Chapter Text
The king probably wouldn't come tonight, either.
Glancing up at the clock on the wall, Loki quietly opened the cottage door, still in his light sleepwear.
The damp grass chilled the soles of his bare feet as he made his way toward the cliffside rocks. Lately, on sleepless nights, he had gotten into the habit of walking out here to gaze at the stars. He knew why it had become a habit—because standing here, with the wind on his skin, felt so much like standing on the balcony outside his bedchamber in Asgard.
The distance between the king’s residence and this cottage was about the same as the one that had separated his chambers from his brother’s. And the way he felt—half relieved, half lonely—when thinking, He’s not coming tonight, was strangely familiar.
Boundaries blurred, sometimes, even in Loki’s own mind. Moments when he’d suddenly lose track of where he really was. It was only natural that the king experienced the same flickers of unreality from time to time.
Maybe it wasn’t something to be overly concerned about. That’s what Loki told himself. After all, as the king had once said—when the centuries piled up, and they spent the next few hundred, maybe thousand years side by side—perhaps they’d forget they’d ever lived in different worlds. Perhaps they’d come to feel like true brothers, as if they’d been born that way—
Loki swept back a lock of hair that had fallen onto his forehead and looked up at the stars of Midgard. When he first arrived here, this time of night was still dusk. But now, it had become a deep and gleaming night, with stars glinting bright and clear.
—No. That was probably never going to happen.
He exhaled softly, acknowledging it. The peaceful days with the king would not last for centuries. Somewhere deep inside, Loki had stopped being able to deny that quiet premonition.
A presence approached behind him, slowly and deliberately. Still holding back his hair with one hand, Loki turned.
Valkyrie came to a halt just a few steps away, eyes lighting up.
“Oh, come on. I was gonna sneak up on you. Boring.”
She shrugged and closed the distance with long strides.
“There aren’t many who can sneak up on me,” Loki replied, turning his gaze back to the sky. “I was trained from childhood to be aware of threats from behind, even inside the palace, even with guards all around. My parents were relentless about it.”
“Huh. You were raised pretty differently from the Loki of this world, but… sometimes, you really are just so Loki.” Valkyrie said it like a personal revelation, and plopped down next to him without asking. “Can’t sleep?”
“Not really. I just like looking at the stars,” Loki lied, not wanting to admit he’d been waiting for the king. “What about you? What’re you doing out here this late?”
“Night shift.”
“Night shift?”
“Yeah.” She jerked her chin toward the barracks next to the king’s residence. “This isn’t the Asgardian palace or anything, so we don’t have to be that strict. But the king’s made plenty of enemies cleaning up villains across the globe. So we do take turns watching the place at night. It’s my week.”
Then she went quiet, gazing up at the stars beside him.
It wasn’t as dazzling as Asgard, but the moonlight shimmering on the ocean was still beautiful in its own way.
A thought struck Loki.
“Has the night sky looked any different since the multiverse opened? Like… do the stars shine brighter, or do they seem to blur, as if two constellations were layered and slightly misaligned?”
“The night sky?” Valkyrie scrunched her face and looked up. “Dunno. I don’t really stargaze, y’know? But it looks the same to me.”
Then, suddenly remembering something, she snapped her fingers. “Oh right, Strange said something like that. Normal people wouldn’t notice, but anyone with magic could tell. If you’re seeing something weird, it’s probably ’cause you’re a sorcerer too.”
She didn’t seem particularly interested as she rested her hands on her knees and stared at the horizon sinking into the night.
“I see,”
Loki nodded. No one around him in Asgard had noticed the stars changing, either. He remembered that first night he heard the thunder, standing on the balcony beside his brother and looking up at the sky. Thor had quickly grown bored and tugged his hand, saying Let’s go back to bed. Even when Loki whispered, The stars are too bright, Thor had ignored him, pulling him down into the sheets and pressing a kiss to his lips—
“So, how are things going with the king lately?”
Valkyrie’s blunt question yanked him back to the present.
“What do you mean, how?” He gave her a bewildered look.
She stared back, unfazed. “Well, when you first got here, the king kept whining, ‘He cried just from a kiss,’ and stuff like that. But now he seems way more at ease with you. So? How’s it going?”
“How do you even know all that…”
Loki sighed and covered his eyes with a hand. He wanted to snap mind your own business, but remembered that Valkyrie was the king’s only true friend these days—and held his tongue.
“Just so you know, I didn’t pry it out of him,” she said. “He just vents whether I like it or not.”
“Oh, he told me,” Loki muttered. “Said he spent every night drinking and dumping his woes on you. Said you were probably sick of it.”
“Yeah, those were rough days,” Valkyrie said solemnly, nodding. “But compared to then, Thor’s really brightened up lately. His face—he’s smiling again, like he used to… the last time was back on the ship, when his brother was still with him. The people are happy too. And so am I. I’m glad you came.”
Then, her expression turned serious.
“But… there’s something that’s been bothering me. Right before this latest mission, there were a few times when Thor talked like he was confusing you with his brother.”
Loki’s eyes widened. The chill that ran down his spine was unmistakable.
Valkyrie caught the reaction and nodded slowly. “You noticed too?”
“Yes. But only once. The rest of the conversation was normal. And anyway, the king’s done that before—on the day I first arrived here.”
“No, it was different,” she said. “Back then, he knew he was mixing things up. He just couldn’t accept it yet—but he was aware. Now it’s like… he starts talking about you, and without even realizing it, he’s suddenly talking about his brother instead. And when I point it out, he just gives me this look like, Of course I know that, and goes right back to your story, like he didn’t even notice. It’s… honestly kind of scary.”
“That’s… the same thing I noticed.” Loki admitted it quietly. That eerie, disquieting sense that made it hard to meet the king’s gaze—it hadn’t just been in his imagination.
“Gods, that man is such a mess,” Valkyrie groaned and tilted her head back to the stars again. “I mean, it’s not like I don’t understand. I get it. Wanting to bring back someone you’ve lost.”
“You do?” Loki looked at her, surprised. She turned to him, serious now.
“Of course I do. There’s someone I’d give anything to see again. And if this really is a multiverse—if there’s a world out there where she’s still alive—I get the temptation to go and steal her back.” Her wide eyes shimmered with starlight. “But it wouldn’t be the same. Even if she looked exactly like her, even with the same name—it wouldn’t be her.
There’s only one woman I loved.”
Loki watched her silently, struck by the tenderness in her expression—an expression that made it painfully clear how many times she must have told herself those words.
But it lasted only a moment. She swiped the corner of her eye with the back of her hand, then turned to Loki with a warrior’s calm.
“What Thor needs right now is someone to tell him the truth. Your brother is dead. He’s never coming back. Thor needs to accept that and move forward.”
“Someone. You mean me?” Loki said with a wry edge.
He didn’t need her to tell him. Of course he knew—the reason the king was blurring reality and memory was him.
He was the one who could say it clearly: I’m not your brother.
But if helping the king face the truth meant Loki had to disappear from this world…Wouldn’t that be the cleaner solution? Rather than standing by his side, repeating I’m not him, over and over…
As long as the king saw him—touched him—every day, his reality would remain unstable.
And if the king had already realized that—if the reason he’d stopped visiting Loki was because he’d begun to sense his own confusion— If that was the reason he’d gone to the brothel, and not just for practical advice— Well, the king’s demeanor had certainly shifted since before his trip to Asgard.
“I don’t know,” Valkyrie said, shaking her head. “I’ve been telling him the same thing for years, and it’s never worked. I really thought that once he found you, everything would finally be okay. But… I guess it’s not that simple…Ugh!” She groaned dramatically and leapt to her feet. “Anyway, just keep an eye on him for me, would you? If it starts getting any worse, tell me right away.”
She turned sharply and started walking back toward the barracks, waving a hand without looking back. “I think he’ll be back tomorrow, finally. You should get some sleep.”
He’ll be back tomorrow. Loki had thought the same thing. Yesterday. The day before.
The king was in New York now, attending the Multiverse Crisis Summit led by Strange. He’d been summoned the day after they last spoke at that tavern.
He’d said, I’ll be back in a day. But several days had passed since then.
Maybe something serious happened again… As the unease stirred in him again, Loki called softly after the warrior’s retreating back, “Good night.”
----------
The following night, Loki lay sprawled on his stomach across the bed, utterly absorbed in a spellbook.
When he’d first pulled it from the shelf in the library, it had seemed no different from the rest. But upon opening it, he’d found the margins densely filled with handwritten notes in a script he recognized instantly—his own. Or rather, the handwriting of this world’s other Loki—the king’s brother.
At first, the tidy and meticulous scrawl merely summarized the book’s rudimentary magical content, too basic for someone like Loki. But as he turned the pages, the notes gradually transformed into something far more personal, like a private journal.
What fascinated Loki most was that these diary-like entries were written in a cipher—one that only a true sorcerer would recognize. And as the pages neared the end, the code grew increasingly complex, based on a unique structure unlike anything Loki had ever seen in any spellbook.
And yet, he could decipher it.
It was almost identical to the cipher he himself had used in Asgard, when he wanted to leave notes only he could understand. If one read it like a standard magical code, the result appeared to be a meandering, poetic passage. But hidden within that lay another layer—an inner cipher. Without decoding both, the true meaning remained obscured.
“The sun... will shine...on us… again...” Loki read the lines aloud in a murmur. “I go to the moon... and to countless stars... but I will return... I’ll come back, I promise.”
The scrawled handwriting on the final page was especially difficult—disjointed, almost impossible to interpret. Maybe, in the end, it really was just poetry. If so, then it must have been written for someone beloved.
And yet...
Would he ever write a poem this simple, this direct?
“Shine again... I promise the sun will shine again... We..,will…meet again…?”
The cipher’s structure, though similar, wasn’t quite the same, so decoding it took time. But whenever he succeeded, the letters shimmered faintly—as if releasing the magic trapped within them—and each time, Loki’s heart leapt with a thrill.
It felt as though he were receiving a private message meant only for him from this other Loki. For the first time in a long while, he felt the exhilaration of a sorcerer solving a riddle. And for the first time ever, he felt truly close to this other self from a world he’d never known.
Loki was so completely absorbed that when someone knocked on the cottage door, he responded without thinking, a distracted “Yes.”
The door opened. He heard the king call his name— Loki? —followed by the soft click of the bedroom doorknob turning. Still, Loki remained engrossed in decoding the cipher.
The door creaked open, and the king stepped inside. He came to stand beside the bed where Loki lay, utterly focused on his book. Overhead, there was the subtle presence of a smile—gentle, amused.
“Just a moment, Thor.”
Loki said it before he could stop himself. Then he froze and looked up at the king.
The king was smiling, more radiantly than usual, and Loki felt only relief. He didn’t dwell on it any further. Loki absorbed in a spellbook, his brother entering the room, the murmured just a moment, Thor without so much as a glance—how many times had they played out that scene in Asgard?
He didn’t realize he wasn’t the only one who had stumbled into that memory.
And he didn’t realize that he was the only one who managed to return so quickly to the present.
The king picked up the book that had been lying open on the pillow, lifting it delicately between two fingers, his gaze never leaving Loki. He placed it down at the edge of the bed.
“Wait,” Loki said, starting to sit up—and the book slipped from the bed, landing on the wooden floor with a heavy thud. He heard the sound even as the king gently pressed him back onto the pillow.
It wasn’t the first time they had kissed like this, deeply, in bed. Back at the brothel, Loki had told himself he would accept it the next time the king reached for him. He hadn’t forgotten what had happened afterward, nor what Valkyrie had said—but tonight, the king’s expression was calm, his gestures unhurried, and nothing seemed unusual.
So when the king whispered, “Take off your robe. I want to really see you,” Loki obeyed, letting the fabric slip from his shoulders and fall to the floor. And when the king began undressing too, piece by piece, Loki felt no sense of alarm.
By the time he realized something was off, it was already too late to turn back.
The king guided Loki onto his stomach and began trailing kisses down the line of his spine, starting at the nape of his neck. The heat of lips and tongue moved lower with agonizing slowness, and the quiet room filled with the soft, wet sounds they left behind. When the king finally reached the small of his back, Loki clutched at the pillow and let out a cry. That place was unusually sensitive—when the king’s tongue brushed lightly over it, the sensation shot through him, leaving his toes curled with tension.
“Loki…” the king murmured, voice hoarse and low. “Every time I’ve held your waist over your clothes, I’ve wanted—so badly—to touch you here, to see your bare skin with my own eyes.”
It was those words that planted the first seed of unease.
What exactly was the king remembering, in saying how much he had longed to touch this place? Was it truly him the king was recalling—Loki—or was it his brother…?
Loki lifted his head, starting to glance back at the king—when something on the bedside table caught his eye.
A small parcel, wrapped in thin paper.
The same parcel handed to the king by that dark-haired man at the brothel—the one who had looked so much like Loki.
Loki sat up and reached for the paper-wrapped bundle.
“Your Majesty.”
He called out deliberately, clearly, meeting the king’s eyes over his shoulder.
It was true—the king often placed his hand on Loki’s waist as they walked together, his fingers brushing the small hollow at the base of his spine, even through layers of clothing. But Loki also remembered the very first night they met—at that formal dinner in Asgard—when the king had rested his hand on his waist with effortless familiarity, as though he had done so a thousand times before. As though it were muscle memory born of centuries.
The king accepted the parcel from Loki’s hands, carefully tearing away the wrapping and revealing its contents. A small glass vial caught the light—inside shimmered an amber-hued oil, and the delicate goldwork adorning the bottle gleamed with intricate craftsmanship.
“Perfumed oil,” the king said softly. “We’ve finally managed to replicate some of the Asgardian blends here. They’re not perfect, but... we’re getting close.”
He leaned closer, pressing lightly against Loki’s back, and held the bottle up to the bedside lamp so that the delicate filigree shimmered in the warm light.
“You must miss the scent of Asgardian oils, don’t you? That’s what I thought. So I asked the perfumers at the brothel to help recreate it for you.”
“To remind me of my brother in Asgard,” Loki said quietly, “and make me nostalgic?”
There was no sharpness in his tone. Only a question, offered gently—meant to reach the king without piercing him.
The king’s expression faltered, shadowed by sudden realization. “You don’t like it?”
Loki’s shoulders relaxed. The hesitation, the question—it was all he needed to breathe again.
“No,” he said, shaking his head with a small smile. He took the vial in his hands and pulled free the slender golden stopper, lifting it to his nose. “It doesn’t smell quite the same as the oils I remember from my Asgard… but it’s a beautiful scent nonetheless. Thank you, Your Majesty.”
My Asgard. Your Majesty. Loki spoke each word with quiet emphasis.
But the king’s expression did not change. He looked at Loki with the same gentle smile he had worn when he entered the room—as if nothing had shifted, as if nothing needed to be said.
Loki could only pray that his fears had been for nothing.
The king moved without hesitation, every motion fluid, assured. So much so that Loki began to doubt his earlier words—about having little experience with men, about needing advice from a brothel. He was so practiced, so precise in the way he touched and opened Loki’s body, it felt impossible to believe this wasn’t something he’d done countless times before.
And yet, even amid the tension that never quite left him, Loki felt safe. Utterly safe in the knowledge that this king would never hurt him.
More than anything, he was simply used to being held by this body. The long fingers that moved with surprising delicacy despite their strength, the way two, then three of them pressed into him, carefully, expertly—none of it felt like a first. There was no pain. Only a strange and aching familiarity.
He could tell, from the soft touch at his shoulder, that he was being urged to turn over. And when he shifted onto his back, his legs parted almost unconsciously. Without thinking, he reached beneath his thighs to lift his hips slightly—offering himself.
The king’s gaze flicked downward, catching the practiced motion—and then something shifted.
With a sudden intensity, the king grabbed Loki’s wrists and pinned them together above his head. He held them easily with one hand, while the other slipped beneath Loki’s leg, lifting it.
Pinned beneath the king’s broad frame, Loki was utterly immobile. His body lay open, legs slick with oil, every part of him ready—too ready.
“Your Majesty…”
The unease returned. Loki whispered the words, only to have them swallowed by the king’s mouth pressing against his.
“Don’t call me that.”
The king pulled back just enough to speak, his voice low and thick with desire that could no longer be restrained. “Say my name, Loki.”
His grip on Loki’s wrists tightened, and Loki gasped.
“…Thor.”
The king nodded, lips curving faintly. But he didn’t loosen his hold.
“What happened to Brother ?” he asked softly. “Why won’t you call me that?”
Loki’s heart slammed against his ribs. His mouth opened—but no sound came out. He froze.
The king stared down at him, eyes sharp and unrelenting. His grip grew tighter, little by little. It didn’t hurt—yet. Loki could still break free, if he wanted to.
“I… I’m not your brother.”
“Loki!”
The king’s voice snapped across the room, sharp in a way Loki had never heard before.
“Call me Brother !”
He shook him—forcefully—wrists and leg still held fast.
“B-Broth—”
The word stuttered from Loki’s lips before he jerked his head and cried out, “Your Majesty! I’m not your brother!”
The king inhaled sharply. For a split second, his hands loosened, and Loki twisted hard, wrenching himself free.
“You said you wouldn’t make me a substitute! You said you’d cherish me—as a prince from another land, not as him !”
Loki’s voice rang through the room, fierce and raw. And in that moment, the king’s eyes cleared—like a man waking from a dream.
“Loki, Loki… I know. I know. Don’t be afraid.”
He reached out again, more gently now, holding Loki with steadier hands. He let go of Loki’s leg and brought his palm to his cheek, tilting his face upward.
His voice had lost its edge. “Listen to me. Listen closely. The one I love now—is you . Do you understand? It’s not my brother I want. It’s you . And I want you to call me Brother.”
He took Loki’s hands once more—not to bind, but to lace their fingers together and slide them softly across the sheets. Then he lowered his face to Loki’s neck, burying himself in the crook between shoulder and throat.
His voice was a whisper, ragged and tender against Loki’s ear.
“Loki. I love you. Loki—”
And in the span of just a few seconds, too much happened all at once.
As if the king’s words had lifted an ancient curse, a flood of forgotten memories came rushing back to Loki, encircling him with a force that stole his breath.
“Listen closely, Loki. The one I love is you.”
“I want you, Loki.”
“You’re special. It has to be you, Loki—no one else.”
“Loki, I love you. Loki… Loki…”
Smiling through pain, eyes brimming with longing, voice trembling with desire—countless versions of Thor appeared in his mind, each one professing his love in a different way, each one disappearing the moment they surfaced, like stars winking out at dawn.
Had he truly forgotten these memories? Or were they nothing but desperate dreams, conjured by a heart too hungry to hope?
In one vision it was Thor as a boy, in another a prince on the cusp of kingship—but always the same eyes, the same voice, calling Loki’s name and confessing love with unshakable certainty.
“You might hear rumors I’m seeing someone. But it’s nothing—Mother insisted I escort her. The only one I care about is you, Loki. Will you believe me?”
“Can you imagine the chaos if I told them I won’t marry because I’m in love with my brother? If they find out, they’ll tear us apart. But when I’m king, when we’re adults, it’ll be okay.”
“Don’t be mad, Loki. We were just talking in the courtyard. No matter how beautiful the girl is, it’s still you I love.”
“I want you, Loki.”
“You’re the one I love.”
The memories kept coming, vivid and relentless, and Loki almost bolted upright, glancing around as if he might find Thor there beside him.
What was happening? Could he truly have forgotten all of these words, all those faces?
He remembered the jealousy—how it burned. Thor had embraced girls right in front of him, disappearing with them behind closed doors. Loki no longer remembered exactly what happened beyond those doors… but he did remember the pain. The ache that never dulled. And yet, every time Thor turned back to him with that dazzling smile and whispered “It’s you I love. Believe me,” Loki had always, always forgiven him.
And over time, he began to hate himself for it.
He should have refused to believe. He should have stopped forgiving. He should have erased those sweet, deceitful words from his memory.
He had told himself so—over and over again. Cast the spell, made the vow.
Yes… that had been the spell.
The realization struck him like lightning.
That was his charm, his incantation—forget Thor’s clever lies, forget the tenderness in his eyes, forget the version of himself that had been willing to forgive. Forget, forget, forget… until only rage and hatred remained. Until nothing could be felt, not even in Thor's arms.
But now, a thousand echoes of “Loki, I love you” thundered through him like a storm. Like game pieces flipping on a board, all the times Thor had said “You're the one, Loki” —the words he’d once turned to ash—were changing, one by one, back to light.
He had wanted—just once—to be loved, unconditionally, by someone. By anyone.
Maybe… he already had been.
And for the very first time, with trembling fingers, Loki dared to reach toward that fragile, terrifying possibility.
So when the king finally entered him, what Loki felt was not pain, nor fear— but an overwhelming sense of joy.
A deep, aching happiness, the kind that could only come from being held in love. Perhaps he had known this once—known it, then forgotten it, then forgotten that he had forgotten.
His heart had been severed and left far behind, and only his body had remembered what it was like to be loved.
But now, his heart had caught up. Loki clung tightly to the king’s hand, lacing their fingers together, his voice spilling out in broken cries. The king moved slowly, carefully, sinking deeper, deeper— until there was nowhere left to go, until they were joined as deeply as two people could be.
And then everything stilled.
For a moment, it felt like being filled with light. But like the tide retreating from a full shore, the joy began to slip away. And in its place came a hollow certainty: that this was all terribly, terribly wrong.
He wasn’t where he was supposed to be. The king wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Their bodies might be joined, but their hearts were as far apart as galaxies.
“Loki…”
His name, spoken with aching tenderness, pulled him back. Loki opened his eyes. The king was looking down at him—and moving again, as if he had been waiting for this moment.
And it was then that Loki understood, with awful clarity, that they had crossed a line they could never come back from.
The king’s face still held that same soft, dreamy smile he’d worn when he first stepped into the room.
Loki had seen that expression once before. In that golden-columned tomb, as the king stood alone, watching the hologram of his brother, again and again and again. The same smile. The same eyes—so full of love, and yet so far away.
After everything had ended, Loki lay in bed, his gaze unfocused, fixed on the floor across the room. The king's arm was wrapped tightly around him from behind, holding him close.
One hand slid slowly down to rest against his lower belly, fingers spreading ever so slightly, pressing there with intent. It was a gesture Loki knew well—Thor had done the same, often, after they had been together. As if to assure himself that he had truly left a part of himself deep within. Of all Thor’s touches, this one had always struck Loki as the most possessive.
Outside, the wind howled, rattling the window frames. Tonight, it was fiercer than usual. The sea, too, roared deeper, louder.
Even so, though Loki had been lying there listening to the storm for what felt like a long while, his breath and heartbeat had not yet calmed. He felt shattered—so completely defeated by the weight of one thought: I betrayed him.
When it had been Midgardian men, he had barely felt a scratch of guilt. But now, the remorse cut through him like a blade, and he didn’t understand why.
Thor was surely—perhaps even at this very moment—lying with his newlywed bride. There was no reason Loki should feel as though he’d betrayed anyone.
And yet…
At the foot of the bed, a magic tome lay where it had fallen. The page Loki had last read still shimmered faintly with power, the whole book pulsing with a soft, insistent light.
He may not have betrayed his Thor, but he had betrayed this world’s Loki—the king’s younger brother. That much was undeniable.
And now the book seemed to accuse him, its gentle glow like a gaze too sharp to endure.
Loki shut his eyes against it.
“Loki.”
The king stirred behind him, pressing a kiss to the nape of Loki’s neck.
“Won’t you grow your hair out again? Not with magic, like last time. Your real hair.”
He remembered. He remembered when Loki had used magic to lengthen his hair, to look more like the brother the king had lost. Back then, his voice had been sharp— “Don’t pretend to be him.” But now…
“To your shoulders,” the king murmured, brushing his fingers lazily from Loki’s nape to the curve of his shoulder. “Yes… about here.”
And when he pulled Loki into his arms again, he was already slipping away—retreating beyond the reach of the present, into a place where the past and desire blurred into one.
“Why did you cut it short?” His voice was almost wistful. “Grow it again, like before…”
“Your Majesty.”
Loki turned, twisting his body to face him.
The king’s expression darkened at once.
“I told you not to call me that, Loki.”
“No, Your Majesty,” Loki replied, his voice calm but deliberate. “I have never once worn my hair past my shoulders. Because my brother, Thor of Asgard , liked to see the nape of my neck.”
He enunciated every word, each syllable sharp and clear.
“Stop it, Loki.”
“So I kept it this length. Always. If Your Majesty prefers it longer, I’ll grow it out. But even then, no matter how long it gets, I will never be—”
“Loki!”
He’s going to grab my wrist again, Loki thought. But then, just as the king reached out, he stopped—his hand frozen midair, as if something had startled him.
“…Did I… leave that mark?”
His eyes were fixed on Loki’s wrist.
Loki slowly brought both hands up to look. Clear, red impressions—hand-shaped—stood out starkly against his pale skin.
The king reached out again, hesitantly this time, and with trembling fingers, touched the bruise as if it were made of glass.
“I didn’t mean to grab you that hard… Are you alright? Did it hurt? I’m sorry, Loki… I’m so sorry…”
The king looked completely shaken. He was no longer the dream-dazed man from earlier. Now, he looked at Loki not as a ghost of his brother, but as a prince from another world.
“My body bruises easily,” Loki said softly. “It was made that way—by Odin. When I was changed to survive in Asgard.”
“Made that way? What do you mean?”
The king frowned, but his fingers remained gentle as they continued to brush over Loki’s wrist.
Loki didn’t want that gentleness to disappear. He began to speak—quickly, steadily—grasping at every memory he could recall.
“My brother once told me… he asked Odin to make my skin like this. White. Soft. So delicate it would bruise at the slightest touch. He said it suited me. He said… he wanted it that way.”
“Loki… when we visited Asgard together, your mother told you, didn’t she? Your body was changed so you could survive in that realm. It wasn’t because your brother made a request. There were other, more important reasons. Surely, you remember that?”
His voice was calm again. His expression steady. So different from the man who’d mistaken Loki for someone else only minutes ago.
As long as Loki kept speaking of his Asgard—his Thor—perhaps the king would stay like this.
“But… my brother did tie me up, sometimes. Not harshly. It never really hurt. But the marks would always be clear, and he… he would touch them. Look at them. As if he liked seeing them.”
“What…?” The king’s face darkened.
“So what he said in Asgard was true. That he’d shaped this body. Odin made me this way because he wanted it. And he treated me like… a toy, a thing to play with. He—”
Loki stopped. The words caught in his throat. He wasn’t lying. He wasn’t making anything up. Thor had tied him. Had bound his wrists and made love to him like that. And afterward, while stroking the marks, he had said, “I asked Father to do it—to make your skin this way. So it would bruise even from silk.” And he’d sounded proud of it.
For years, that had been one of the reasons Loki clung to—one of the justifications for believing he was never truly loved. But now… he couldn’t help wondering. Why had Thor done it? Why had he wanted those bruises?
“There must have been a reason,” the king murmured. “I can’t believe Odin—your Odin—would do something so cruel without cause. Nor your brother. He must’ve had some reason, too.”
No , Loki thought. I was just a thing to them. A tool. A toy.
That’s what he would have said before. But this time, he didn’t. Instead, he simply nodded.
His feelings were a mess—sadness, yes, but not only that. There may have been reasons for what Thor had done. Maybe even good ones. But that didn’t erase the unfairness of it, the fact that Loki had been bound, without doing anything wrong, without even understanding why.
And yet, no matter how long he lay here thinking it through, he knew he would never find the truth on his own. Not from this far away, not in a world without his brother.
There were too many pieces missing. Too many holes in the memories. Something essential—something crucial —was still lost in the dark.
What Loki wanted now… was to face Thor. To speak with him. Look him in the eye.
He didn’t even know if he wanted to see Thor. He didn’t know if it was the ache of missing him that made him feel this way, or hatred. He didn’t know if he loved him, or feared him.
But still—he wanted to see him. Right now. He wanted to talk to him. There were so many things he needed to ask. So many things he wanted to shout. And maybe—just maybe—a few things he might want to apologize for. Just a little.
The king pulled him closer again, and Loki let himself sink into the warmth of that body. For a moment, it felt like all the nights before— quiet, steady, full of murmured stories that carried them both into sleep.
“Your Majesty,” Loki said quietly, as if offering up a prayer into the stillness. “I’d like to return to Asgard. Just once. To speak with my brother.”
“Yes,” the king replied, his voice as calm as ever.
Stepping carefully across thin ice, Loki went on.
“This time… I’ll go alone.”
“Alone?” The king’s expression clouded, just slightly. “I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that.”
“I’ll come back. I promise. It’ll only be for a day—just to talk to him.”
Silence.
Outside, the wind howled louder than before, and the light beside the bed flickered faintly.
In that dim glow, the king’s face seemed to soften.
And Loki—just as he began to feel a fragile flicker of hope—was struck down by the words that followed.
“I don’t know, Loki. You’ve lied to me so many times. You always sneak off the moment I look away. You fake your death more often than I can count…”
No. I’ve never lied to you. I’ve never once pretended to die.
But Loki didn’t even have the strength to argue anymore. He simply closed his eyes, still wrapped in the king’s arms.
“Let me think about it,” the king said after a while. “If possible, I’ll arrange my schedule so I can go with you.”
When Loki opened his eyes again, the king looked sober—clear-headed and composed, as if waking from a dream.
And Loki could see it clearly now—how the king’s sense of reality was wavering, dangerously, right before his eyes.
Even after the king had whispered “Good night” and pulled him into a familiar embrace, there had been no peace waiting for Loki in the dark.
He drifted in and out of sleep, stirring each time the silence shifted. In that shallow realm between waking and dreams, visions flickered and broke apart before he could hold onto them.
“Loki! The sun’s up—come on, it’s time to go!”
Young Thor stood on the balcony, waving excitedly. With a brilliant smile, he thrust Mjolnir toward the sky, already poised to soar.
Joy rose in Loki’s chest and he rushed to join him. But just as he reached to wrap his arms around his brother’s waist, a sharp dread seized him.
“No, brother… I can’t. If I do something wrong, they’ll execute me.”
“It’s fine! I’m here—so it’s going to be fine! Come on, let’s go!”
Thor held out his hand. But before Loki could decide, he was already lifting into the sky on his own.
“Wait, brother—”
Thor laughed, radiant and carefree, as if he hadn’t noticed Loki wasn’t with him.
Come on, Loki, come with me—
His hand was still reaching out, but it was so high now, too far. No matter how much Loki strained upward, he could never reach it.
Why couldn’t Thor see?
“Wait! Brother, please—come back!”
Loki cried out, again and again. Tears blurred his vision, but Thor only drifted farther, still smiling gently, still calling—but growing smaller and smaller. So far now, too far. Far enough that they might never meet again.
When Loki awoke, he was crying for real. His vision was warped by tears, and through it he saw the dark sky beyond the window. At some point, the king’s arms had slipped away, and from a little distance, Loki could hear the quiet rhythm of his breathing—steady, and unaware.
Sleep wouldn’t return. His consciousness kept drifting off only to snap back, unease pulling him awake again and again.
And in the midst of that cycle, the last dream came—one he watched half-awake, fully aware that it was a dream.
Somewhere in the distance, a steady drip of water echoed—plip, plip, plip. Then came the soft crackle of fire. Wrapped in a warm pelt, Thor and Loki lay tangled together, limbs entwined in sleep.
He could feel the warmth of a body holding him close, and yet, even so, Loki knew: this was a dream. It was a memory—of that cave deep in the snow-covered mountains, where they’d once spent several days alone together. But in reality, Loki was far away, on Midgard in this other universe. It wasn’t his brother beside him now, but a different Thor, one who belonged to this world. So this couldn’t be real.
Even so, Loki clung to the vision, staring desperately at the dream before him. The flickering shadows on the cave walls. The gold of Thor’s hair and skin. That smooth, youthful cheek—still untouched by a beard—the perfect line of his jaw. The rhythm of his breathing… surely that rhythm, Loki thought with a pang, was only echoing from the real world. The king’s breath, slipping through into the dream.
In the dream, Thor opened his eyes. A matched pair of brilliant blue gazed at him, and Loki wanted to weep all over again. Thor smiled. Loki, don’t make that face. Is going back to the palace tomorrow really so dreadful?
“Yes, brother. I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here, with you, always.”
Had he said that only in the dream? Or had he truly spoken those words, once, long ago? Loki could no longer tell.
“Loki… just wait a little longer. Once I become king, I swear—”
The sound of dripping water grew louder, faster. Thor’s voice was fading.
“Will you wait for me? Will you believe in me?”
“Don’t go anywhere. Stay with me. Always.”
A cold wind rushed in from the mouth of the cave. The fire roared in protest, their shadows thrown wildly against the walls. Loki sat up, trying to find the place on the rock where their names had been carved. But the warmth behind him was slipping away.
He turned—Thor was gone. He looked around in panic, but the dark swallowed everything.
“Brother!”
Loki cried out. Even knowing it was a dream, he reached out, searching for Thor with both hands.
“I believe you—I believe in you, so please, come back to me…”
But it was already too late. Thor’s presence was gone. Vanished from this universe entirely.
I’ve lost him forever.
The wind that blew in now carried rain—icy droplets whipped into a deafening storm.
“Brother,” Loki called again and again, waking with the word still rasping from his throat. His voice was hoarse. He realized then: he had been calling out loud, in the real world.
And rain was pouring into the room. Wind howled around him. For a moment, Loki wondered if he was still dreaming.
He sat up. The king was no longer beside him. The window stood wide open, banging against the wall in the wind. The curtains twisted like they would tear away at any moment, and the cold rain was spraying all the way to the bed.
Loki leapt out of bed and threw open the door to the adjoining living room. There, too, the storm had broken in—windows and doors flung wide as if struck, the wind and rain rampaging through the space.
The first thunderclap shook the room just then. Every light went out. For a brief second, the entire room was lit by a blinding white flash.
And in the center of it stood the king.
His long, dark-blond hair whipped in the storm. Lightning crackled along his bare torso. And with eyes glowing white, he stared straight at Loki.
Loki forced his frozen limbs to move. He took a single step forward, knowing he couldn’t run.
“Your Majesty,” he called, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the storm.
The lightning slowly began to fade from the king’s body. Color returned to his eyes—amber and blue—and his shoulders rose and fell with labored breath.
“Loki…”
The king stepped forward, and Loki braced himself, struggling not to back away.
When the king reached him, he placed both hands heavily on Loki’s shoulders.
“Listen to me. While I’m still myself—please, listen.”
His breathing was ragged. Loki could feel the king holding himself back, gathering every last shred of control. Sparks still flickered and vanished across his skin.
“Strange has found a way to permanently seal the multiverse.”
Loki’s eyes widened. “That means… my world too…?”
“Yes. If it’s closed, the separation will be final. But I begged them—yesterday, at the summit in New York. I swore that as long as I live, I’ll protect Earth from every threat the multiverse could bring. I asked them—just this once—not to cut your world off. My appeal… was accepted. Temporarily.”
The king exhaled sharply, eyes shutting.
“But I’ve come to believe I should send you back to Asgard. You don’t belong here, Loki. You shouldn’t be at my side. If I don’t let you go now… I don’t know what I might do to you.”
“Your Majesty—”
Loki called out again, but the king’s eyes had already begun to glow white once more.
“I’ll be honest with you,” the king said, his voice low. “I understand your brother now. You look so calm and obedient, and yet… I can’t shake the fear that you’ll disappear the moment I turn away. It claws at me—this desperate urge to keep you, to bind you, to lock you away so you can never leave. I try to fight it, but the fear… it just keeps coming back. I want to make sure you’re mine. Only mine. Forever.”
At the word bind , Loki flinched. A metallic clink sounded near his shoulder. Somehow, the king was now holding a silver cuff, etched with glowing runes.
The sight of it—its color, its magic—ripped open a memory nearly a thousand years old. The manacles placed on his small wrist during the war in Jotunheim… The same king had once told him only Asgard’s ruler could release that kind of restraint.
“Your Majesty!” Loki cried out. He didn’t know how else to pull the king back to reality.
Startled by the sound of his name, the king looked down at the silver ring in his hand. Slowly, the fog began to lift from his eyes. But the focus didn’t hold—his gaze wavered, his fingers still sparking.
He shook his head, whispering to himself like a man trying to stay awake.
“I’ll send you back and seal the multiverse. Cut the worlds apart, and then…” His voice faltered. “You and I—we’ll never—never—”
The second thunderclap tore through the sky, loud enough to steal every other sound. For an instant, the lightning lit up the king’s wet cheek.
“This is right,” he gasped. “I know it’s right. I have to do it. For you… I…”
The third bolt hit so close it felt like it struck the roof above them. The cottage floor trembled, and Loki stumbled back, unsteady on his feet. The whole house might be blown away at any moment.
The king reached out to catch him. Loki, on instinct, pulled away.
“Why, Loki?”
Another thunderclap—then another. They came so fast now he couldn’t count them anymore. Loki turned toward the window, breath caught in his throat. Each flash of lightning lit the sea below in blinding white. Beyond the downpour, the city’s lights still shimmered in the distance, but this kind of storm… Midgard wouldn’t survive it for long.
“Why…?” the king whispered. “I searched every corner of the universe for you.”
He reached for Loki again, and this time, his eyes were starting to glow once more, the color draining away.
“No—Your Majesty. The one you were searching for was not…”
Loki’s words were swallowed by a deafening clap of thunder, loud as a roar.
“I found you. I brought you all this way, with so much effort—and still you won’t be mine. Why do you keep calling the other Thor your brother!? Why him and not me!?”
Loki spun and bolted for the door. But he didn’t make it more than a few steps before the king grabbed his arm and yanked him back.
“Don’t go, Loki. Please don’t.”
Electricity surged up from the king’s grip, and Loki cried out. The sparks danced directly across his skin, through the thin robe he wore. But the king pulled him close anyway, not letting go.
“You were planning to go back alone, weren’t you? You said it earlier. That you wanted to return alone and speak to your brother. You were going to disappear again, weren’t you? I won’t let you. I won’t .”
His voice had dropped, darker now. Thunder rolled and rolled, no longer in single bursts, but in a constant, deafening roar that engulfed the world.
Loki held his breath, waiting for the perfect moment. He’d been restrained by his brother Thor more times than he could count, so he could read the king's movements, at least to some extent. But the king, in turn, had once known how his brother tried to flee—and Loki’s instincts wouldn’t stray far.
Biting back the pain in his arm, Loki forced a gentle smile onto his lips.
“Your Majesty. I swear I’ll come back to you. I’ll return, and I’ll stay by your side. I’m not your brother. I won’t lie to you. I promise.”
He stepped forward on his own and wrapped his arms around the king.
“Is that the truth, Loki?”
The king’s voice had steadied again. The searing pain in Loki’s arm subsided, and with a breath of relief, he nodded.
The next moment, the king crushed him in an embrace with all his strength.
Lightning shot through Loki’s body. He screamed in agony—this was nothing like being struck by Thor’s thunder. It was far worse, a pain so savage it shattered his breath. Through the haze of slipping consciousness, he heard it again—the delicate chime of a silver ring brushing against a chain.
If those shackles locked around him, he would never get away.
Desperately, Loki gathered what fragments of awareness remained and focused all he had on summoning his magic.
He had only seconds. When the world snapped back into focus, his body was gone from the king’s arms—replaced by an illusion that looked exactly like him.
From the next room, Loki watched in silence, every trace of his presence erased.
The king lifted the limp body and carried it to the couch with utmost care.
“Loki… Loki…” he whispered, his voice low and unsteady.
He knelt beside the illusion and, with trembling hands, touched its cheek—whispering the name again, soft and reverent. The false Loki lay still, eyes closed, lips slightly parted.
Then, after a lingering kiss to those unmoving lips, the king gently raised one wrist—and without a sound, fastened the shackles around it.
Loki backed quietly into the depths of the bedroom.
Thunder cracked overhead, and every window and door in the cottage slammed against the walls under the force of the wind. Using the storm as cover—the downpour, the howling wind, the rolling thunder—he slipped into the closet. His hand closed around the formal Asgardian attire he’d worn on the day he first arrived in this kingdom. He reached out and touched the surface of the full-length mirror. From here, he could teleport beyond the cottage. In the same breath, he summoned his magic, the garments wrapping around him in an instant.
Then he leapt—into the rain.
Water drenched him as if a bucket had been upturned over his head. The rain lashed his skin like needles, but he didn’t stop. He sprinted across the wet grass, feet pounding the earth.
I should let you go, the king had said—only to roar, in the next breath, that he would never allow it. There was no reasoning with him now. But the first part had been true: Loki couldn’t stay here.
And if he were ever going to speak with his brother in Asgard—this might be his last chance. The king wouldn’t seal the multiverse until Loki returned.
But first, he had to get away. Now.
Before he reached the barracks, Loki spotted Valkyrie charging into the storm, scanning the town.
“Valkyrie!”
He called out, breathless, sprinting toward her. “You can wield the king’s Stormbreaker, can’t you? Could you open the Bifrost and send me to Asgard? I have to go—right now. I swear I’ll come back, so please, don’t tell His Majesty—”
“I get it. No need to explain.”
Her eyes darkened with instant understanding, and she turned on her heel, breaking into a run. “Stormbreaker’s in the armory. Where’s Thor?”
“I left an illusion in the cottage. I don’t know how long it’ll hold before he realizes something’s wrong.”
Loki could only conjure illusions that lay still, eyes closed as if in sleep. If it stayed silent too long, the king would grow suspicious.
With a sharp shove, Valkyrie pushed open the heavy door to the armory. Stormbreaker gleamed on the wall, as if calling out to the lightning in the sky. She grabbed it with one hand, effortlessly, and bolted back outside, heading for the cliffs.
“This whole plan was a mistake from the start—dragging someone across worlds, from another timeline.”
She stood before the cliff’s edge, glaring at the raging sea. Gripping the wooden handle of the axe, she spoke without looking at Loki.
“You shouldn’t come back.”
“But I promised him I would.”
“It’s not you Thor’s waiting for. You know that.”
A deafening crack tore through the earth, and the sea lit up. In that blinding light, Valkyrie turned and gave him a smile.
“Take care, Loki. And in your world—don’t die. You know what I mean.”
She adjusted her grip on the handle.
And in the next instant, the axe lurched violently, then tore itself from her grasp.
The next thunderclap shook the earth, turning sea and grassland into a blinding field of white. And in that searing flash, the king appeared behind Valkyrie—fully armed.
“Thor!”
Valkyrie whirled around, stepping in front of Loki to shield him.
The king caught Stormbreaker in one hand, lightning snaking across his body as he gazed at the two of them.
“Let him go, Thor!” Valkyrie shouted. “This Loki—he’s not your brother!”
There was no way to tell if her voice reached him over the roar of the storm. The thunder was relentless, the rain deafening. The king walked forward as if she weren’t even there, his glowing white eyes fixed solely on Loki.
Valkyrie rushed him, grabbing his arm to stop him.
“Step aside, Valkyrie.” The king’s voice was terrifyingly calm. “I just… want to speak with my brother. That’s all.”
Valkyrie braced her feet, refusing to move. The King, too, stood motionless—like a mountain of stone.
“Thor! Enough already!” she shouted. “You think you’re the only one who’s lost someone they loved?!”
Her cry was met with a crack of thunder so violent it tore through the sky. Lightning forked above them and struck straight into the center of the town.
“Valkyrie!”
Loki’s voice rang out. Flames had begun to rise in several parts of the town. Even in this downpour, the fire was burning hot enough to spread. In the flickering white light, buildings could be seen crumbling. And through the curtain of rain, he thought he could hear the distant sound of people screaming.
“Oh no… there are families down there. Children.” Valkyrie turned, her voice breaking in anguish.
“Go, Valkyrie,” Loki said. “Go help them.”
She hesitated for just a heartbeat—then shoved the king aside and took off down the hill without looking back.
Only the king and Loki remained on the cliff.
"Where are you going, Loki?"
He looked like wrath incarnate, and yet the king’s voice was strangely gentle.
"Your Majesty! Please, stop the storm! The city will burn!" Loki pointed straight toward it—this small kingdom that the king now ruled. "This is your kingdom!"
"I lost the right to call myself king long ago," the king said with a faint smile. "Everything here—Valkyrie built it. While I threw away my duties and flew across the stars. To find you."
"No. You were looking for your brother , Your Majesty. Not me."
"You're right. I was looking for my brother. And now I’ve finally found him. So I’m never letting anyone take you away again."
The king began to walk toward him, slowly.
Loki braced himself, preparing for any form of attack. He calculated the angles—routes of escape in every direction—and began to gather magic silently in his palm.
But the king didn’t strike.
Instead, he collapsed onto the wet grass before Loki, sinking to his knees. He wrapped both arms around Loki’s waist and pressed his face weakly against Loki’s stomach.
"I couldn’t protect even you… What kind of king does that make me…? I don’t care about a kingdom… as long as I have you, Loki… Please don’t go. Please… please, Loki."
For a single heartbeat, the thunder ceased, and a perfect silence fell amid the downpour. Rain and tears flowed together down the king’s face. His long hair hung soaked and heavy, and water dripped from every part of him.
Overcome by sorrow so deep it made him tremble, Loki wrapped his arms around the king’s head.
This man’s heart had been broken long ago.
How had he failed to see it until now?
He had always believed the king stood at the opposite end of his world—a man who had weathered countless griefs, who had grown older and stronger, the mightiest being alive. Someone who would never waver, who would hold wounded, unstable Loki in his powerful arms and never falter.
But the reality was different.
The king had been walking a perilous tightrope between reality and madness all this time. Since the moment he lost his brother, he had never once found peace. Through a world too harsh to endure, he had clung desperately to sanity.
What Loki had carried all these years was nothing compared to the dark and crushing weight the king bore. He was shattered beyond repair.
Loki knew—it was he who had undone the king’s fragile balance, who had tipped him toward the edge of madness.
“Your Majesty,” Loki began, his voice gentle, yet filled with quiet strength—as if willing the words to reach what remained of the king’s sanity. “I’m not your…”
But before he could finish, a sharp pain flared through his wrist.
He fell back onto the soaked grass, and lying there, Loki saw the flash of a silver ring locked around his wrist. The shackle drained the strength from his entire body, along with his magic.
The field was more like a shallow swamp now, water rising up around him. With a great splash, half of his body sank into it.
The king threw himself forward, scooping Loki into his arms.
“No. No, I can’t lose you again. Never again. I won’t let anyone take you. Not this time. Never. Never—!”
White lightning spread across the black sky like a giant web. Clutched tightly in the king’s arms, Loki looked upward. How beautiful, he thought. So fierce. So dangerous. So capable of destroying everything. And yet—this was the weight of a thousand years of love the king had carried for his brother.
Then—cutting through the sea of lightning, a single streak of bluish light crossed the sky. It grew brighter as it drew near, until it burst midair into a cascade of rainbow colors.
The ground shook violently, as if a bomb had struck the hilltop. As the glittering fragments of rainbow light scattered and faded—there stood Thor—Loki’s brother.
His crimson cape snapped sideways in the wind, and the blue sparks that danced across his body lit the downpour like a curtain of silver.
“Loki!” Thor shouted when he saw his brother held in the king’s arms, and his eyes blazed with fury as he glared at the other god. “Give me back my Loki!!”
A fresh crack of thunder answered his roar—sharper and more piercing than the deep rumble that accompanied the king’s storms.
The king rose slowly to his feet, wrapping an arm around Loki’s waist and dragging him close.
“He’s my Loki.” The king’s shout came with a thunderclap of its own. “He’s mine! You stole him from me—for a thousand years—and I’ve finally taken him back!”
“What…?” Thor’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion.
Brother. Loki couldn’t make a sound. He only formed the word with his lips. Stop. Please, brother.
The two gods of thunder stood face to face in the downpour. Overhead, blue and white lightning clashed like blades, splitting the sky again and again. Both wielded divine power—but if they fought head-on, the outcome was clear.
Thor glanced down at Loki, concern flickering in his eyes, then turned back to the king. He raised Mjolnir, and for the first time, Loki saw both of his brother’s eyes glowing with the same white-hot brilliance as the king’s.
He lifted the hammer high, gathering the storm to a single point in the night sky. Then, with a beastlike roar, he charged.
The king stepped forward to meet him, calm and unshaken. Even the way he raised his axe, even the crooked smile on his lips, held a confidence Thor did not.
Released from his arms, Loki collapsed to his knees, the water rising around him. He drew in a deep breath, trying to gather what little strength he had left.
He couldn’t use magic. He could think of only one way to stop his brother from being killed before his eyes.
As Thor raised Mjolnir high, he shouted once more: “Give me back my Loki—!!”
The king raised Stormbreaker in answer, shouting over the storm: “I will never let my brother go again!!”
Mustering every last ounce of strength, Loki launched himself forward.
“Brother!”
He hurled himself toward Thor just as he leapt. Startled, Thor caught him with one arm. Loki had nothing left to give. All he could do was trust—trust that the king’s madness wouldn’t run deep enough to strike them both down.
“Loki, no—don't!” Thor shoved him aside, throwing his body to the grass.
Sliding down the wet slope, water rushing all around him, the last thing Loki saw—was the arc of the axe as it came down, cleaving through Thor’s armor and into his body.