A/N: Inspired by Prompt #50 from the good folks at Magic-n-Science on Tumblr. You should pay them (and their delicious prompt buffet) a visit.

Okay, so this isn't filling the prompt *exactly* to the letter. For one, I've never watched the movie (Peggy Sue Got Married – 1986) in question, but I did some research and the concept intrigued me all the same.

This is how I see it all playing out. The goal being to change the situation while maintaining the integrity of the characters as they've all been portrayed thus far. That being said, I'll be using the Marvel Cinematic Universe as my main reference (deleted scenes included because they are awesome), with some inspiration drawn from Norse traditions.

A special thanks to my ever patient husband who deals with my caprices and acts as my "smart-reader" in good times and bad. Love you, handsome.

Anyways, hope you all enjoy.


Chapter 1 - Broken Crown

Justice. Reclamation, being a more appropriate term, should taste sweeter. It ought to smack of honeyed victory. Particularly on the tongue of a usurped king. Instead, it turned to ash in his mouth. Fulfilment continued to elude him.

Satisfaction remained outside of his nature.

Seated on the golden throne Loki never wanted prior to his first ascension, it grew into an irksome realization. To never be satisfied, akin to an impossible void that demanded to be filled all the same. How does one quell implacable desire when the remedy cannot be named? Longing may as well be oblivion.

The Lady Sif came before "him", brisk strides eating the expanse of the throne room, the late sun and myriad columns casting long shadows across etched stone floors. Her silver armor carried scuffs from her little sojourn to Midguard. She dropped to one knee, fist over her heart, dark glossy head bowed over her raised knee.

Three years past she reluctantly saluted him, the last of the vaunted four to kneel. He held Gungnir then too, wearing his own skin, his own colours. Sif questioned every word from his lips, doubted every course he chose. The quiet way in which he ascended the high seat did not help matters, perhaps. Poetic that she followed his decrees so blindly now. For little reason other than he wore a white beard and an eye patch.

"Your will is done, Allfather," Lady Sif said. Her eyes lifted to meet his without raising her head. "The prisoner has been returned to the dungeons and the security increased to your specifications."

"Asgard thanks you, Lady Sif," 'Odin' said. He measured his tone carefully, balancing a touch of gratitude with gruff certainty and immeasurable expectation. "You are dismissed. Please, enjoy your well-earned rest."

Sif bowed her head lower before rising. With a crisp turn on her heel she departed the way she entered, her stride no less determined. Her dedication to Asgard made her invaluable. Loki loathed sacrificing his pieces.

He took dinner alone in Odin's chambers, dreading the prospect of small talk in the banquet hall. Of hearing another single condolence for the loss of a wife and a son and an heir. When would the sycophants grow tired of their precious sentiment? Their platitudes would never resurrect the Queen. They certainly did not care for the dead son.

When they spoke of Thor, however… a measure of hope lingered there. Perhaps, when he tired of his pet mortal, he would return to the Realm Eternal. Time would wear her down, steady as sand on stone, stripping away her youth and beauty and vigor. Oh how they hoped he would return. Even the Realm Eternal desired change.

Once the servants cleared away the meal Loki relaxed, though he still did not dare shed Odin's coil.

Loki looked at the bed that once belonged to Odin, choosing instead to sink into a cushioned chair out on the balcony, legs sprawled out before him. Drawing his index finger across his upper lip he stared out over the Realm Eternal.

He considered his next move.


With a languid stretch he stirred. Golden light flooded the bed, warming the black and emerald linens. His bed. His chambers…

Loki jolted awake, sitting up, trying to recall when he moved from Odin's balcony to… here. He could not.

The sheets were still fresh, smelling of lavender oils and the birch drying racks. A green robe of soft goats' wool hung over a carved chair next to the bed. He shrugged it on and cinched it closed. Loki reveled in the comfort of the soft silky threads, the luxury of something mother made just for him, all green and gold and black.

He plucked a pear from the porcelain bowl of fruit, perched on the bed side table. It tasted fresh enough, sweet and sandy on his tongue. He moved into the adjoining room of the suite. His books still sat on their shelves, no dust having been allowed to gather. Quills stood at attention on the large carved wooden desk. His grimoire sat splayed open, a pile of fresh parchment stacked at its side. Loki went to the desk, setting his armillary sphere to motion with a spark as he passed it on its pedestal, its golden rings catching the sunlight as it hummed to life in perpetual motion.

His grimoire, a leather and hammered silk bound affair crafted by Vanir hands, remained open to the last notes he etched. Dated three years ago. He flicked back through a few of the soft vellum pages.

All as though he never left. Truly, mother had been hopeful.

He ran a hand through his hair as an unwelcome heaviness tightened in his chest. Concern pooled in his gut when he came to the end of the curling strands at the nape of his neck. No. No this was wrong. All wrong. His hair, for one, should be much longer.

Then, the chamber doors opened, the click like a gunshot.

A servant girl entered with a smile, dropping into a low courtesy, fist over her heart. "My prince," she said, not the least bit surprised to see him. "It is good that you are awake."

"I…," Loki stammered. He turned his hands over, from palm to backs, over and over, testing for certain that he wore no disguise. She wandered deeper into his quarters, into the bed chamber. He followed, watching with muted disquiet. The maid set to straightening the sheets and blankets of his bed, oblivious to his distress, pulling the embroidered blankets taught. She arranged the silken green and ebony pillows against the carved headboard with care, humming a children's tune of spring. Like nothing could be strange about discovering the dead and disgraced prince. Rather, she moved through her tasks, and about him, with the certainty of ingrained routine.

"Prince Loki?" she asked, and he looked at her face. She stilled, a green and gold tunic draped over her arm. "Are you well, your highness?"

"Yes," he finally managed. She collected another piece of clothing from the foot of the large bed, his leather overcoat. This felt familiar. Her voice, the neatness of her blond braid, her eyes that reminded him of a mossy log, her efficient yet considerate mannerism… "Torfa?"

She smiled, a small, sedate smile. Even his chamber maid remained unchanged all this time. Poor girl.

"The Queen bid I make certain…"

"The Queen?" he asked, advancing toward her. He angled her away from the safety of the doorway, menace increasing with each smooth step. The anger wound its way to his voice. "Do you think yourself clever?"

The girl's eyes widened as she shrank away from him, matching him step for step until her lower back met the rim of a celestial globe. The treasured item tipped precariously. Until Torfa shot out a hand to steady it. Meticulous in her duties, even in terror.

"I beg your pardon, my prince. I know not how I have displeased you."

Her fear rang true. Honesty ran rampant across her thin face, from the white of her eyes, to the hammering of her heart that could be read in the thrumming pulse point of her slim throat. The odor of her distress. An alarm sounded within, warning him to mind his tongue and bridle his rage, for a few moments more at very least. He drew back a step, gathering his full height.

Loki spoke slow, choosing his question carefully, "What, exactly, did my mother task you with, Torfa?"

"That you are ready for Prince Thor's Coronation."