Chapter 1.

There are little feet – bare in the fresh-dewed grass – that pat-pat-pat follow after you (like little drops of rain, my son, that follow after the storm, do you understand that, my love?)

Thor turns, managing to surprise the younger boy who is forming his current entourage. He spreads his arms and mock attacks, barrelling straight into his brother, and gets an armful of a shrieking with laughter nine-year-old.

Like a baby-leviathan, Loki wraps his twig-like arms around Thor's waist. Together they collapse, a tangle of awkward limbs, all air leaving their chests. Thor hears Loki's suppressed cry of surprise as he crushes him into the ground.

"Thor!" Little fists made to imitate those of the warriors witnessed by wide eyes in the Great Hall hit the blond brother with utter seriousness and purpose. "Off! Off! Now!"

"As you wish, brother!" exclaims Thor, and he is, indeed, off: his brother, and in the distance. Loki blinks, taken by momentary surprise, before he scrambles up to follow in the elder's wake.

They run like wildfire, stopping only when they reach the stream that cuts the meadow and then meanders like a lazy snake on a hot day into the coniferous woodland. Thor reaches it first, as is his birthright, and whoops in glee as he falls down to roll in the grass. He soon hears a loud thump behind his back and feels little spiders of fingers digging into his ticklish spots. He jerks. Giggles. Then thrusts his elbow back, into the no-doubt-smug face of his brother.

"We should go on a quest of our own," Loki decides in his usual no-nonsense tone. He has been hearing tales again, all gold and splendour and camaraderie, and he knows in his little heart that he wants some of his own, too. He sees daily as Thor springs up and up and away, and so far he has made sure not to be left (too far) behind, but he fears the moment is looming near. That fear makes him bold. "Volstagg and Gadur's adventure did not sound like more than the two of us could handle, brother, and it might be fun to be away from all the prying eyes of our overseers. What say you, Thor?" He rolls onto his belly and tilts his head back, mischievous eyes tracking his brother's features with a voracious hunger, primal and eager.

He wants this.

Thor rolls his eyes at him, unconcerned with his brother's wily ways. He might even know he is being pushed into a metaphorical corner (one with barbed wires in every nook and cranny, and any tempting holes a trap). Who knows? Whether he be aware of the manoeuvring or nor does not matter, for as always, Thor does what he wants. (And his brother's webs tear in his path as if made by a spider, unable to stop the charging bull.)

"Nay, brother. I need to be back before nightfall, tonight I practise with the others the art of riding in the dark. Besides, little midget, this talk of avoiding prying eyes is all very enticing, but how do you propose to avoid Heimdall's gaze? The last time we went missing much fuss was made, we were quickly retrieved, and then 'twas I who suffered Mother's displeasure for 'endangering her little sweetmeat'," the blond boy mocked.

Loki's muscles went tight with indignation. He made a mental note to get back at his brother later for this slight, but for now he purposely released the tension from his body. He huffed out a loud breath and cast Thor a sly sideways look. "She still calls you her precious sunflower, too, Thor," he remarked casually, testing the waters.

They were deeper than he'd expected: Thor, having reached the age of being easily offended and sensitive to what he considered to be affront to his not-quite-achieved manly status, saw red and launched himself at Loki, intending to pin him down and wrestle his words away from him.

Somewhat ready for the attack, Loki tries to roll away, but it is another miscalculation: they are lying in close quarters, and Thor has been honing his reflexes during his beginner's training sessions. Before, Loki's natural swiftness used to suffice; now, he simply is not quick enough. He feels a hand like a vice around his wrist; he feels a fist punch, once, into the soft and vulnerable area of his abdomen. The cry that is forced out of his mouth surprises even him: it is loud and high, like some squirming baby beast crying for its mother to save it from the descending teeth, from pain that is already pulsing in this central place, his body strung out and reading for more.

It never comes, for Thor must have had enough. He grunts as he rises and Loki is released, but too numb, too dumb to move and run from a threat that stands looming over him. Run, you fool, his mind chants. He doesn't, not for a very, very long while. It is Thor who first turns away, still red in the face (anger still? embarrassment? pleasure from the victory? Loki's mind turns, dizzying like the Bifrost itself, urged by a primal need to catalogue the (danger)(stranger) phenomenon before him) and beckons Loki to follow him back as he begins to walk away.

To Loki's shame, he does. He scrambles up, stumbling over his own legs like a bumbling fool (don't cry, Loki, don't ever cry) and races to catch up. He stops just short of evening with his brother (why him, of all the people in Asgard? he could take on them, he rages in silence) and walks out of reach and slightly behind him to not let Thor see his face, which he fears is not nonchalant enough to be safe. He must be better prepared, he scolds himself mentally. Always be prepared.

Aesir are strong. He will get over it. He will.

Everything seemed to be forgotten by the time the even feast commenced. Loki was solicitous and wilfully eager, turning inquisitive ears and eyes to the people surrounding him. He could hear Thor enthusiastically talking to his friends about the nighttime adventure awaiting them (what kind of adventure is it, with grown-up warriors supervising them, in a big group, following somebody else's plan for the night? What is so fun about that, Loki couldn't understand). The elder prince certainly seemed ready and eager to go, for once impatient with all the feasting and merry-making. He's like a horse chomping at the bit, Loki thought uncharitably as he eyed his brother.

This was one of his learning experiences: observing Thor and seeing how not to act, to leave Asgard with at least one of its princes not a buffoon.

Loki had always employed a backwards hero worship towards his darling brother.

(Fact: Loki has learnt how to lie)

When the time came, the young warriors-in-training that comprise Thor's group rose and joined their instructor in biding the rest of the tables good night and setting off for the stables.

Loki cheered for his brother loudly enough to be heard and noticed, hiding the smirk blooming on his face behind a goblet of watered wine he was drinking. So far so good, and his brother would not be able to suspect him when he acted all brotherly and supporting. Not to mention he should be seen staying at the dinner table. For... some time still.

Too bad no one would be able to marvel at the genius of his plan.

Loki's eyes roved over the banquet table, groaning under the weight of roasted meat, its heavy scent mingling with that of fresh sweet fruits, mead and wine flowing freely and untangling already uncomplicated tongues of the festive guests. No one was paying much attention to him, which would have certainly benefitted him if he had been further along in his plan. For at the moment, Loki needed to be remembered as having taken part in the feast. His reasoning seemed sound to him: he couldn't very well be accused of causing mischief in two places at the same time. (There will come a time, he swears, when he will master the art of illusion sufficiently to achieve this, and he will make sure this skill remains his hidden advantage, unknown to all like a secret dagger up his sleeve.)

He finished eating the slice of meat and the mushrooms that were left on his plate, sipped at his drink and placed his hands demurely in his lap, conveniently hidden under the table.

TBC