Summary: You won't be framed for one brother's death; you've done it. [Loki and Balder. Based off of Alydia Rackham's "LOKI" with permission.]

Based off of the scene of Balder's death in "LOKI" by Alydia Rackham, but it can work as a standalone. If you haven't read her stories already, go check them out!

Brother's Oath

The dreams left me sobbing breathless. You were in them, every night.

A man, regal and golden, roaring a war cry as the armies clashed. Flash. A hideously scarred grin, curving maliciously under hopeless green eyes. Flash. A spear, sliding cleanly through a man's back. Flash. War and dead and scent of smoky blood hazing the ground—

I did not realize it was you, for the longest time. To think that when I ran to Frigga's rooms crying in the dead of night, she thought I was afraid for my own life, of my own night terrors.

Years passed and I learned to hide my horrors under a sweet smile. The details sharpened in my dreams until I could see faces instead of blurry outlines.

The golden warrior was Thor. The madman, you.

When I would bid you and Thor goodnight each evening, I lay my head on my pillow and saw you again. Wrecking worlds. Killing thousands. Tears and fire and so much blue ice. I woke up with deaths etched on my eyelids, yet I still managed to greet Father warmly every morning.

I refused to believe the dreams could be real. I clung to that belief far longer than I should have. Why would Thor, who used to rescue me from my tutors and run around, lifting me over his head like an actual bird—how could he let kingdoms crash and nations slay each other? And why would you, who read me bedtime stories and played harmless pranks at breakfast, wish to subjugate worlds and let those awful things happen to amuse yourself?

Laughing at the grief-stricken screams—you were made to be ruled—

So I refused to believe.

I loved you too much, you and Thor, every time the both of you fondly called me Bird or smiled at me for the sake of smiling at me. Yet I hated you for how you walked in my dreams.

They weren't dreams, were they?

A slick serpent, oozing poison on the shore—Odin's ravens crying mournfully as a boat burned on the water—huge worms swooping through the sky, raining terror on helpless masses—Sif, oh Norns, Sif crying as if her very arm had been torn from her, as it had—you must be truly desperate, to come to me for help—Frigga standing tall with a jagged knife, guarding a fearful mortal—A black ship, rending the land with its prow—

And you, standing in the midst of it all.

My dreams told all. Who you were. Where you truly came from. What hid under your skin, swam through your blood.

You are the cause of all that might be, jötunn, and I knew I was meant to stop you. Stop Thor. Any way I could. The alternative was too awful to contemplate.

So yes, I sharpened that knife. I don't know how you noticed, but you followed me. My plan was brilliant, believe me. I had thought about it often enough that the end result no longer churned my stomach.

—you are screaming, writhing under alien hands. The dreams fixate on your tears for hours, as if your dark, pathetic image is a consolation for what I am to do.

This way is better.

Mother wrapped me in a protection spell, and it is powerful. Thor will not be able to fight me. I will slide this seeping knife between his ribs, and I will not enjoy it. Thor will die. Your magic (siphoned from the last gift you gave me) is subtly entwined in the blade, and when they examine the assassin's knife, it will not be obvious that you are the assassin, but they will notice. They will catch you. They will deliver you to the traitor's death. You will scream.

At least the aliens will never touch you.

I will visit you in your final agonizing hours under the venom, so that when the bitter, world-ending hatred lights in your eyes, I will know I did right by you.

That had been my plan: one Odinson left to rule. I would have saved the worlds. Yet you saw me sharpen that knife. Somehow you understood where I meant to go: to Thor. You followed me and pulled that arrow—mistletoe, wasn't it—to your lip and let go. Slipped through my ribs.

Now. Here we are. You've foiled my plan, and now all is lost. Worlds will die. Nations burn.

A silencing spell, all around me. You are the ideal assassin, aren't you? The court wouldn't have needed much convincing to put you to death.

Yet you're crying. Stuttering healing spells. I push your hand away from the arrow. Do you...how would you...how pathetic are you, brother of black blood, to cry over the one who meant to kill you and our brother? You will still die, you know. You won't be framed for one brother's death; you've done it.

Relief rushes through me. You will still die. They will catch you for this. A hideously scarred grin, curving maliciously under hopeless green eyes—it will never happen.

You are sobbing breathlessly, spattering tears damp on my face. Oh, brother.

"I've protected the Nine Realms," I tell you.

From what? you sob, like your world has ended. It will, soon.

"You."

Your eyes die, although I am the one bleeding.

I swear to you, this way is better.

Yours hands tighten on mine. I can barely see them, I cannot feel them.

I will meet you in the great halls of the afterlife. I will explain all of this to you: why you had to die an agonizing traitor's death under the venom.

Perhaps then, you can forgive me, and I you.