Disclaimer: Thor, Loki, Odin, Frigga, and all other Asgardians do not belong to me. I promise I did not originate Norse mythology, or Marvel. Or sliced bread.

A/N: I make a lot of assumptions here as to what Asgard was like following Loki's untimely tumble off the Bifrost. I label that my prerogative as a fic writer, but anyone that's got a better knowledge of canon than me - I welcome suggestions. My writing has improved by massive leaps and bounds on this fic alone and I'm really proud of it. Reviews would be so appreciated.

Asgard was celebrating.

Loki was dead.

Loki, the misfit. The orphaned baby from a lesser race. The pity child. An example of the Allfather's boundless charity. Prince Loki, the inferior. The silent one. The pale, odd young man who liked spiders. King Loki, the tyrant. The traitor who showed his true colors at last, with his father and brother debilitated at his hand. The one who created chaos during his blessedly short reign. The one who destroyed the Bifrost, one of the realm's most precious possessions.

Asgard was celebrating.

Loki was dead.

Thor did not understand.

He had escaped the proceedings as soon as he could. The garish colors and excess of wine and laughter made him sick. He saw his father, basking in congratulations for finally having seen the light. He saw his mother, her face stricken, smiling bleakly at the guests. He had seen enough.

Shaking off his own crowd of adoring subjects, he had left the great hall and wandered through grand golden hallways until he came to the garden. He had never spent much time there. He preferred the training grounds or the wilderness out past the palace gates. But from his chamber windows he had often looked out and seen Loki in the garden; sometimes with Frigga, more frequently alone. He never seemed to be doing much of anything, he was simply there. Walking slowly along the flagstone pathways. Staring into the pond. Stroking flower petals with his long, white fingers. So Thor came to the garden, to walk the flagstone pathways and stare into the pond and stroke the flower petals and in some way, draw closer to his brother. To Loki.

Loki was dead.

Thor did not understand.

He had followed every pathway in all their roundabout loops, inhaling the sweet scent of perfect flowers and cool evening air. He had stood beneath every tree and looked up into the branches. He had remained silent and motionless and listened to the soft hum of insects and the tinkling fountain in the far corner. Yet despite his best efforts, the flowers were only flowers and the trees were just trees and the insects were biting his bare skin. The garden was nothing but a garden, a coalition of pretty plants that had held some secret, mysterious fascination for his brother. Frustrated, Thor had returned to the pond, where he sank onto the stone bench situated beneath the supple, bending branches of a tree with delicate pink, tear-shaped leaves.

He watched the reflection of Asgard's largest moon ripple with the breeze. His skin prickled as the tree whispered gently above him. The scene was so perfect and peaceful that Thor, overwhelmed with emotion like he had never imagined, bowed his great head and let his tears slide down his nose and fall onto his arms.

Loki was dead.

Thor did not—perhaps could not—understand.

"You are being missed." His father's deep, mountainous voice shook the peace away like dew slipping from the grass. Thor lifted his head and looked over at Odin, standing tall and broad and regal in the moonlight. He was displeased, Thor could read it in the angle of his lips and the lines across his brow. "We are celebrating your return."

"You are celebrating his death," he retorted. Odin said nothing. Thor looked away. "Is this how we honor the passing of family?"

Odin lifted his chin and looked down his nose at his elder son. "Loki was not family."

Thor turned to his father, appalled. "Not family?"

"Not by blood," was Odin's stern reply.

"And blood is all that matters?"

Odin raised his gaze to the crown of the pink tree. "That is what much of Asgard believes."

"And you, Father?" Thor's tone was insolent. "What do you believe?"

Odin's gaze locked on Thor's and for the briefest moment, Thor saw distinct and distinguished regret in the Allfather's remaining eye. Regret for what, Thor couldn't say. Then he blinked and turned away and it vanished.

"Why are you out here, Thor?" Odin approached him slowly. "There is music inside, and dancing, and food, and people who care about you."

"I care about him," Thor said, "and this is where he spent his time." His impudence weighted the words.

From the corner of his eye, Thor watched his father appraise the nearest foliage. He could not make out the expression he wore, and it could have been anything—sorrow, distaste, bemusement. The thought occurred to him that he had little real knowledge of Odin's opinions concerning Loki. Momentarily forgetting the animosity between them, he turned and put his question into the most frank, most honest words he could.

"Allfather…what do you feel?"

Odin stared at the flagstones and did not answer for a long time. Finally, when he spoke, Thor had to lean closer to make out the words.

"When I found him…I could hardly see him for the blood on my face. I had lost my eye. My armor was coated with the blood of his people. I was carrying a spear six times his length. I was fearsome to look at, I know, and yet…." Odin paused to swallow. "And yet…he was not afraid. It was not that he failed to understand, for I could see such comprehension in his eyes…but that he was prepared to follow his kinsmen in death. He expected to feel my blade and he did not cry and he did not take his eyes off my face."

The raw emotion in his rough voice made an impression on Thor. He had not expected or even hoped to hear such an honest account. "Why did you take him?" he asked softly.

Odin shook his head. "Could I have left him?"

"Yes."

"No. No, because he had done nothing wrong. Because if I were to abandon him there, I would be doing wrong. Because I…I was taken by his courage. I was sick with the smell of gore and the shriek of metal was ringing in my ears and I had seen so much death that day. I could not watch another life be snuffed at my hands, and one so new. I was tired of war. And he was there, orphaned and alone, a blessing to both races, for I knew he had the potential to bridge the terrible chasm between us."

Odin fell silent and Thor did not dare interrupt what he sensed were deep, deep thoughts. At last, the Allfather looked up, and with his eyes Thor followed the streaks of tears into his beard.

"You would do well to return to the celebration," Odin said, and the emotion had drained from his voice, leaving it dry and coarse. "Your subjects desire to see you." He retreated toward the palace, back the way he had come, and in that moment Thor had never felt nearer to his father. He had never stopped to consider how that scene in the temple on Jotunheim must have played out, and if what his father said was true, then it had moved him. He wondered how much of it Loki knew. Had known.

Loki was dead.

With a heavyhearted sigh, Thor returned his attention to the pond, forced to admit that he still did not understand.

Second and third parts coming within the next few days. I hope you enjoyed this first bit.

Also, my reasoning behind Loki enjoying the garden so much - the fact that there is nothing colorful or pretty or alive on Jotunheim made me wonder if Loki, despite having no idea of his origins, felt a certain inexplicable fascination with the beauty of Asgard's flora. I like that idea. SO I WROTE A FIC. That's all.