"It is a man's own mind, not his enemy or foe, that lures him to evil ways." - Buddha

Chapter One

The sky was an open expanse of gold and purple and black and green: Loki allowed himself to watch it, momentarily, before casting his gaze downward. In such a late hour, Asgard was quiet and peaceful and glowing, but it did nothing to wane his temperament. He leaned forward over the railing on the balcony and looked down, almost reveling in the sobering case of vertigo that washed over him. Even he would feel the cold snap of death if he were to fall from such a height.

Loki supposed that he was bored, if anything. Under the guise of Odin, life on the throne was…easy. Perhaps too easy. He let go of the railing and looked down at his hands - not his own - and let out a dignified sort of sound, something like a sigh. It was tiresome, he admitted, yet each day he reminded himself that this was what he wanted. What he had risked, quite literally, everything for. He closed his eyes and remembered Thor's retreating back, believing himself to be set free of his place on the throne, and let out a dry laugh.

One son who wanted the throne too much; one who refuses to take it.

His words were true, he mused, regardless of whom Thor had perceived to say them. Loki had almost felt a sense of disappointment at how easily Thor had been deceived. Sometimes, on nights such as this, Loki wondered if Thor too looked to the sky and thought of him (not as Odin, of course, but as Loki) his not-brother, or perhaps-brother. He wondered if Thor mourned him, in his own way - and he remembered starkly the single tear that had fallen from Thor's eye when Loki had told him his father was dead. He had believed Loki then, and without a doubt he believed him now: dead, gone, and perhaps even as a bit of a martyr.

Loki snorted at the thought, and a strong wave of pity washed over him despite himself. He pitied Thor, he supposed, in his stupidity and loyalty; always his hugest downfall - his tragic flaws. Loki thought too of Thor's anger, then, and his desperation to prove justice. That was what always kept Loki from slipping out of his projection of Odin, in the end. Although his magic had allowed him to hide the truth from Heimdall, it was not something he wished to test for long.

Certainly, he had allowed himself to do it momentarily after Thor was out of sight. Loki knew his vanity was a master of its own; he was not blind to his own faults, most of the time. Although he felt fairly confident that he could show his true self in the privacy of his rooms without raising alarm, he still refused to do it, for reasons not even he could fully visualize.

It was not particularly chilly outside, but Loki felt a wave of cold in spite of that. He looked to the stars again, feeling the familiar twinge of longing as he did. He thought of that stretch of time in which he had lingered there, floating between reality and dreams, after he had fallen from the Bridge. He thought of the truth he had seen - Well, not all of it was truth, he corrected himself, But all things hold truth in their own way. It wasn't quite truth what he had seen, but more like the possibility of it. Things that could be, or had been, or might never be. Thor had never asked him about that time. He had never even bothered to ask what had truly happened between then and Loki's attempt to enslave Midgard. He had danced between feeling dangerously angry and desperately empty at that; that Thor had begged and whined and pleaded, but never once had the decency to ask what it was that caused such a shift in him. Loki had always been one for mischief, it was true, but he had never encompassed the deprivation for destruction and complete carnage.

Loki knew he shouldn't hold it against Thor; not really, anyway. It was not his fault he had not been blessed with the same gifts as Loki; it was not Thor's fault that he saw true power in strength and integrity and not eloquence and sorcery. Loki closed his eyes to the stars and found a strange sense of peace in the blackness behind his lids - No, Odin's, he reminded himself precipitously - and remembered that there was a time when Thor was not so unlike Loki, at least near the beginning. A time when Thor had enjoyed Loki's tricks almost as much as he. A time when Thor couldn't truly explain what justice was, even if it had written itself across the stars and he was looking straight at it.

Loki opened his eyes, and looked upon Asgard once more. When he had let the Jötunn in on the day of Thor's coronation, he knew they wouldn't get far. He knew they would do no real harm; his intention was to only upset the joyous day. It was only a bit of fun, although looking back, Loki knew it was more than that. He had known those Jötunn would die that day, and yet he did not feel any remorse when he saw their frozen bodies lying dead in the vault. Granted, at the time the Jötunn were simply monsters to him - cold and deadly, without reason or emotion.

"When I am king, I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all!"

Thor's words as a child often found their way into Loki's brain. He was not sure why he remembered the moment so clearly. He always knew that Thor was oldest and by birthright would always have claim to the throne before Loki. He always knew that Thor was a warrior at heart. And yet…

He ran his hand along the stone surface of the railing on the balcony, trying to distract him from his own thoughts threatening to make him very angry indeed. Loki knew that anger was not an emotion to be trusted; he thought bitterly on his most recent time on Midgard, when he had easily, no, gladly, let it fuel so many of his actions. But that's not true, Loki told himself, For it was more than anger that placed the Scepter in your hands.

The Scepter had been a weapon, a means to an end, and had taken so much of Loki's soul he couldn't help but wonder if it had done permanent damage. He felt stupid, even then, standing on the highest balcony Asgard had to offer, taking in its golden beauty and constance. He should have known that while the Scepter had given him almost-ultimate power, even the ability to bend one to his will, that it didn't come without a price.

Yet still, he could not feel true remorse on what he had done. Even now when he knew his true heritage, he could not find it in himself to feel very sorry for the Jötunn that he had killed, actively or not. He didn't even bat an eye at the number of Midgardians he had slaughtered in his attempt to conquest. He knew he had done wrong, he supposed. He thought of his mother then, not his true mother, but to him, she was his mother all the same. He thought of her golden hair and commanding grace; he thought of her tricks and mischief that he knew he had gotten from her. His darkness, he guessed, came from his real parents, but thinking of them that way left a gritty feeling in his mouth.

Yes, Loki thought, once again feeling that strange chill that had nothing to do with the weather, And how very poetic it is that your own brother turned out to be the worst monster of them all.

Frigga. It was Loki's fault, in the end, that she was dead. It was always his fault. He knew now that she was trying to protect Thor's mortal lover, Jane Foster, who had held the Aether inside of her veins, and yet it was Loki who told the Cursed where to go to begin with. He remembered the dark, crippling feeling he had felt in his heart when the Cursed looked upon him. He might have even guessed what it was, if he had taken the time to really think about it. But out of laziness or ennui - he wasn't sure which - he didn't even care to figure out what in the Nine Realms could yield such strength. And that was just it, really: that he didn't care anymore. He remembered his fear, standing there behind his cell, knowing perfectly well that the Cursed could let him out, and he had almost longed for the freedom. Of course he longed for the freedom. But when it didn't, and turned away, Loki had told him where to go, and he knew not where the words had surfaced from.

Perhaps he believed that it would change its mind and free him. Perhaps he felt comfort in knowing it would wreak havoc on the man that had taken him in and lied to him for over a millennium. Perhaps he would have felt better, rotting in a cell underneath a crippled kingdom. At least he would have had nobody to bother him.

But no, Loki thought, That's not right. He would have never imagined an Asgard without Frigga: his mother, his teacher and the only person who bothered to visit him in his cell, projection or not. She may not have been something he could touch and feel, but her words were still hers, and he knew of projections in such an intimate way that there was no denying that it was so much more than just an illusion. She truly pitied her youngest son; she had brought him books and fineries to save him from his ennui. She knew he was dangerous when he was bored, and even the ultimate trickster was unable to magic himself out of his prison; he wondered if he would have eventually torn the flesh from his own face, inch by inch, in efforts to escape the sheer boredom of confinement.

Loki sighed and returned to his quarters - the palace was as still and silent as an unmoving lake. There were guards here and there, who stiffened at his presence. Loki knew they thought him as Odin, but sometimes, especially late at night, he would imagine that they were yielding to him as himself. He knew it was foolish, that his own pride would someday probably be the end of him, and yet he didn't stop allowing himself these small slices of fantasy. He wasn't a child; he knew it wasn't true, nor in most likeliness would ever be. He thought of the Midgardian saying, "A man can dream." And as he magicked himself into his sleeping garments, he lay in bed and thought to do just that.

But sleep didn't come immediately, and Loki thought himself slightly naïve to think that it would. He was wearied from his façade; he was tired and irritable and yet, he told himself again, that this was what he sought so desperately for so long. He was King; he was on the throne of Asgard. He was ensuring the peace of all realms and he was doing a damn good job of it. And still, the world yet turned; no fire fell from the sky, and the universe remained as constant as it ever was. Loki let himself smile bitterly at that thought for a moment, as he rolled over and tried to get comfortable. He didn't think he would ever get used to encompassing Odin's body; he missed his own thin frame and flexibility. No matter, he thought, And really, a small price to pay for the prize I have won.

He let himself think of Thor again, but it did nothing to improve his mood. He wondered what Thor would do if he knew what had become of his father and that Loki had taken his place, literally. He thought of Odin then, too. Not something Loki usually did, but he couldn't stop it once it started: he had used all the magic he knew to conceal Odin in a prison cell in the farthest depths of the dungeons, a place no one ventured. It was important he stay alive for this charade to continue working. It may be possible to fool Heimdall, but surely even the quiet death of Odin would not go unnoticed.

Loki couldn't feel guilty for what he had done. When he had disguised himself as a guard to tell Odin that he had found Loki's body, dead, Odin's face had changed in a way that was almost not noticeable. But Loki noticed it - he noticed everything. It was the smallest expression of grief, and he had felt pained that it was only that. He had expected some great display of sorrow and perhaps even a tear or two from Odin's good eye, and in the end, Loki was met with only disappointment.

No, it wasn't hard to lock Odin in a cell. In fact, after Loki had sewn his mouth shut with Odin's own thread, there was a funny sort of irony about it. Odin had always underestimated him, and this time it would be the last thing he had ever done.

()()()

"Good evening, my King," Heimdall said, his ever unchanging face unreadable and resolute. Loki faltered for a moment; he did not much like having to face Heimdall but even he was unable to look upon the realms without him. Certainly he could travel without the Bifrost, but that was tricky and not at all a wise move.

Loki said nothing at first, and he simply walked up to Heimdall's post. He kept his expression neutral and merely inclined his head. He gripped Gungnir tightly in his hand, enjoying the feel of the cool metal on his fingers, even if they weren't truly his.

"What disturbs your slumber all these nights?"

Heimdall's question brought forth the reality of his reasoning for Loki's permanent disguise. For truth, the man saw nearly everything, if so he desired. He saw the turnings and goings of the universe, and that was simple fact. He could watch the lives of so many as easily as Loki could slip in and out of so many faces - the thought was sobering and hard to accept. It was really a wonder that Heimdall did not know the most important secret of them all, the one that was happening right then and there, on the same realm that he swore to protect. Loki would have found it amusing, if it weren't so frightening.

"Let not my personal troubles trouble you, dear Heimdall," Loki said finally. "I will be fine, in time."

Heimdall said nothing at first, but Loki saw him relax, ever so slightly.

"Of course, Allfather. I presume you have come to me for a glimpse of Thor?"

"Yes. How fares he? How does he adjust to life on Midgard?"

Heimdall closed his eyes, and then opened them. Loki looked closely; he thought that if he looked closely enough, he could almost see Thor's face reflected there. Of course, that was his imagination running away with him.

"I can project an image, if you would desire," Heimdall said quietly. Loki held his breath. He had, of course, heard rumors of this ability in the past, but having never seen it first-hand, Heimdall's offer came as a surprise.

"I would like that."

And so he did: Loki watched as Heimdall shot the image into reality, without even raising a finger. Loki's eyes snapped on the image. It was clear enough; it reminded him starkly as a child playing in one of the many clear lakes on the forests of Asgard, looking down and watching the fish and plant-life with such clarity, yet still being acutely aware of the separation between himself and the image below the surface. He saw Thor, dressed in casual Midgardian attire, sitting on a blanket with Jane Foster. Loki studied her face, trying to find the reasoning for Thor's abandonment of the throne residing there. He had only met her very briefly, and certainly they had had no real conversation. Loki remembered her attempt to slap him, and almost smiled - almost. He remembered who he was pretending to be, and watched the image some more.

Thor and Jane seemed to be in deep conversation. Jane's brow was knitted; Thor's eyes looked heavy. There were no words with this projection, and so Loki looked away as Jane placed her hand on Thor's.

"What do they say?" Loki asked, turning to Heimdall.

"They speak of Loki. Thor mourns him greatly."

So it is true, Loki thought. He had to remind himself that he was Odin; it was the only thing that stopped him from letting an expression slip. Heimdall betrayed nothing of his own emotions as he spoke - and Loki wondered if Heimdall cared at all that he was supposedly dead. He thought briefly of his rage as he froze Heimdall in place with the casket of Jötunheim, not far from where they stood now, knowing full well that Heimdall would probably not survive it.

No, Loki thought, Heimdall is certainly glad to be rid of me.

Loki thought quickly of the power of rage. It had caused him to do so many unspeakable things. He remembered that had even told Thor to trust his rage, not so long ago. He wondered what had caused him to say such a thing. The death of his mother, perhaps, or his last attempt to get Thor to realize that he wasn't going to let the universe succumb to absolute darkness. Not even Loki was that stupid. His rage was what made the whole thing so much easier, he thought. It was true that he told lies often, but there was nothing like the fresh drive of revenge to make them come out so much sweeter. He remembered Jane's strangled cry as he used his trickery to slice Thor's arm off; the look of confusion and grief after he threw her at Malekith's feet. And although his rage had overwhelmed most of his thought, he still threw himself in front of the grenade to spare her of death.

Loki blinked, confused momentarily that he was looking at the image of Thor and Jane and not at Malekith's cold, hard face. He broke his gaze from the projection and turned away.

"And I mourn Loki as well," Loki said quietly, "He may have been difficult, but he was still my son."

Heimdall said nothing, and Loki began to walk away from him.

"Good night, Heimdall. My heart feels lighter at knowing how well Thor fares."

He did not look back, nor did he slow down, and if Heimdall replied he could not hear it over the sounds of his steps. Loki wanted to keep his interaction with Heimdall to a minimum; although he knew he was an excellent shape-shifter, there were some nuances of relationship that he could not mimic. Loki had never studied Odin's private interactions with Heimdall, so he could not know if he was succeeding or not. Surely, the second Heimdall realized something was amiss, Loki would find out about it very soon, perhaps even on the spot. He allowed this thought to comfort him, momentarily, and made his way back to the palace, to his chambers, and thought of the warm, inviting bed that awaited him.

You are tired, Loki, he thought, This game tires you so. Indeed, it was tiresome, but as he lay in bed once again, he could barely suppress the smile that began to form. He had successfully deceived every single person at court; he sat upon the throne and he wielded the mythical Gungnir as if he were born for it. The only thing that made his smile falter was the thought of his mother. What would she say if she knew of his actions? He didn't really have to ask himself - he already knew. Loki huffed and turned over, and finally quieted his mind.

And finally, Loki thought no more. He let himself fall into slumber, however fitful; plagued by dreams of frost giants and stars, hammers and mortal women. The only thing he would remember when he woke was that pitted feeling of emptiness, that residue of dream shared between mortals and gods alike.

Disclaimer that applies to all of this story - I do not own Marvel, Walt Disney, or any subsidiaries of such. This is simply a fan work, and Loki is (sadly) in this context property of Marvel.

Reviews are appreciated. Let me know how I'm doing :)