of mist in the frigid air. “When is it going to end?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, devoid of its usual cheer.

Byleistr raised an eyebrow, his own voice quieter than usual. “This snow storm, or Loki’s situation?”

Helblindi didn't answer right away. He just shook his head, another sigh escaping him, deeper this time. They both knew the answer. For a long moment, the two princes stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder, their gazes lost in the hypnotic, endless dance of the falling snow.

After a while, Helblindi spoke again, his voice rough with an emotion he rarely showed. “I can’t stand it,” he said, his gaze still fixed on the blizzard. “I can’t stand seeing that kid keep torturing himself like this.”

Byleistr shook his head slowly. “Father says maybe that’s how the boy deals with grief,” he countered, his voice a calm, steady murmur. “So maybe it's not self-torture. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism.”

Helblindi ran a hand through his dark hair, scratching at his scalp in a gesture of pure frustration. He sighed again, the sound almost lost in the howl of the wind. “How many years has it been?” he asked, the question a quiet, weary thing.

The second prince couldn't stop himself from sighing as well, a mirror of his brother’s helplessness. “How can we help?” he murmured. “He’s always been a sensitive kid.”

The snow raged on, a howling, white curtain that obscured the world.

Inside the tower, the third prince of Jotunheim lay on one side of his large bed. A soft, gentle smile played on his lips as he gazed at the empty half of the bed beside him, at the pillow that was perfectly fluffed, at the covers that were neatly turned down.

He whispered into the quiet, still air, his voice a murmur of pure, unwavering affection. “Good night, Steve.”

*

Midnight.

In the crushing, absolute silence of the tower, a sound pricked the darkness. It was not a noise of the waking world, not the howl of the blizzard against the stone, but a whisper from the deep, forgotten archives of memory. A ghost of a voice, thin and frayed, like a thread stretched across an impossible distance.

Help…

It was a sound so familiar it was a physical ache.

…help me… I’m stuck…

…here…

Loki’s eyes snapped open. The brilliant, living emerald, the carefully maintained illusion that had become his second skin, was gone. In its place, stripped bare by the unguarded vulnerability of sleep, were two orbs of flat, cold grey. They were the color of ash and winter fog, holding no light, no depth, no soul. He lay there, a perfect, beautiful statue on the vast bed, the only movement the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. The voice continued its phantom assault, a persistent, desperate echo in the hollow chambers of his mind.

He turned his head slowly on the pillow. The other side of the bed was an undisturbed expanse of cold, empty sheets. A pristine, lonely landscape.

With a movement that was too fluid, too silent to be entirely human, he sat up. He pulled a heavy pillow into his lap, hugged it tight against his chest, and buried his face in its softness. It was an action without emotion, a physical memory of grief performed by a body that could no longer feel it. He stayed like that for a long, silent moment, a small, dark shape hunched against an invisible pain, the blizzard outside his only companion.

Finally, he lifted his head. His face was a placid mask once more. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet making no sound on the cold stone floor. He walked to the grand, arched window. Outside, the world was a roaring chaos of white. The blizzard raged, a furious, untamed beast, hurling snow and ice against the glass.

Loki leaned forward until his forehead rested against the cold, vibrating pane. His reflection was a pale, ghostly image superimposed over the storm, his grey eyes vacant, taking in the spectacle without a single flicker of feeling.

He reached out, his long, pale fingers unlatching the heavy window. He pushed it open. A ferocious blast of wind and snow surged into the room, a physical assault that would have sent a mortal reeling. Loki didn’t even blink. He was wearing only a simple, thin set of sleeping clothes, yet the biting cold seemed to pass right through him, an irrelevance.

He climbed onto the windowsill, balanced for a moment against the roaring wind like some dark, graceful bird, and then he jumped.

He did not fall. He descended. As light and silent as a single, deliberate snowflake drifting to the ground. He landed in a deep drift of snow without a sound, without so much as a ripple in the powder around him.

He began to move. A ghost in the storm. The blizzard, which should have been a blinding, deadly obstacle, was instead the perfect veil. It swirled around him, obscuring his slender form, muffling the non-existent sound of his footsteps. He was one with the storm, a silent, purposeful wraith gliding through the heart of the chaos. The cold was a language he understood, even if he could no longer feel its bite.

He passed through the sleeping palace, a shadow in the corridors of power he now helped to command. He reached the great wall, his own masterpiece of defense, and slipped through a small, forgotten postern gate he had designed for just such an occasion.

And then he was outside, in the desolate, untamed wilds of Jotunheim. He stood in the middle of a vast, empty plain, the blizzard howling around him, a tiny, solitary figure in a world of white, roaring fury.

He stopped and tilted his head back, his pale face turned up towards the obscured, tumultuous sky. The voices in his head were clearer now, a desperate, looping plea.

His cold, grey eyes flickered. A faint, ethereal light sparked in their depths, a shimmering, brilliant blue that seemed to push back against the oppressive grey. His gaze swept the heavens, no longer vacant, but searching, hunting for a signal, a sign, a whisper in the cosmic storm.

The voices continued, a relentless, heartbreaking siren song in his ear.

Help me… I’m stuck here… here…

Of course, Loki knew he wasn't well.

He was acutely, logically, aware of the fundamental fracture in his own being.

A life built around a phantom, a day-to-day existence propped up by intricate illusions woven for an audience of one - he understood, with the detached clarity of a scholar examining a flawed specimen, that this was not a path to anything good. But then again, what was the alternative? An eternity of cold, grey emptiness? A hollow shell rattling through the silent halls of a palace he had helped build? So why not choose the lie? After all, he had nothing better to do.

He had chosen to dive in, to surrender to the beautiful, heartbreaking mirage, and in his surrender, he had forgotten a crucial detail: his magic was not what it once was. It had been scoured clean by the void, reborn as something colder, purer, and perhaps, more insidious. Messing with his own head, tangling the threads of reality and memory until they were an inseparable, comforting tapestry, had not been a conscious, deliberate act of arcane sabotage. But it was his doing, nonetheless. An unconscious masterpiece of self-deception, powered by a magic that now answered to the silent, desolate landscape of his soul.

But this other thing… this faint, persistent whisper wearing the voice from his memories… that was not of his making. It was an intrusion. A parasite latching onto his carefully constructed grief. It was a nasty, calculated violation, and even though the part of him that would have felt the rage, the pure, incandescent fury at such a manipulation, was long dead and buried, the logical part of him, the cold, analytical core that remained, recognized it for what it was: a problem to be solved. An anomaly to be eradicated.

Loki stood in the heart of the roaring blizzard, a still point in a world of chaos. He looked around, his gaze sweeping across the churning white, and then he slowly, deliberately, extended a pale, open hand.

Threads of pure, desolate grey light unfurled from his palm. They did not shoot out like bolts of energy, they wove themselves into the storm, spectral and silent, stretching out into the unseen spaces between spaces. They were extensions of his will, tendrils of pure perception sent questing through the fabric of reality itself, punching through dimensions with the ease of a needle through silk. His cold, grey eyes, which had flickered back to their true, emotionless state the moment the phantom voice had shattered his sleep, followed the path of each individual strand with an unnerving, absolute focus.

The desperate, pleading calls continued to echo in the hollow chambers of his mind, a relentless, heartbreaking loop.

And then, he saw it. A single, gossamer strand quivered, a minute tremor almost lost in the gale, a subtle vibration that would have been invisible to any other being in the Nine Realms. But it did not escape Loki’s notice. It was a response. A resonance.

With a sharp, dismissive flick of his wrist, all the other searching threads of light dissolved back into nothingness, leaving only the one, trembling strand hanging in the turbulent air, a faint grey line stretching out into infinity.

He closed his eyes. The air before him, already thick with driving snow, began to distort. A thin, black line, no wider than a hair, appeared in the empty space. It lengthened, then split, cracks spiderwebbing outwards with a silent, terrible speed. A moment later, the fractured reality tore open.

It was not the serene, controlled blue of his new portals. This was something else. A raw, violent wound in the world. A swirling vortex of a blackness deeper and more absolute than the void he had escaped, shot through with veins of a crimson so deep it was like the memory of blood. It did not hum with power, it shrieked, a high, silent scream that vibrated in his very bones.

Without a flicker of hesitation, without a single thought for the life he was leaving or the unknown horrors that might lie ahead, Loki stepped into it. He was swallowed by the screaming dark, the cold of Jotunheim a distant, forgotten memory.

On the other side of the crack was a dark, silent cave. The violent, shrieking vortex he had stepped through collapsed behind him with a final, soundless implosion, plunging him into a darkness so profound it felt like a physical weight, a suffocating blanket woven from absolute nothingness.

Loki tilted his head, a slow, deliberate movement in the oppressive black. In the absence of all light, his grey eyes began to emit a faint, ethereal glow, a soft, milky-white luminescence that did not so much illuminate the darkness as it did assert its presence within it. They were like the eyes of the universe itself, twin nebulae looking out from the void, observing all things around them with a vast, chilling, and utterly emotionless calm.

The call echoed again. But this time, it was different. It was no longer the frayed, desperate whisper of a memory, a phantom playing on the broken strings of his own mind. This was a real voice, clear and resonant, echoing from the stone around him. It was a neutral, genderless tone, imbued with an ancient quality, like the grinding of tectonic plates or the slow erosion of mountains. A brief, sharp flash of crimson light pulsed in the distance, staining the darkness for a heartbeat before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

Loki blinked once, a slow, reptilian movement. Then, without a sound, he began to walk forward, his steps measured and sure, a ghost gliding through a world that had not seen a living footstep in eons.

The cavern was long and wide, a grand, forgotten highway carved into the heart of some unknown world. But there was only one path, a single, unwavering route leading ever deeper into the gloom. On the rough-hewn walls to his left and right, ancient runes flickered, their light a sickly, intermittent pulse, like the last, guttering heartbeats of a dying star. Loki’s glowing grey eyes swept over them, not with curiosity, but with the cool, dispassionate analysis of a scholar. He recognized the language, the syntax of the magic. It was an ancient, powerful system of containment, a cage woven from pure energy, designed to imprison something of immense power. But it was failing. The light in the runes was weak, the energy bleeding from them into the surrounding stone. He could feel the decay in the very air. A few more decades, at most, and the entire matrix would collapse under its own entropy.

The further he walked, the more frequent the crimson flashes became, no longer mere flickers but a persistent stain on the darkness, growing in intensity until the very air seemed to hum with a slow, rhythmic pulse, like a vast, sleeping heart.

Finally, the narrow passage opened up into a chamber so vast its ceiling was lost in the oppressive darkness above. Here, the runes were no longer just on the walls. They covered every square inch of the space - the floor, the soaring walls, the unseen ceiling - a frantic, overlapping lattice of power, a testament to a desperate, last-ditch effort to contain the uncontainable.

In the precise center of the chamber stood a single, ancient pedestal. It was carved from a black stone so absolute it seemed to drink the very idea of light from the air, a solid block of pure night. And upon its flat surface, something stirred. It was a pool of liquid crimson, viscous and slow, like blood and starlight mixed together. As Loki watched, it began to move with a clear, intelligent purpose. The liquid drew itself upwards, coalescing, shaping itself into a perfect, hovering sphere of pure, roiling crimson energy. And from that sphere, the voice emerged, no longer a distant echo but a clear, ringing presence in the vast chamber.

“You’ve arrived!”

The voice was laced with a palpable, almost disturbing, excitement. Loki said nothing. He simply stood there, a slender, dark figure in the pulsating crimson glow, his own grey eyes two points of cold, white light. He observed. He analyzed. After a long, silent moment, his own voice, when it came, was as cold and flat as the void he had escaped.

“You are the Aether.”

It was not a question. It was a statement of fact.

The crimson sphere seemed to pulse with satisfaction, a slow, pleased thrum of energy that vibrated through the stone floor. It fell silent for a beat, as if savoring the moment of recognition. “As expected of the one who could enter here when the Nine Realms are not aligned…” the ancient voice purred, a sound of deep, malevolent contentment. “You are right. I am the Aether.”

The Aether. It was a name so ancient it felt like a fossil on the tongue, a secret that had gathered dust for… what? Three thousand years? It had become a forgotten myth, a whisper relegated to the oldest, most classified documents, the kind of lore locked away in the deepest, darkest corners of Asgard's most secret archives.

But, well, let's just say there wasn't a single book in Asgard, no matter how deeply it was buried in some forgotten, cobweb-choked recess, that Loki hadn't read.

The Aether, to put it simply, was a relic of the Dark Elves. It possessed the power to rewrite reality, to twist light into darkness… at least, that’s what the dusty scrolls claimed. Roughly three millennia ago, a brutal war had erupted between the Dark Elves and the Asgardians, a conflict that had ended, predictably, with Asgard’s victory. In the aftermath, the relic was lost. Some records suggested it had been destroyed. Others, the more paranoid and likely accurate ones, whispered that King Bor himself had sealed it away in a place of absolute secrecy.

So, the ‘absolute secrecy’ theory was the correct one, Loki thought, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic lattice of runes covering every surface of the cavern. He considered the decaying energy matrix. Not bad, he mused with detached, academic approval. Not bad at all.

The Aether - the Dark Elf relic - didn’t wait for Loki to offer any further commentary. The crimson sphere pulsed, and the voice spilled out in a rush, a torrent of words after an eternity of silence.

“Glad you could make it, kiddo! You have no idea how boring it is to be stuck in a cave for a few thousand years. And yes, yes, I’m the Aether, relic of the Nine Realms, the one and only, blabla. The point is, I need your help. For nearly three thousand years, you’re actually the first person to show up with a light so vast, so bright that it completely blew my mind. You’re also the first one who could actually hear me and find me…”

For a relic of an entire realm, this thing talked an awful lot.

Loki cut it off, his voice as flat and cold as the void he had just escaped. “That wasn't nice of you, using that voice to call me.”

The Aether paused, the crimson energy swirling for a moment. “My apologies,” it said, the voice shifting back to its neutral, ancient tone. “I simply shape my voice to sound like the one the listener misses most. You know, for effect.”

Loki blinked once, a slow, deliberate movement. He turned his head, his gaze fixing on a point somewhere in the darkness to his left. He said nothing.

“Listen,” the Aether pressed on, its voice regaining a measure of its earlier urgency. “You need to help me get out of here…”

“Why?” Loki asked, his tone utterly devoid of emotion, his eyes still tracing the patterns of a few random, flickering runes on the far wall. He continued, his voice a placid monotone. “This rune system is degrading anyway. According to my calculations, the time when the Nine Realms align will occur in a few more decades. At that time, you could freely call out to some other, more gullible person to become your host, couldn't you?”

The Aether went completely silent, a stillness so profound it felt like a physical weight in the vast cavern. It seemed genuinely stunned by his sharp, dispassionate analysis.

“The Aether, the relic that brings the power to alter reality, to devour light,” Loki continued, his voice a soft, chilling murmur. “But there are no records of this relic ever bonding with any individual for a long period of time. Instead, it was constantly passed from one host to another, and the fate of all those hosts was the same.”

Loki tilted his head, his glowing grey eyes finally turning to fix on the crimson sphere. “To use your power, one must trade their life force for it, right?”

He shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. “And what makes you think,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, “that I would willingly become the next host for you to parasitize?”

The crimson sphere remained silent for a long, heavy moment. Then, it began to laugh. It wasn’t a small chuckle, but a deep, hearty, and utterly uninhibited sound of pure, gleeful amusement that echoed off the ancient, rune-scarred walls.

“You’re right on a few points, kiddo,” the voice echoed again, and this time, it carried an undisguised thread of keen interest, a personality that felt jarringly human for a supposed inanimate relic. “But, let’s set the record straight. I'm not some kind of parasite.”

The sphere of liquid crimson pulsed, its surface swirling like a miniature, contained nebula.

“Yes, most of the people who borrowed my power didn't exactly have a good end,” it conceded, the admission sounding almost cheerful. “But the truth is, I didn't borrow any of their strength, or magic, or life force, or whatever else your clever mind can cook up.”

The Aether’s voice took on a distinctly smug tone. “I'm simply that strong. I don't need to borrow anyone else's power, not a single drop.”

“But, to change reality, it's not as simple as snapping your fingers. I'm not a switch that people can just turn on and off whenever they want. The energy required to do anything that touches the fabric of reality, even the smallest, most insignificant alteration, will put a tremendous strain on the user. And to put it simply, those people… they were just too weak to withstand that strain on their bodies.”

“And, you're right,” the Aether continued, the excitement in its voice building. “Soon, the Nine Realms will align. And pretty much this entire rune system that has me somewhat tied down, will fall apart. At that time, I can take advantage of the portals popping up everywhere to lure some other poor soul to help me get out.”

“But, it will just be the same story all over again, and to be honest? I'm tired of constantly changing partners. So, why even bother? Why even wait, when right now, standing right in front of me, I have the best choice? You?”

Loki looked at the ball of crimson energy, an unreadable flicker passing through his cold grey eyes. “You overestimate me,” he said, his voice flat.

The Aether chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate in Loki’s very bones. “No, not at all. As I said, you are the most special person I've ever seen. And your light… it’s so brilliant that I was completely overwhelmed. Whatever you've been through, I don't know, but at this present time, you are more than enough to wield my power, without having to worry about any of the nasty consequences. You're simply that strong, kiddo. I'm absolutely not lying about that.”

Seeing that Loki remained silent, a mask of placid observation, the crimson sphere pressed on. “Of course, another option is Malekith, that Dark Elf. He's not dead yet, I think. But ehh, I don't like that dude. A no-brainer like that isn't exactly very appealing.”

“Oh.”

Loki said softly, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arching with the first hint of genuine interest he had shown. Malekith. The same Dark Elf from three thousand years ago? Still not dead? Now, that is important information.

The Aether seemed to pulse with glee. “That's right, kid! He's still kicking. And as is usually the case, once someone's had a taste of the sweet stuff, they're not exactly keen on letting it go. He will probably wait for the right moment, to find me again, and continue whatever shenanigan he was planning about plunging the whole Nine Realms into darkness, just like he tried to do three thousand years ago. I believe that will also affect you, won't it?”

Loki’s eyes turned to ice. He raised a pale hand, elegantly sweeping a stray lock of raven hair back from his forehead.

“Think carefully, boy,” the Aether said, its voice dropping to a low, seductive purr. “With me, an Infinity Stone, you can do whatever you want. You can destroy, or create things, change reality, change everything to your own will…”

Infinity Stone? Now, that was another term most Æsir had no knowledge of, but like the name Aether, Loki had come across it in some of the oldest, most obscure texts he had devoured in Asgard’s libraries. He had always dismissed them as mere legends, the fantastical ramblings of ancient, overly imaginative scribes.

That was a very big problem, a cosmic-level complication. But, at the moment, Loki had something else, something far more pressing, to care about.

“Everything?” Loki asked, his voice suddenly sharp, a blade of pure, focused intent. “Really?”

“Of course,” the Aether replied, its voice radiating absolute certainty. “You can create anything you can imagine, with my help.”

Loki looked straight at the crimson ball, his cold grey eyes unblinking for a long, heavy moment that seemed to stretch into an eternity.

Then, his voice a soft, almost inaudible whisper, he said, “Alright then.”

The Aether laughed, a loud, triumphant sound that echoed through the ancient, rune-scarred cavern. “Good choice.”

It pulsed again, its crimson light flaring with renewed energy. “Then, let's clean up this disgusting pile of runes, shall we?”

Loki tilted his head back, his gaze lifting to the unseen, oppressive ceiling of the cavern. For a single, silent moment, his eyes, which had been a flat, desolate grey, blazed with a light that was not a color, but an absence of it. A pure, blinding whiteness erupted from their depths, a silent detonation of cold that seemed to suck the very idea of warmth from the ancient stone.

A predatory chill, a creeping glacier of pure will, began to pour from him. It was not a violent explosion of energy, but a quiet, inexorable tide of white, laced with the faintest whisper of ethereal blue. It flowed across the floor and slithered up the walls, a silent hunter seeking its prey. It touched the first of the ancient, flickering runes, and the magical symbol didn't shatter, it simply… unmade itself. With a brittle, crystalline sigh that was felt more than heard, the rune dissolved into a fine, glittering powder, a dust of forgotten power.

The dust did not settle. It swirled, caught in an invisible current, and was drawn towards the slender figure in the center of the chamber. Loki stood as a bottomless abyss, a black hole in the shape of a man, and inhaled the remnants of the ancient magic. The power wasn't just added to him, it was digested, becoming another layer of ice in the frozen wasteland of his soul. The process was swift, ruthless, and terrifyingly efficient. The intricate, desperate lattice of containment spells, a cage that had held a cosmic entity for three millennia, was systematically dismantled, consumed, and erased from existence. In less than five minutes, the chamber was scrubbed clean, every last vestige of the old magic devoured, leaving only the bare, scarred stone and the pulsating crimson heart of the Aether.

“Now that’s what I call power,” the Aether’s voice boomed, laced with an undisguised, gleeful admiration.

The crimson sphere became a gleeful dervish, spinning with manic excitement. A carnage of crimson light erupted from it, painting the vast cavern in shades of blood and sunset, a spectacle that was at once beautiful and profoundly horrifying. The liquid reality surged towards Loki, a tidal wave of raw, untamed potential. It circled him once, twice, a predator sizing up its new partner, then it unleashed its full might. A silent scream of raw potential, a storm of dangerous crimson sparks and roiling energy, engulfed the spot where he stood.

And yet, Loki remained. Thin, solitary, a statue carved from winter’s silence. The cataclysm of energy raging around him might as well have been a gentle snowfall for all the reaction it elicited from him. He stood with a placid, almost bored, stillness, his beautiful face an unreadable mask.

He slowly lifted his left hand. From his pale, slender fingers, a different kind of energy flowed. It was the white of his eyes, the cold of the void, but now it was tinged with the deep, serene blue of a stable portal. Five silent hunters, serpents of starlight and frost, shot out and began their own pursuit, weaving through the chaos to wrap themselves around the Aether’s crimson rage.

The two forces collided. A silent, furious gale erupted in the confines of the cavern, a physical manifestation of the cosmic struggle. The wind tore at Loki’s clothes and sent his raven-black hair whipping around his face like a storm-tossed flag, yet he did not move. He was an unshakeable anchor in the heart of a hurricane he had both summoned and tamed.

Through the chaotic symphony of warring energies, the Aether’s voice rang out again, no longer excited, but filled with a deep, calm satisfaction. “As expected. You’re brilliant, kiddo.”

The struggle was not a battle to the death, but a slow, deliberate dance. The furious crimson and the absolute cold began to neutralize one another, their violent opposition softening into a harmonious balance. The crimson liquid, its rage finally spent, became gentle. It flowed towards Loki, its vast, chaotic form shrinking, condensing, until it traced a delicate path around his left wrist. Slowly, gracefully, it sank into his pale skin, settling into the shape of a simple, elegant crimson tattoo, a line of pure red that looked like a delicate bracelet against his skin.

"Wow…" a voice, the same as the Aether’s, echoed not in the cave, but directly inside Loki’s head. "This is the first time I’ve seen someone touch an Infinity Stone and not… you know, explode or go mad or something."

"So, you live in my head now?" Loki asked, his own thought a cool, flat counterpoint.

"Not really," the Stone replied, its mental voice laced with amusement. "On your wrist, yes. But we’re just talking telepathically. Think of it as a private line."

Loki said nothing. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the last vestiges of the energy storm had vanished. The cavern was once more plunged into a deep, profound silence, the darkness absolute.

He raised his hand, not to attack, but with a simple, dismissive wave. The air before him shimmered, then opened into a perfect, stable circle of serene blue light. He stepped through it.

On the other side, snow was falling. The furious blizzard had exhausted itself, its rage softening into a quiet, melancholy flurry that drifted from a sky the color of old pewter. The place where Loki emerged was a high, lonely mountain peak, its summit scraping the clouds, a world away from the distant, barely visible lights of the Jotunheim palace.

"So, what's the first thing you’re gonna do with my power?" the Stone asked, its mental voice buzzing with a keen, almost giddy anticipation. It was like a child with a brand-new, universe-altering toy, eager to see what magnificent chaos its new playmate would unleash.

Loki didn't answer. He stood on the lonely mountain peak, a slender, dark silhouette against the vast, swirling canvas of the snowstorm. His gaze was fixed on nothing, his beautiful face a placid mask, his grey eyes as empty and desolate as the void he had just escaped. For a long, silent moment, he was just a statue carved from sorrow and ice. Then, a flicker. A spark ignited deep within those vacant orbs, a pinprick of crimson that grew, blossomed, and consumed the grey entirely, until his eyes blazed with the raw, reality-bending power of the Aether.

The wind, which had been a constant, mournful howl, suddenly changed its tune. It whipped around him, a furious, focused vortex, gathering the falling snowflakes, pulling them from the sky. The snow spun faster and faster, a miniature, localized blizzard that coalesced in the empty space before him. It was no longer a storm, but a sculptor’s tool, shaping a form from frost and memory. And then, in the blink of an eye, the swirling chaos subsided, the wind fell silent, and standing there, as solid and real as the mountain beneath their feet, was Steven Grant Rogers.

He was perfect. Not a single detail was out of place. It was the Steve of their last, sun-drenched summer, his frame no longer alarmingly fragile but filled with a quiet, new-found strength. The cheap but clean clothes, the shock of blond hair falling just so across his forehead, the gentle, trustworthy aura that seemed to radiate from him like a physical warmth - it was all there. And his smile… that warm, lopsided smile that had undone Loki from the very beginning, was aimed directly at him. It was all so real, so immediate, it felt as though only a single yesterday, not an eternity of darkness, separated them.

Steve Rogers took a step forward, then another, his boots making a soft crunching sound in the freshly fallen snow. He moved with that familiar, earnest grace, closing the distance between them until he stood directly before the stunned, motionless Loki. He raised a hand, his fingers warm and calloused, and gently, so gently, touched the cold, pale skin of Loki’s cheek. The warmth of it was a shock, a jolt of life against the dead chill of Loki’s skin.

“I miss you so much, Loki,” Steve said, his voice a soft, familiar murmur, the sound a balm on a wound Loki couldn't even feel.

Loki just stood there, a perfect, beautiful statue, his mind a silent, frozen wasteland. He could feel the physical sensation of Steve’s hand, the gentle pressure, the impossible warmth seeping into his flesh. He could see the boy before him, by all accounts made of real bone and real blood, a living, breathing miracle standing in the heart of a Jotunheim snowstorm. But inside, where his soul used to be, there was only a vast, echoing emptiness, a terrifying hollow that swallowed all sensation, all meaning. The only evidence of the cataclysm unfolding within him was a sudden, inexplicable wetness trailing down his cheeks. He was crying, his body performing an act of grief his mind could no longer comprehend.

“Don't cry,” Steve murmured, his expression softening with that familiar, heart-stopping tenderness. He drew Loki into an embrace, his arms wrapping around Loki’s slender frame, pulling him close. The warmth of his body was a solid, undeniable presence, a shield against the biting wind and the even colder emptiness within. Loki didn't resist. He stood stiffly at first, then, as if his muscles remembered a long-forgotten comfort, he sagged into the hug, a marionette with its strings cut, letting the warmth of a ghost envelop him in the middle of the endless snow.

After a long moment that felt both like a fleeting second and a small eternity, they pulled apart. Loki raised a hand, his movements slow, almost mechanical, and wiped the moisture from his cheeks. He looked at Steve, and a smile, as perfect and practiced as any he had ever worn, bloomed on his lips.

“I'm sorry,” he began, his voice a smooth, melodic thing, a flawless imitation of sincerity. “I'm sorry for being so stubborn, for doing what I wanted. For leaving you all alone.” He took Steve's warm hands, cradling them between his own two cold ones, his grip surprisingly tight. “I should have known what was enough. I should have just stayed, and we could have spent those beautiful days together.” He looked up, his emerald eyes, a perfect, shimmering illusion, meeting Steve's earnest blue ones. “I'm sorry. It was all my fault.”

Steve just shook his head, that gentle, forgiving smile never leaving his face. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. He simply smiled as his body began to waver, to lose its solid form. The edges of him softened, dissolving into a flurry of soft, golden motes of light, like embers from a fire made of pure sunlight. The motes drifted upwards, caught in the wind, and began to merge with the falling snow, a beautiful, heartbreaking alchemy of warmth and cold.

“I love you,” Loki said, his voice a raw whisper as he watched the boy he loved disintegrate before his eyes. The perfect mask of his smile was beginning to crack. “I love you. I love you.” The words were a desperate, frantic mantra, a final, futile attempt to give voice to an emotion he could no longer feel. He watched as the golden light thinned, as the last vestiges of that beloved form were carried away by the wind. “And… goodbye.”

The last of the light formed the ghost of a smile, a final, silent farewell that was exactly, perfectly, as it had been in every one of Loki’s cherished, now-hollow memories. And then, he was gone.

Loki stood alone on the mountaintop, a solitary figure in a world of howling wind and driving snow. He felt nothing. Just a vast, crushing emptiness, a profound and absolute loneliness. He felt fragile, like a slender, winter-stripped tree, so brittle that the next gust of wind might snap him in two, leaving only shattered pieces to be buried by the snow. But he knew, with a cold, logical certainty, that he would not break. He couldn't.

After a long, long time, the Aether's voice echoed in his head, laced with a genuine, profound confusion.

"I don’t get it. You could have kept him. Why did you let him go? That was real, kiddo. A living, breathing person, made of flesh and bone. Not an illusion."

Loki didn't answer. He just stood there, the snow beginning to pile up on his dark hair and slender shoulders, the storm raging with renewed fury around him, as if mirroring a tempest he could no longer feel.

“You wouldn't understand,” Loki said finally, his own voice a faint, airy whisper, so quiet it was instantly devoured by the screaming wind.

He turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the desolate, white landscape one last time. Then he began to walk, his steps steady and sure, away from the spot where he had just said his final goodbye.

“I need a sleep,” he said, to the storm, to the Stone, to himself.

Chapter Text

The snow on Earth was a pathetic, fleeting thing. A temporary inconvenience, a decorative dusting that melted into grey slush before it had the decency to properly commit. Loki watched it from the window of his quiet, isolated house, a faint, detached amusement flickering in his eyes. He thought of the snows of his own world, of Jotunheim. He thought of the eternal, monolithic glaciers that groaned with the weight of ages, of blizzards that could strip a lesser being to the bone in seconds, of an entire world sculpted from the beautiful, brutal power of cold.

For a Frost Giant, even the most formidable winter Midgard could muster was little more than a mild spring day. The biting winds that sent the mortals scurrying for shelter, bundled in their clumsy layers of wool and fur, were nothing but a gentle caress against his skin. The deepest, most profound cold this planet could offer was a shallow, tepid bath compared to the soul-deep chill of his homeland.

But there was a certain charm to it, he had to admit. It wasn't in the weather itself, but in the solitude it afforded. Here, in this small, unremarkable house on this loud, insignificant planet, he didn't have to perform. He didn't have to conjure the perfect, placid smile for his father’s worried gaze. He didn’t have to engage in the forced, hollow banter with his brothers, pretending to be the boy they remembered, the brother they had lost and then found again, irrevocably changed. Here, he could simply be. He could sit in silence, stare at the walls, and not have to concern himself with what anyone else was thinking or feeling about the vast, silent emptiness inside him.

Family, for most, was an anchor, a steadfast point of stability that held them fast against the raging storms of life. But sometimes, that anchor felt less like a point of stability and more like a dead weight, a crushing pressure on the shoulders, especially when the storm was raging within, and you lacked the words, or the will, to explain the wreckage.

It had been quite some years since Loki had last set foot on Midgard, and in truth, he felt no pressing need to return to Jotunheim anytime soon. The realm no longer required his daily, obsessive supervision. The grand defensive matrix he had designed, a silent, invisible nervous system woven into the very stone of the capital’s great wall, now hummed along with the quiet efficiency of a perfectly crafted watch. The agricultural runes he had set in place self-regulated, adapting to the subtle shifts in the long seasons, ensuring the harvests were always bountiful. The resource management systems he had implemented ran themselves, diverting energy and materials with a cold, logical precision that was far more reliable than any bureaucratic council. Byleistr, with his stoic patience and his innate gift for construction, oversaw the final stages of the city’s expansion, while Helblindi, having finally, reluctantly, embraced the mantle of heir, was proving to be a surprisingly capable leader, his boisterous energy tempered by a newfound sense of responsibility. Jotunheim was safe. It was prosperous. It was, for the first time in its long, harsh history, a realm that could stand on its own two feet. It no longer needed a crutch. It no longer needed him.

So, why Midgard? Loki didn't have a clear answer for that. He could have gone anywhere. He could have explored the fiery nebulae of Muspelheim or lost himself in the verdant, eternal forests of Alfheim. But he had come here. To this world of noise and mud and short-lived, beautifully fragile things. It simply… was.

Outside the window, a sharp, cheerful chirp cut through the quiet hum of the falling snow. Loki turned his head, his gaze drifting from the monotonous white of the landscape to the source of the sound. He walked to the window, his movements fluid and silent, and with a gentle push, swung it open. A blast of cold, clean air swirled into the room, carrying a flurry of snowflakes with it.

A small, impossibly white sparrow, so pure it seemed to have been carved from a fresh snowdrift, darted inside. It circled his head once, a silent, graceful loop, before settling delicately onto his outstretched hand, its tiny claws a feather-light touch against his pale skin. Its eyes were not the beady black of a normal bird, they were the color of freshly spilled blood, two tiny, gleaming points of crimson.

“There’s something fun happening on the mountain nearby,” the sparrow chirped, but the voice that emerged was not a bird’s. It was a familiar, genderless tone, imbued with an ancient, playful energy.

It was the voice of the Aether. Or, as it preferred to call itself on the rare occasions it felt the need for gravitas, the Reality Stone. Loki, however, stubbornly continued to call it the Aether. It was a less pretentious name, and it annoyed the Stone, which was a bonus.

In the early days of their… partnership… Loki had quickly discovered a way to grant the Aether a measure of the freedom it so desperately craved. He had woven a small, intricate spell, a simple thing for him, that allowed the Stone to project a portion of its consciousness and power into a physical form. The Aether, after millennia of silent, sentient imprisonment, had been practically giddy with delight. It had spent the ensuing years flitting about the world in the guise of various small, unobtrusive animals, reveling in the simple, physical sensations of existence.

To be fair, the process hadn't even been particularly difficult. It was a matter of basic energy manipulation and biological projection, the kind of magic a gifted student in Asgard might have learned in their first century of study. Loki suspected the Stone's previous “partners” had simply been too weak, too consumed by the power, or perhaps just not clever enough, to even think of trying. For Loki? Well, he had no grand ambitions to rewrite the fabric of reality, no desire to plunge the Nine Realms into eternal darkness. Most of the time, he just wanted to be left alone to read a book in peace. A constant voice chattering away in his head? No. Absolutely not. Giving the Stone a body to play with had been less a gift and more a pragmatic solution to ensure his own quiet. It was, he had to admit, a decision that had worked out splendidly for them both.

Loki tilted his head, his gaze drifting past the small bird, out towards the grey, snow-shrouded peaks visible in the distance. “What could possibly be interesting?” he asked, his voice a quiet, emotionless murmur.

“How about you find out for yourself?” the Stone chirped back, a giggle in its voice. Then, in a shimmer of pearlescent light that smelled faintly of ozone and old starlight, the sparrow dissolved. The light swirled, reforming with liquid speed, and a new shape wrapped itself around Loki’s left wrist. A small, slender snake, as white as bone, coiled itself into a perfect, elegant bracelet, its head resting near his pulse point, its two tiny, crimson eyes blinking up at him with intelligent amusement.

“Quickly,” it hissed, its voice now a sibilant whisper directly in his ear, laced with an infectious, childish excitement. “Or you’ll miss it.”

Loki gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head, a gesture of weary resignation to the Stone's whims. He moved towards the main door, his long, pale fingers plucking a heavy black coat from a simple hook on the wall. It was a size too large for his slender frame, its shoulders broad and its hem falling well below his knees, but he shrugged it on as he stepped out into the biting wind, not bothering to fasten the buttons.

The wind, sharp and clean with the scent of pine and ice, whipped his raven-black hair around his face, a stark, silken banner against the overwhelming white of the landscape. He’d been on Midgard for a considerable stretch of time now, drifting from one continent to another, playing this and doing that. Recently, he’d settled on this remote corner of Alaska, purchasing the small, isolated house for the sole purpose of continuing what he privately termed his 'stare at the wall business' - a quiet, uninterrupted existence far from the demands of gods and men. Who would have thought that even here, in this vast, frozen emptiness, something genuinely 'fun' could be happening?

His stride was unhurried, almost languid, yet the snow-covered ground seemed to rush beneath his feet. It was a strange, subtle illusion of movement, and in what felt like no time at all, he was standing near the summit of the mountain. The small, white snake on his wrist stirred, lifting its bone-white head and flicking its forked tongue. “There,” it hissed, the sound a soft, sibilant whisper in Loki’s ear. “Look at that one.”

Loki’s gaze followed the direction of the snake’s pointed snout. Further up the slope, half-obscured by a drift of snow, was a man. He was sitting slumped in the powder, his shoulders hunched, his body radiating a palpable aura of… struggle. Just as Loki was about to dismiss the scene as another tedious mortal drama, something genuinely interesting finally did happen. The man fumbled inside his thin jacket and pulled out a handgun, the dark metal a stark, ugly shape against the snow. Without a moment's hesitation, he jammed the barrel into his own mouth.

Loki’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched in a silent expression of detached curiosity.

A muffled crack echoed across the silent mountain.

But in that same instant, in a flash of impossible, violent transformation, the man was gone. In his place, a monster erupted. A colossal figure, its skin the color of toxic moss and bruised rage, its muscles bulging with a power that seemed to crackle in the frigid air. The green giant - for that was the only word for it - opened its cavernous mouth and spat the small, mangled bullet onto the snow. Then, it threw its head back and unleashed a roar, a sound of pure, undiluted fury that shook the very mountain, sending cascades of snow tumbling down the slopes.

Loki merely tilted his head, his own face a placid mask. He closed his grey eyes for a brief, contemplative second. “Hmm,” he murmured, the sound swallowed by the monster’s rage.

As if sensing a new presence, a scent on the wind, the giant’s furious gaze snapped away from the sky and locked onto Loki. Its eyes were wild, bestial, burning with a mindless rage that would have sent any normal person screaming in terror. Loki, however, did not scream. He simply met the monster’s gaze, his own expression as still and cold as the mountain peak. The giant roared again, a new, more focused sound of challenge and aggression, and then it charged. The ground trembled with each thunderous footstep as the mountain of green fury hurtled towards the slender, unmoving figure in black.

The mountain of green muscle and incandescent rage thundered across the snow, each footstep a miniature earthquake that sent plumes of white powder blasting into the frigid air. The sound of its charge was a low, guttural roar that seemed to tear at the very fabric of the silence, a promise of total, mindless annihilation. In its path, the slender figure in the oversized black coat remained perfectly, unnervingly still. Loki did not flinch, did not brace himself. He simply stood there, a silent statue of black against the overwhelming white, and his fingers, long and pale against the dark fabric of his sleeves, twitched ever so slightly.

In the next instant, the ground before the charging giant erupted. A series of thick, translucent walls of pure ice, jagged and formidable, shot up from the frozen earth, a desperate, crystalline barricade thrown up in the monster’s path. They were a beautiful, futile gesture. The green behemoth didn’t even slow down. It smashed through them with contemptuous ease, the ice exploding into a billion glittering shards with each impact, the sound a series of sharp, percussive cracks against the backdrop of its continuous, furious roar.

But the walls were just a greeting. The true welcome wagon was far more aggressive. From the churned snow and shattered ice, a new assault materialized. Spikes of ice, as long and sharp as spears, lanced through the air. Blades of frost, curved like scythes, spun towards the giant’s thick legs. And from the ground itself, sinuous tentacles of solid ice whipped and coiled, attempting to ensnare the creature's powerful limbs. It was a relentless, suffocating storm of frozen weaponry, a blizzard of pure offense that left no room to breathe, no moment of respite.

The assault wasn't a real threat, not to a creature of this magnitude. The ice spikes shattered against its hide, the blades barely scratched the surface, and the tentacles were snapped and thrown aside with brutal, dismissive swipes of its massive arms. But it was, without question, annoying. The giant’s roars grew louder, higher-pitched, its mindless rage now tinged with a clear and potent frustration as it was forced to swat and smash its way through the unending, stinging blizzard of ice.

“Good endurance and defense,” Loki whispered to the howling wind, his voice a calm, analytical murmur, a contrast to the chaos unfolding before him. His grey eyes, cold and dispassionate, tracked the monster’s every move. He tilted his head, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. He looked down at his left wrist. “Wanna try?”

The small, bone-white snake, which had been lying dormant, a perfect, elegant bracelet, lifted its head. A low, throaty chuckle that sounded entirely too large for its tiny form seemed to emanate from it, a sound of pure, gleeful anticipation. “Sure,” it hissed, its crimson eyes gleaming.

In the next instant, it launched itself from Loki’s wrist. The Aether was a streak of pure crimson against the white snow, a living bullet of reality-bending potential. In the blink of an eye, it exploded outwards, the small, serpentine form expanding with a silent, terrifying speed. Bone-white scales the size of dinner plates materialized, a muscular, coiling body thicker than an ancient tree trunk unfurled, and a colossal head, crowned with wicked horns of jagged crimson crystal, reared back. The small bracelet was gone. In its place was a monstrous serpent, a myth made flesh, its sheer size dwarfing even the green giant.

With a hiss that shook the very air, the great white snake surged forward, its movements impossibly fast for its size. It wrapped its colossal body around the giant, and the two titans began their brutal, earth-shaking battle. It was a maelstrom of raw power, a clash of myth and monster. The giant strained, its muscles bulging to an impossible degree as it tried to break the snake’s crushing grip. It grabbed the serpent’s body and slammed it into the mountainside, sending avalanches of rock and snow cascading down into the valley. It pummeled the snake’s bone-white scales with fists the size of boulders, each impact a dull, thunderous boom.

But every time the giant slammed it into the stone, every time a devastating blow landed, the Aether just laughed, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy that echoed across the desolate peaks. It was having fun. It thrived on the violence, on the raw, physical contest.

The huge snake’s crimson eyes flashed. Its long, powerful tail, tipped with a razor-sharp blade of crimson crystal, whipped through the air with pinpoint accuracy. It struck the giant squarely in the abdomen, the impact not so much a blow as a solid, concussive wave of force. The green behemoth was lifted from its feet, a strangled grunt of surprise and pain ripped from its throat, and it was sent flying backwards, crashing into a snowdrift a hundred yards away.

The giant snake slithered closer, its massive head lowering to hover over the fallen creature. “Very strong,” it hissed, its mental voice a cool, analytical counterpoint to the physical chaos. “But seems to have no mind.”

Loki nodded once from his distant vantage point. The Aether had played enough.

The giant groaned, pushing itself up from the snow, shaking its massive head as if to clear it. It lumbered to its feet, its furious gaze already scanning the landscape for the colossal white serpent. But before it could even fully straighten up, before its wild eyes could lock onto its target, a figure appeared directly in front of it, a silent, sudden apparition that had not been there a second before.

Loki stood before the monster, his expression placid, his oversized black coat fluttering in the wind. He raised his left hand, his long, pale fingers held open. And then, he blew.

A cloud of fine, shimmering silver powder, like dust milled from captured starlight, billowed from his palm and washed over the giant’s furious face.

In the blink of an eye, the rage in the creature’s eyes vanished, replaced by a dull, vacant look. Its massive body swayed, its knees buckled, and it collapsed to the ground with a thud that shook the snow, completely, utterly unconscious.

With a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised in detached curiosity, Loki watched as the giant’s body began to shrink. The bulging green muscles receded, the monstrous form contracting, melting away, until all that was left, lying insensate in the snow, was the ordinary, mortal man from before.

“Curious,” Loki murmured, elegantly tucking a stray lock of raven hair behind his ear as his gaze drifted up towards the grey, heavy sky.

The giant snake, its form already shrinking, slithered up behind him until it was once more a small, slender creature. It coiled itself up his arm, its huge head now resting companionably on his thin shoulder. “So what?” it hissed, its crimson eyes blinking with morbid interest as it looked down at the unconscious man. “Are you going to dissect this one to see what makes it tick?”

A smile touched Loki’s lips. It was a gentle, almost beatific expression that made him look deceptively harmless. But his voice, when he spoke, was as cold and flat as a frozen lake. “Am I that cruel?”

He waved a hand, a casual, dismissive gesture. The man’s body lifted from the snow, hovering in the air. A thick, warm fur cloak materialized around the unconscious form, wrapping it in a protective cocoon. The man then began to drift, floating silently behind Loki, who had already started his unhurried descent down the mountain.

The snow began to fall heavier, thick, wet flakes that clung to the trees and quickly, mercifully, covered the scars of the brief, violent battle.

About half an hour later, the rhythmic thumping of rotor blades sliced through the quiet air. A sleek, black helicopter appeared over the mountain ridge. It circled the summit once, twice, its sensors sweeping the pristine, unbroken blanket of white. Then, finding nothing, it banked sharply and disappeared back into the grey, snow-filled sky.

*

The first thing the man did when he regained consciousness was scream. It wasn't a cry of pain or a gasp of surprise, but a raw, ragged sound torn from the depths of his lungs, a desperate, animalistic noise that ripped a hole in the quiet fabric of the morning. His eyes, a soft, intelligent brown, flew open, wide with a terror that was clearly an old, familiar companion. He thrashed, a frantic tangle of limbs against soft wool blankets, his mind still trapped on a frozen mountain peak with the cold taste of gunmetal in his mouth.

He was not, however, on a mountain. He was in a bed. A warm, comfortable bed, piled high with thick, soft quilts in a room that smelled faintly of pine smoke and old books. Sunlight, a pale, watery gold, streamed through a large window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. A fire crackled merrily in a stone hearth across the room. It was a scene of such profound, rustic peace that the ragged, terrified screaming seemed like a violent intrusion from another reality entirely.

The door to the bedroom opened without a sound. Loki stood in the doorway, a book held loosely in one hand, his finger marking his place. He was dressed in a simple, dark sweater and trousers, and he looked at the panicking man in the bed with an expression of mild, academic curiosity, as if observing a particularly noisy and unpredictable new species of insect. He didn't seem startled by the screaming. He seemed… to have been expecting it.

It had, after all, been three days.

Three days since he’d floated the unconscious man down the mountain like a prized, if slightly problematic, piece of luggage. Three days of quiet observation and even quieter, more intrusive, investigation. Loki, of course, had no intention of engaging in something as crude and labor-intensive as a physical dissection. That would have been far too much effort, and dreadfully messy besides. Why bother with scalpels and saws when a whisper of magic could peel back the layers of a being far more neatly?

A few quick, subtle diagnostic spells, woven from the cold, pure magic that was now his own, had been more than enough. He had sat by the man’s bedside, a slender, pale hand resting lightly on the sleeping mortal’s forehead, and let his senses drift. His magic, a shimmering, ethereal current of blue-white light, had flowed into the man’s body, mapping it, cataloging its secrets. And what he’d found had been… fascinating.

The man was, to all appearances, an ordinary human. His biology, while a bit of a mess from a purely design-oriented perspective, was perfectly, disappointingly, mundane. But woven into that fragile mortal tapestry was something else. An energy. It blazed within the man, a furious, chaotic storm of brilliant, sickly green. The color was a ghost, a painful echo of the magic that had once been Loki’s own vibrant signature. But the similarity ended there. His 'green' had been a tool, an extension of his will, a force he could shape and command. This… this was a wild, untamed river of pure rage, a caged hurricane of power that seemed to have no master, least of all the man who housed it.

And yet, within that chaotic energy, Loki had detected a faint, almost imperceptible resonance, a signature that felt… familiar.

The most immediate, and practical, effect of this energy was a healing factor that was nothing short of miraculous. The man’s body, which should have been a roadmap of frostbite and internal injuries from his mountain ordeal, was already completely healed, the power within him knitting tissue and mending bone with a silent, relentless efficiency, even while he slept.

Unfortunately, that seemed to be the only thing the man’s body did efficiently. The power was inextricably tied to his emotions, a volatile, unstable fusion. A surge of anger, a spike of fear, and the storm would break its cage, transforming him into that mindless, green behemoth. It was a pity, Loki mused. Such raw power, wasted on a being who couldn't control it. And yet, there was a certain brutal effectiveness to it. A clear, controlled mind could wield power with precision, but a mind consumed by emotion, by pure, unadulterated rage? That could push a being beyond all conceivable limits, into a realm of strength where logic and strategy ceased to matter.

Loki watched the man’s frantic thrashing finally begin to subside, his screams tapering off into ragged, panicked gasps as his mind slowly caught up with his surroundings. The man’s wide, terrified eyes finally focused, landing on the calm, unmoving figure in the doorway. He froze, his breath catching in his throat.

Loki lowered his book, letting it fall closed with a soft thud. He walked into the room, his footsteps silent on the wooden floorboards. “You’re awake,” he stated, his voice a smooth, melodic murmur, utterly devoid of emotion. “I was beginning to wonder if you intended to sleep through the entire winter. You’ve been quite loud.”

He stopped at the foot of the bed and tilted his head, his grey eyes sweeping over the man with that same cool, analytical gaze. “Do you feel like screaming some more, or are you finished? I’d prefer to get back to my reading, if it’s all the same to you.”

The man stared, his mouth opening and closing silently, like a fish out of water. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, pulling the blankets up to his chin like a shield. “Who… who are you?” he stammered, his voice hoarse. “Where am I?”

Loki’s lips curved into a perfect, placid smile. It was a beautiful expression, yet it held no warmth, no reassurance. It was simply a shape his mouth made. “My name is Louis,” he said. “And you’re in my house. You were having a rather bad day on the mountain. I thought it best to bring you in before you became a permanent, and rather unsightly, part of the landscape.”

He gestured vaguely towards the door. “I’ve made some soup. I imagine you’re hungry.”

And with that, he turned and left the room, leaving the man sitting in the warm, quiet bedroom, utterly bewildered, his heart still hammering against his ribs from a terror that was slowly, confusingly, being replaced by a deep, profound sense of unreality. This was, without a doubt, the strangest thing that had ever happened to him. And for a man who periodically turned into a giant green rage monster, that was saying something.

The gnawing emptiness in his stomach, a primal, gut-level need that had been buried under three days of unconsciousness, clawed its way to the surface with a vengeance. It was a fierce, undeniable declaration of life that was profoundly at odds with his last conscious memory of cold steel and bitter finality. For a good five minutes, the man simply lay there, wrapped in the unfamiliar warmth of the thick quilts, letting the pounding in his head subside and the simple, overwhelming fact of his continued existence settle in. He was alive. And he was starving.

Slowly, cautiously, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floorboards were cool beneath his bare feet. He moved with the practiced stealth of a man used to being hunted, his senses on high alert as he padded out of the bedroom and into a small, cozy living area. A tantalizing aroma, rich with herbs and savory meat, pulled him towards the adjoining kitchen. There, on a simple wooden table, a bowl of steaming soup sat waiting, a chunk of dark bread and a wedge of pale cheese beside it. His stomach rumbled, a loud, embarrassing betrayal of his caution.

He sank into one of the chairs, his eyes darting around the small, rustic space. Standing with his back to the table, bent over a counter near the stove, was the strange, beautiful boy from the bedroom. He was meticulously stirring something in a small bowl, his movements economical and precise. Bruce didn't wait for an invitation. He picked up the spoon and began to eat, the warm, nourishing soup a shocking, glorious comfort after so long. Between mouthfuls, he watched the slender figure at the counter, his mind still trying to piece together the fractured, impossible puzzle of the last few days.

“I’m Bruce Banner,” he said, his voice hoarse from disuse.

Loki glanced over his shoulder, his expression a perfect, placid blank. The movement was so fluid, so devoid of surprise, that it was as if he had been expecting Bruce to speak at that exact moment. He offered no name in return, simply turning his attention back to the concoction he was preparing.

The silence stretched, thick and a little awkward. Bruce swallowed a mouthful of bread, the starchy comfort doing little to ease the knot of confusion in his gut. “Can you… can you tell me what happened?” he asked, his voice hesitant.

Loki added two spoonfuls of thick, golden honey to a swirling, sky-blue liquid in the bowl, his voice a calm, melodic monotone that didn't waver as he spoke. “Basically, your suicide attempt failed. Then you transformed into a green giant and attacked me. So, I induced a state of unconsciousness and brought you here.” He continued to stir, the motion rhythmic and unhurried, as if he were discussing the weather.

“You… you made me sleep?” Bruce’s eyes widened. “How?”

Loki casually extended an open hand without turning around. From a shelf across the kitchen, a heavy iron kettle lifted into the air and floated smoothly across the room, settling gently into his waiting palm. “Don’t look so surprised,” he said, his voice still holding that same flat, dispassionate tone. “You’re not the only person on this planet with special abilities.”

Bruce’s jaw went slack. The piece of bread he was holding slipped from his nerveless fingers and landed on the table with a soft thud. His entire, carefully constructed, science-based worldview had just been shattered by a floating teapot.

“That green version of you seems quite aggressive, though,” Loki continued, as if he hadn't just casually demonstrated the impossible.

Bruce shook his head, trying to clear the fog of disbelief. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of pure, flustered embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I guess… I guess the Hulk was angry because I tried to… you know. That’s why he acted that way. He’s not the type to attack innocent people.”

Loki didn’t turn around, he just continued his work, his focus absolute. “Oh. So it’s like another personality. You call it ‘the Hulk’?”

Bruce hesitated for a beat, then gave a slow, reluctant nod.

“That’s interesting,” Loki said, his voice still cool, analytical. “I’ve encountered many people with ‘special abilities’ before, but this is the first time I’ve seen a transformation like yours. It’s certainly not something you were born with, is it?”

“What do you mean, ‘many people with special abilities’?”

Loki finally turned, holding two glasses filled with the strange, shimmering blue liquid. He walked to the table and sat down in the chair opposite Bruce, his movements fluid and graceful. He slid one of the glasses across the polished wood. “Mean what?” he asked, a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow arching in a silent question. “There’s a whole bunch of people with special gifts on Earth. You didn’t know?”

Bruce just stared at him, then gave a slow, bewildered shake of his head.

Loki’s eyebrow remained raised, his expression one of mild, academic curiosity. “Right here in America, there’s a community of beings known as Mutants,” he explained, his tone that of a patient lecturer explaining a basic concept. “They are, well, born with genetic variations. They possess different abilities. Some can create fire, or ice. Some can lift objects with their minds. Superpowers, in general. That sort of thing.”

“I… I never knew that,” Bruce whispered, the words feeling inadequate. He looked down at his hands, then back up at Loki’s calm, beautiful face. “My entire life has been focused on science, I… I’ve never had any exposure to… to supernatural elements.”

“That’s fair,” Loki conceded with a nod. He took a slow, deliberate sip from his glass. “Those mutants tend to live rather low-key lives, though.”

“So, you said there are many people like that?” Bruce pressed, his scientific mind, though reeling, desperately trying to categorize this flood of impossible new information.

“Of course,” Loki replied, setting his glass down with a soft click. His gaze drifted away, towards the window and the snow-dusted pines beyond. “There are all sorts of fantastic abilities on this planet. Mutants, sorcerers, witches, various other supernatural entities. I remember there’s a temple in Tibet that teaches some kind of magic, though I’m not entirely clear on the details.”

Bruce Banner drew in a long, slow breath, the kind of inhale that tries to pull in not just air but some semblance of order in a world that has suddenly, violently, lost all its bearings. It came out as a heavy, shuddering sigh, a gust of weary resignation that seemed to carry the weight of all the impossible things he had just learned. He looked from Loki’s placid face, down to the half-eaten bowl of soup, and then back again, his mind working furiously to file away the new, reality-shattering data.

“Okay,” he said, his voice quiet, repeating the information as much for his own benefit as for his host’s, a mantra to keep his sanity from completely fraying. “So, there are a lot of people with supernatural abilities on Earth, and somehow, the majority of people don't know about them. Okay.” Having summarized the new, insane state of the world to his satisfaction, he decided the cosmic revelations could wait. He picked up his spoon and returned to the simple, grounding act of eating his soup.

Loki tilted his head, his grey eyes regarding the scientist with the cool, appraising interest of an entomologist examining a particularly resilient beetle. “You take that rather well,” he observed, his voice a smooth, uninflected melody. “Some people who work with science would probably make a fuss, I imagine. Argue that magic isn’t real, that it defies all known laws of physics.”

A short, humorless laugh escaped Bruce as he looked up from his bowl, swallowing a mouthful of the rich broth before he spoke. “Well,” he said, a wry, self-deprecating smile touching his lips, “a few months ago I was a normal person, and now I can turn into a giant with maximum destructive power. What do I know?” He shrugged, a gesture that encompassed the entire, spectacular wreckage of his former life. “Basically, I can believe a lot of things now.”

Loki gave a single, slow nod, an acknowledgement of the brutal but undeniable logic in Bruce’s statement. He saw no reason to press the matter further; the data had been collected. He rose from the table with that same fluid, silent grace, picking up his glass of shimmering blue liquid. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen, back towards the quiet solitude of the living room, leaving Bruce to finish his meal in peace.

Bruce watched him go, his spoon hovering forgotten over the bowl. He watched the slender silhouette framed in the doorway, there was a strange, profound stillness about him, an aura of quiet so deep it was almost unnerving. And wrapped within that quiet, Bruce felt something else, something he recognized with the painful, intimate familiarity of a fellow outcast. It was a loneliness so vast and absolute it felt like a physical chill in the air, a silent, hollow echo that lingered long after he had gone.

*

“Is there… is there a way to ‘cure’ me?”

The question, hesitant and heavy, broke the crisp morning silence. Bruce Banner stood at the edge of the small, snow-dusted yard, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of a borrowed coat, his shoulders hunched not just against the cold but against the weight of the words themselves. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, his mind a chaotic battlefield where scientific rationalism warred with the stark, impossible reality of floating teapots and a host who seemed to have stepped out of a forgotten myth.

Loki didn’t turn around. He was standing beside a series of raised garden beds, where a collection of strange, otherworldly flora thrived in defiance of the Alaskan winter. Their petals were the color of twilight, their leaves veined with silver that caught the weak morning light. He held a simple metal watering can, its spout tracing a gentle arc as he tended to the alien blossoms. He merely shifted his gaze, a slight, lateral movement of his grey eyes, acknowledging Bruce’s presence before returning his full attention to the task at hand.

“I mean,” Bruce clarified, shuffling his feet in the snow, the sound a soft, crunching counterpoint to the quiet trickle of water. He felt a flush of awkwardness creep up his neck. “With what you can do. By magic, or superpower… that kind of thing.”

Loki’s movements were a study in serene concentration. He leaned down, his long, pale fingers gently touching the drooping head of one of the more delicate-looking flowers. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of blue-white light pulsed from his fingertips, and the flower, which had looked on the verge of wilting, straightened up, its twilight-colored petals unfurling with renewed vibrancy. “That, I wouldn’t know,” he said, his voice a smooth, melodic monotone that carried easily on the frigid air. “I’m not even entirely certain what your ‘condition’ is.”

Bruce watched the small, casual miracle with wide eyes. He thought for a moment, the sight of Loki’s disinterest warring with the desperate, clawing hope that this strange, powerful being might be his only chance. He took a breath, the cold air stinging his lungs, and made his choice.

“My condition,” he began, his voice gaining a measure of scientific steadiness, “you could say it was an experiment gone wrong.”

Loki continued to minister to his strange garden, but he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, a silent invitation for the man to continue.

“It was a government project. U.S. military, officially,” Bruce explained, his gaze drifting towards the distant, snow-capped peaks. “I thought I was part of a team working on radiation resistance. You know, research to cure cancer, helping people, something like that.” A bitter, self-mocking smile twisted his lips for a fleeting moment. “Turns out,” he said, the words sharp with old betrayal, “it was just a cover for an attempt to recreate the super serum.”

The hand holding the watering can stopped in mid-air. Loki went utterly still, a perfect, beautiful statue framed against the stark white of the snow.

“You know Captain America, right?” Bruce asked, the question rhetorical, weary. “The super-soldier? The first… hero… created by science?” He let out a long, heavy sigh that turned to a plume of white mist in the air. “Well, he disappeared decades ago, during the war. And the super serum that changed his life, the formula that made him… him… it was lost. Vanished completely. The government has been trying to get it back ever since.”

There was a sudden, sharp crack, a sound like a gunshot in the profound quiet. The watering can in Loki’s hand, a moment ago a solid object of dented metal, had shattered. It didn’t bend or break. It had transformed, flash-frozen into a brittle, crystalline sculpture of itself, which then exploded into a thousand glittering shards of ice that rained down onto the snow-covered ground.

“Woah!” Bruce yelped, stumbling back a step, his eyes wide with alarm. “What was that?”

The young man with the raven-black hair slowly turned to face him. His face was a placid mask, his grey eyes as cold and empty as a winter sky. “Nothing,” he said, his voice a flat, chilling monotone that held no trace of the violent, uncontrolled magic that had just occurred. “Please, go on.”

Bruce stared at the sparkling pile of ice shards at Loki’s feet, then back at the unnervingly calm face of his host. He shook his head, a small, bewildered gesture, but he continued his explanation, his voice a little shakier now. “So… I was part of one of those projects. We were trying to reverse-engineer it, without even really knowing what we were working with. I ended up… testing it on myself. Combined it with a gamma radiation experiment.” He gestured vaguely at his own chest, a gesture of helpless finality. “And it ended up… like this.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Loki said softly. He turned his back on Bruce, facing the alien flowers once more, and closed his eyes. He remembered. He remembered the faint, sickly green resonance he had felt when he’d first scanned Bruce’s sleeping form. A chaotic, corrupted echo of an energy he had encountered only once before, in a long-forgotten, blood-soaked history book. And then, another memory surfaced. A vision of a small, elegant vial filled with a shimmering, golden liquid, sitting untouched in the deepest, darkest corner of his pocket storage, a monument to a promise he couldn’t keep.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, a soft, almost inaudible sigh that was instantly devoured by the vast, cold silence. He opened his eyes.

A cold wind, sharper than the last, swept through the small yard, rattling the bare branches of a distant, skeletal tree. It was a mournful sound, a lonely sigh from the frozen world. The otherworldly flowers in Loki’s garden shivered, their twilight-hued petals curling inward against the sudden chill.

“Since it's not something you were born with,” he said, his voice a calm, melodic thing that seemed to cut through the wind’s low howl, “then I suppose it might be curable.” He turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting towards the distant, snow-shrouded mountains, his expression one of detached, academic contemplation. “Back then, there was some drama about people finding ways to suppress the abilities of mutants. So, yes,” he conceded, a faint, almost imperceptible shrug in his voice, “perhaps with the necessary tools and the support of advanced science, you could find your cure.”

He paused, then turned his head fully, his grey eyes, as cold and empty as a winter sky, fixing on Bruce. He tilted his head, a gesture of mild, analytical curiosity. “But it was some kind of other personality that exists inside you, with its own thoughts and emotions, right?”

Bruce stared back at him, the silent question hanging in the frigid air between them. After a long moment, he gave a slow, reluctant nod.

A perfect, placid smile formed on Loki’s lips. It was a beautiful expression, yet it held no warmth, no reassurance. It was simply a shape his mouth made. He turned his gaze away again, looking out towards the vast, empty expanse of the snow-covered wilderness. “Let's just say, there really is a cure,” he mused, his voice a soft, chilling murmur. “A spell, in the case of magic, or some kind of drug developed through research. What makes you think the thing inside you… the Hulk… would quietly allow you to use it to destroy him?”

Loki’s voice dropped, losing its melodic quality and becoming a flat, cutting monotone that was sharper than the wind. “You’ve experienced it, haven't you? Just a few days ago, you were on that mountain, ready to end your own life. Look how that turned out.” He didn’t need to raise his voice for the words to land like blows. “The Hulk clearly won't let you harm yourself. And he will also not let you harm his own existence.”

Bruce fell silent, a profound, heavy stillness settling over him. He stared down at the snow, at the glittering, frozen shards of the watering can, the memory of cold steel and bitter finality a phantom taste in his mouth. Loki was right. The Hulk was a survivor. It had a will of its own, a primal, undeniable drive to exist. After a long moment that seemed to stretch into an eternity, he lifted his head, a flicker of desperate logic in his eyes. “You were able to make me sleep for three days, weren't you?” he asked, his voice quiet but steady. “What if I could find the cure, and neutralize the Hulk the way you did?”

Loki turned to face him fully, his perfectly sculpted eyebrow arching in a silent, challenging question. “So that is your goal?”

Bruce looked away, a flush of awkwardness creeping up his neck. He shuffled his feet in the snow, unable to meet that cool, appraising gaze.

From the distant grey of the sky, a tiny speck of white appeared, growing larger with impossible speed. A small, impossibly white sparrow, so pure it seemed to have been carved from a fresh snowdrift, darted down from the clouds, its two tiny, crimson eyes gleaming like drops of blood against the snow. Loki extended a long, pale hand, and the bird landed on it without a moment’s hesitation, its tiny claws a feather-light touch against his skin. It chirped, a series of quick, melodic notes that sounded less like a bird’s call and more like a complex, whispered message. Then, with a final, sharp chirp, it launched itself back into the air and vanished into the swirling snow.

Loki watched it go, his gaze following the path it had taken into the white emptiness. Then, his eyes still fixed on the distant sky, he spoke again.

“Or,” he said, his voice a quiet, almost gentle murmur, “you could live with it. And learn how to control your power.” He finally lowered his gaze, his cold grey eyes meeting Bruce’s. “Let's just say, one day, you really are 'cured.' And you completely erase that giant living inside you.”

“Do you think those people in the government, in the military, will believe you?”

His words were soft, almost a whisper, yet they landed with an unimaginable weight, crushing the fragile hope that had just begun to stir in Bruce’s chest.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Loki’s lips. The wind whipped a few strands of his raven-black hair across his face, a stark, silken banner against the overwhelming white. “Probably not,” he continued, his voice still holding that same gentle, chilling finality. “You know that, don't you? You’re the closest attempt at success they've ever had. So, of course, even if you say you’re truly back to being a normal person, they will still find a way to dissect you, just to look for any trace that might be left.”

His smile was gone, replaced by a look of profound, ancient weariness. “That's humans, with power, in general.”

With that, Loki turned and, without another word, stepped back towards the house. Before he pushed the door open, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. “Think carefully, Dr. Banner,” he said, his voice a final, quiet echo in the cold air. “Maybe you'll realize this curse isn't the end of the world after all.”

He stepped inside, the door closing with a soft, final click, leaving Bruce standing alone in the snow, the words hanging in the air like a death sentence, the glittering shards of ice at his feet the only remnants of a hope that had just been shattered.

The next morning dawned with a quiet, fragile clarity, the world outside blanketed in a fresh layer of pristine snow that muffled all sound. Bruce Banner had not slept. He had spent the long, dark hours in a silent, internal debate, the impossible new realities of his world crashing against the stubborn shores of his scientific mind. When he finally emerged from the small guest room, his decision was a hard, settled thing in his chest. He found Loki already waiting in the living room, seated with an almost preternatural stillness on the simple sofa, a book resting open but unread in his lap.

“This is for you,” Loki said, his voice a calm, melodic murmur that barely disturbed the quiet. He gestured with a slight tilt of his head towards a sturdy canvas backpack resting neatly on the armchair opposite him. “Inside is some clothing and other necessary items, money, a few fake documents, and some food in case you get hungry.”

Bruce stopped in the doorway, his gaze shifting from the prepared backpack to the slender, dark-haired figure on the sofa. He looked entirely at ease, as if he had been sitting there for an eternity, a serene, beautiful statue in a room that felt too small and mundane to contain him. “Did you read my mind or something?” Bruce asked, the question laced with a weary sort of awe.

Loki slowly turned his head, his grey eyes, the color of a winter sky, drifting towards the window and the falling snow beyond. “People's minds are often quite predictable,” he stated, his tone flat, analytical. “I can guess that you’re the stubborn kind, and you have a goal you need to achieve.”

A long, heavy sigh escaped Bruce, a plume of white mist in the cool air of the living room. “Thank you, Louis,” he said, the words feeling inadequate. He walked over to the backpack, his hand resting on the rough canvas. “Thank you for the past few days. But yes,” he admitted, his own voice firm with resolve, “I won’t give up.”

“Then this is for you.” Loki extended a pale, open hand. Resting on his palm was a small, tightly-wrapped cloth pouch. “This is the thing I used to make you sleep.”

The scientist took the small bundle, his fingers brushing against Loki’s cool, smooth skin. He carefully unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a fine, silvery-white powder. It shimmered faintly in the morning light and gave off a soft, refreshing scent, a cool hint of mint that was barely there, woven with something else, something clean and otherworldly he couldn't identify.

“That is something I found by chance, not something I made,” Loki lied, his voice a perfect, placid monotone. “So, use it with caution.”

Bruce nodded, carefully re-wrapping the pouch and tucking it securely into his shirt pocket. He looked at Loki, a flicker of genuine gratitude in his tired eyes. “Thank you,” he said again, the words holding a deeper weight this time.

“Where do you intend to go?” Loki asked, his gaze still fixed on the hypnotic, silent dance of the snowflakes outside the window.

Bruce hesitated for only a second. “Probably somewhere in South America.”

“Fine,” Loki said, a note of finality in his voice. “I'll help you for a stretch.”

With that, the air in the center of the small living room began to shimmer. It distorted like a heat haze in reverse, then buckled, tearing open with a sound like tearing silk to reveal a perfect, shimmering circle of serene blue light. It pulsed gently, a stable, humming gateway that cast an ethereal azure glow on the simple wooden furniture. Bruce stumbled back a step, his breath catching in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked from the impossible, beautiful portal to the young man who was still sitting calmly on the sofa, as if a tear in the fabric of reality opening up in his living room was the most mundane thing in the world. A cold, profound suspicion washed over him. He had seen a floating teapot, he had witnessed a shattered watering can. But this… this was something else entirely. This was power on a cosmic scale. Who, or what, was Louis Frost?

Loki simply pointed a slender, elegant finger towards the swirling blue light. “This one leads straight to Rio.”

Bruce’s mind was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Fear warred with a desperate, pragmatic hope. Suspicion battled against the undeniable, if strange, kindness this being had shown him. In the end, after a long, silent moment that seemed to stretch into an eternity, he made his choice. He trusted him. He walked over, hoisted the backpack onto his shoulder, and turned to face Loki one last time. He offered a small, grateful nod. “Goodbye, Louis.” And with that, he turned and stepped decisively into the portal. The blue light enveloped him, and he was gone. The portal wavered for a second, then contracted, vanishing as silently as it had appeared, leaving the room exactly as it had been, the only evidence of its passage a faint, lingering scent of ozone and distant places.

Loki let out a soft sigh, the sound barely audible in the sudden quiet. He rose from the sofa in a single, fluid movement and walked to the front door, his footsteps making no sound on the wooden floor. He pulled it open.

Outside, the snow was falling lightly, a gentle, melancholy curtain of white. The world was quiet, peaceful.

Not even thirty seconds passed before the peace was shattered. The swish of clothing, the crunch of boots on snow, the metallic click of safeties being disengaged. The area around the small house was suddenly, silently, swarming with figures in black tactical gear, their faces obscured by helmets and goggles. A squad of special operatives, their movements swift and professional, had materialized from the surrounding woods, their weapons all trained, with unwavering precision, directly at Loki’s head.

They’re probably here for Bruce Banner, Loki thought, his expression a placid mask. A pity…

The intruders, this anonymous pack of mortal hunters, never even had the chance to shout a command, to fire a warning shot, to do anything at all.

Loki’s fingers twitched, a small, almost imperceptible movement at his side. A brilliant, cold white light flared for a single, blinding instant in the depths of his grey eyes.

In the profound, snow-muffled silence, a series of sharp, confused grunts and the scrape of boots on ice were the only sounds. The soldiers, to their own dawning, abject horror, found their bodies moving against their will. An invisible, irresistible force seized them, locking their muscles, turning them into puppets on unseen strings. They couldn't speak, couldn't lower their weapons, couldn't do anything but watch as their own hands, their own arms, began to move with a slow, terrifying deliberation. The barrels of their high-powered rifles, which had been aimed at the slender, unmoving figure in the doorway, now pivoted, turning with a smooth, mechanical precision until each man was staring down the muzzle of his own weapon, or the weapon of the man beside him. Their fingers, locked in place by that same unseen power, tightened on the triggers.

A series of sharp, deafening cracks ripped through the quiet winter air.

The snow continued to fall, a gentle, indifferent blanket of white that quickly began to cover the dark, still shapes that now littered the pristine ground. The world was silent once more. Then, from the pristine white canvas of the snow-covered ground, a bone-white head undulated upwards. Two eyes, the color of freshly spilled blood, blinked slowly, taking in the scene with a placid, almost bored, curiosity.

A soft hiss sliced through the frigid air, but in the silent, hollow chambers of Loki’s mind, the sound was not a hiss. It was a low, guttural chuckle, laced with pure, unadulterated amusement.

The small, white snake traced a sinuous, elegant path through the blood-spattered snow. It did not seem to feel the cold. It reached Loki’s boots, coiled itself around his calf, and ascended his leg and torso with the fluid grace of a living ribbon, finally wrapping itself loosely around his wrist. It lifted its small, triangular head, its crimson eyes gleaming as it looked up at him.

“I didn't know you were that cruel,” it hissed, the mental voice a dry, amused counterpoint.

“What?” Loki asked, his voice dripping with a perfect, unblemished innocence. But his face remained as cold and placid as eternal ice. “They pointed their guns at my head.”

“Not this, duh!” The snake’s mental laughter was a scratchy, delighted sound. “I mean that powder you gave that man, Bruce Banner, right? Wasn’t that one of your creations? Since when was it ‘found by chance’?”

Loki fell silent. He turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting to the steady, silent descent of the snowflakes, watching as they landed on the dark fabric of a fallen soldier’s sleeve and melted into nothing.

Yes, the thing was his creation. A fine, shimmering powder designed to induce a sleep so profound it bordered on non-existence. He had created it during a time, centuries ago in a cold time, when his own mind was not his own, and he had been desperate for a sleep… a very long sleep. The problem was, the thing was too strong. His initial tests, conducted out of a detached, academic curiosity on a particularly resilient species of interdimensional dragon, had been alarmingly successful. A single, minuscule dose had been enough to send the colossal beast into a coma that had lasted for a standard Midgardian decade. And the side effect… well, let's just say that with even a slight overdose, the profound sleep it brought could easily, almost accidentally, become eternal. Deathly.

Loki chuckled, a soft, breathy sound that was instantly devoured by the vast, cold silence.

He closed his eyes, a flicker of something that was not quite a smile touching his lips. “But it’s interesting, isn’t it?” he whispered.

The snake on his wrist let out another delighted, guttural chuckle, then uncoiled itself with a liquid grace. It slithered down his arm and dropped silently onto the snow, its bone-white form a stark, beautiful shape against the gathering dusk. It ignored the other bodies, making a direct, purposeful line towards the still form of the soldier nearest the doorway.

Loki turned, his back to the carnage, and stepped back into the quiet warmth of the house.