A/N: Second fic up for the Avengers franchise… And in theory this doesn't have any connection with Avengers itself, but only Thor and general Norse mythology, since none of the Avengers save Thor and Loki appear. There will be more appearing in the future with more of the characters, but for this I just wanted to play around with Loki himself and how I thought his childhood might have been like. Part of it, anyway.

(See A/N2 after the fic for continuity notes, please. :D)

Betas: SkyTurtle

Music:
Pit of Vipers by Simon Curtis
Flawed Design by Stabilo
Nearly anything labeled 'Pagan Metal' or 'Celtic Music' by Adrian von Ziegler

Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers,Thor, nor the characters from them. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

…

Liesmith

Raven Ehtar

…

His name was Loki Laufeyson, true son of the King of Jötunheimr and a Jötun in his blood, adopted son of Odin Allfather of Asgard and second son to that throne, the younger brother of Thor Odinson, the Thunderer.

He was known as the God of Mischief and held many names beside his own: Trickster, Sly One, the Father of Lies, Harbinger of Doom, Silvertongue, and Liesmith. All of them were accurate to a point, but Loki held that much of his reputation came not from his own talented tongue, but from the overactive flapping of others'. Much of his evil reputation was undeserved – or at least it had been in the beginning – but try to convince any of the Æsir and you would be lucky to leave with your head. One would have to be mad or themselves quite evil to support Loki the Traitor, and his once-countrymen had many tales to prove Loki's black heart.

One such was the time he had convinced the Allfather to bargain with a mason to repair Asgard's defensive wall – an important feature that the Æsir would be hard put to do without should an attack come. He had reasoned that they could trick the mason into a bargain and out of his monstrous fee – one of their own Ladies, Freyja, as wife – by imposing an impossible deadline and yet still receive the majority of their wall repaired. And when the mason and his horse were – impossibly – close to finishing the wall and Freyja in danger of being taken, none forgot that it was Loki who had steered the Allfather to that course of action.

And there was when Loki had kidnapped Iðunn, the lady who cared for the golden apples that gave the gods their eternal youth, and gave her to one of the hated Jötun brutes. How could anyone defend what was so obviously an act of treason, a murderous intention against all who depended upon Iðunn's apples?

And then there was the unfortunate event involving Baldur and his blind brother Höðr. It was Loki who had guided Höðr's hand in launching an arrow made of mistletoe at his brother, slaying him.

How could anyone dare defend such a fiend?

And what they all would completely fail to remember was how Loki had lured the mason's horse away from him, removing his great advantage and causing him to fail. They would not recall that to their self-righteous memories, nor that Loki had endured humiliations and pain none other would have lowered themselves to, even in defense of Asgard, as Loki had. They would not recall that Loki had been forced to do with Iðunn what he had done, and that as soon as he was able he stole the maiden back again, to the destruction of the villain that had used him and nearly killed his people. And Baldur… Loki could admit that it had been an ill-conceived plan, one that misfired most grievously, and one he would be glad to rescind. But then, the Æsir would never tell what Loki's intention had been. It was never the intention that mattered as much as the result of one's actions.

They forgot that Loki worked to greater personal discomfort for the safety of their Realm than any choice of them put together.

And they called him 'Liesmith.'

He wore it like a badge of honor, that name that had been bestowed upon him as an insult. For he knew that his greatest skills were those of a glib tongue and a quick, incisive mind. Others could not help but recognize it and acknowledge it; however they chose to do so. Quite often, Loki found that he need not tell lies at all. Such was the strength and virulence of his reputation that he could tell the absolute truth and have it be regarded as falsehood. And any mischief that resulted from that kind of misunderstanding? Loki's fault, of course.

It would be hysterical if it weren't so irritating.

But nothing Loki did could ever match the lies that people told themselves, every day, with every single breath they drew and perpetuated with every beat of their hollow hearts. Theirs' were the truly deceptive souls, and nothing could hope to match them for their sheer consistency and tenacity. Not even if one considered Loki's entire career, from the time he was a child to now.

...

Loki had always been a relatively small child. He hadn't known at the time that he was in fact a young frost giant, and therefore even smaller than he should have been had he been of Asgard. It was enough that he was smaller than his peers. And it was not only Thor whom he had trouble keeping up with, who even as a child showed signs of becoming a bull of a man. Loki could be outdone physically by all of his and Thor's friends, and as befitted the custom of their home, when they discovered their advantage over the younger Prince, they took full advantage of their prowess and continually bested him in every game.

Whether it was racing, play fights, swimming, training or any of the multitude of sports that made up an Asgardian child's repertoire, the best Loki could ever hope for was to not be last. It was humiliating to constantly be bested by the brats who ran about with dusty toes and torn bitches, when he was a Prince of the Realm and second only to Thor. Those dirty, scruffy children noted his pouting consternation and took a lot of joy out of rubbing their superiority in Loki's face whenever they could.

Thor, on the rare time or two he slowed down enough in his own play to notice his younger brother's distress, was as brash and straightforward in his advice as he was in everything else.

"You must stand up for yourself, Loki, and throw back your adversaries no matter the odds!" he had said from a high branch of one of Iðunn's trees, a golden apple in each hand and a mouth full of chewed fruit mush showing with every word. At least he wasn't spraying chunky sauce as he spoke. "You must search deep, find your strength and use it. Then the others will recognize and respect you as a Prince."

Loki had recognized the sense of the words, and known how futile it would have been to ask Thor to help him. At the moment he was just weak, if he went to his brother for help then he would be a weakling through and through. Thor's advice, simple as it was, was sound, and if he could then he should utilize it.

Except that none of Loki's strengths were particularly physical. His strength lay in his mind. Loki always had the best scores in their tutoring sessions, designed the best games, and if they happened to play a game with the others that had anything at all to do with riddles or other brainwork, Loki outstripped them easily. He was proud of that discovered advantage; proud, and on finding it he crowed quite a bit.

Which was part of the reason he had been so crushed when it hadn't made a single difference to his friends. They simply shrugged and walked away from the table. What was the advantage to a clever brain stuffed full of dusty tomes, they had said, when the Æsir were a warrior race? Always had been and always would be, what use was a warrior full of pretty theories on the battlefield?

But more upsetting than his failure to rise in the opinion of his friends was the similar failure he faced with his father, Odin.

His father was unfailingly kind to him, to him and to Thor, often reminding them both of how proud he was of them and their achievements. He told them tales of Asgard's history and of his hopes for his sons, the deeds he foresaw them accomplishing… but there was something in his manner that told Loki he preferred Thor to him. He expected more from Thor, showed just a hair more enthusiasm for his accomplishments than Loki's, and looked to the fair eldest son whenever talk turned to the future. It was subtle, but he noticed the difference, felt it keenly, and was hurt that neither his father nor his brother seemed aware of it at all. Even more did he feel the gap between himself and Thor in their father's eye when he went to the Allfather one morning, proudly declaring how he had bested all others in feats of the mind rather than strength.

Odin's response could have been said to be unmoved, if one wanted to be polite.

Only his mother seemed truly proud of him, only she ever seemed to see him the same way she saw Thor. It was some comfort to know she, if no one else, valued him for who he was and not what he might become.

Loki eventually learned to keep his own company. While his brother and their friends would tear through the castle and its grounds and eventually all of Asgard playing their boisterous games, Loki would find quiet places where he could be by himself and read, or play his own private games, or just sit and watch the world working around him. There wasn't much point in trying to keep up with the ruffians he and Thor were meant to be interacting with when he was so inept in that regard. The fact was that he and the other children – and even he and Thor when he thought about it – had very little in common. His interests lay in the way of puzzles, of riddles, and of the old tales that told of clever escapades. When his father would sit and tell them of the old times and wars long past, Loki would think over how he would have carried himself had he been there himself. How would he have served the cause to best advantage? His imaginings always had him steering the events at a slight distance, playing sides against one another and sparing as much of his own army as possible.

As opposed to Thor and the others, whose only strategy when strength failed seemed to be to add more strength, or a faster blade, or a heavier blow. No subtlety, only raw power interested them.

Which would explain why he did not interact with them. He found instead that there was an awful lot one could learn simply by being still and listening; from observing. There were many forests and wild places around Asgard's capitol, many of which Loki was not allowed to wander into alone because of the dangers they presented to a young Prince of the Realm, but he did so anyway, feeling the need to be away from anyone and everyone who knew him by sight. He spent some of his time in such places, hidden in the branches of trees or nestled in coves and would watch the different beasts and birds he read about in his classes. Occasionally he would espy hunting parties or lone woodsmen and would trail them carefully, studying their movements and strategies. It was all most instructive, and Loki filed away everything he learned.

When he wasn't playing squirrel amongst the trees, he discovered he had a talent for finding good hiding places within the castle, as well. Loki learned even more when he chose to stay within doors. By finding little used corners, keeping quiet and stretching his ears, Loki learned more of court life – the face of it and its hidden, secret machinations – than any book or tutor could have hoped to teach him. He doubted even his father, with his far seeing eye and deep plans, knew all the details that Loki overheard while sitting quietly in the halls of his own castle.

It was a world none of his peers would even think to look for. They were all too preoccupied with themselves that they heard nothing but their own clamoring, saw nothing beyond their next mock battle.

He wasn't sure what it was that brought their attention back to him, but eventually that came to pass as well. Perhaps it was simply because it had been so long since he had last played with them, and he happened to be in the same garden that the whole unruly lot was using as their latest 'battlefield'. On seeing him, they howled like a pack of wolves and two peeled off to charge him, toy swords hefted and at the ready.

Loki had been using the garden, a small walled off one, as an area to try laying some of the traps and snares he had seen the huntsmen use to catch game. When the two children came at him he had just finished one meant for deer that used a nearby tree as leverage.

In an instant the young Prince saw how perfect the situation truly was. He had a trap and he had bait to draw them in, unsuspecting, and be caught: himself. Feigning a look of terror when in fact he was near enough to laughter, Loki scrambled up the tree just slow enough to make his pursuers think they could catch him, when he could have been sitting in the topmost limbs in a flash.

As his fingers gripped the rough bark of a low branch and he swung his legs up high to hook into the next one up, there came a startled shriek from behind him, quickly followed up by angry shouts aimed at Loki. When he looked down he saw one of his pursuers, red faced and screaming high pitched profanities after him, hanging upside down by a single foot in Loki's practice snare. The second boy was staring open mouthed, not moving to help his friend in the least. Loki, safe in the slender branches of his tree, grinned widely, then began to laugh. He laughed so hard he nearly fell from his perch.

It was just as well he did not, for the only other one to see any humor in the situation was his brother Thor, who had been hidden from Loki's sight in the group that had come to the garden. He saw all, and he was the only one to laugh, and he did so quite heartily to see his little brother triumph over the two larger boys. Everyone else stared up at the young Prince with dark, scowling faces, angry to have been bested by one they all knew to be one of the weakest among them. Such dishonor bit deeply into a child's pride, and it would be a long time healing.

Long after the irate boy had been cut down from the tree by his friends – Loki had refused to do so on the grounds that it was more entertaining to watch them do it – he and Thor were back within the confines of their rooms and the bluff blond had clapped his brother on the shoulder.

"Most excellent, little brother," he'd said amidst his laughter. "You have triumphed in battle, and against a stronger foe than yourself!"

Loki had flushed a little at this frank praise. It happened so seldom that anyone acknowledged his actions, be they triumphs or failures, that he couldn't help but feel satisfied. But still he felt a small niggling of doubt, even through his pleasure. He remembered the dark looks, the low mutterings as the other children left the garden, and it seemed that it could only bode ill for him in the future.

"But Thor, didn't the others seem angry when they left?"

"Bah!" Thor tossed the concern aside, and then himself across his bed. He picked up an old book he was meant to be studying – and which Loki had already read cover to cover weeks before – with a grimace. "Tis but a passing thing. No one likes to be bested so unexpectedly. When they've had some time to see the cleverness of your trap, Loki, they will admire you for it, and their looks will be much friendlier."

But Thor's prediction was ill aimed, indeed. When Loki arrived in the gardens by Thor's side, he was met by a nearly palpable wall of aggression. None admired Loki for his trick, their anger had not ebbed. They said nothing of it before Thor, who was known to be defensive of Loki even if he did not fight his battles, but through the course of the day they made it well known to the younger brother what they thought of his victory.

To each of them it had seemed a most unfair ploy, a foul trick against those who expected naught but a fair fight. To them, now, Loki was considered not only a weakling, but a coward as well, fooling his enemies into traps when the true test of a warrior's mettle was in the strength of his arm and the fleetness of his foot. He was fleet enough, they owned, but his arm was as weak as a sapling's bough.

Loki could not understand it. Always it had been that he who prevailed was the one most admired, the one whom all others praised and clapped on the back. Why was it that when he was the one who triumphed, the admiration was nowhere to be found, only hostile looks were affixed to him? Was his method all to blame, the hunter's snare? But it was so simple, and the only probable way Loki would ever be victorious in their games. As they loved to point out, his arm was comparatively weak, so he must use what he could if he wished to win. It seemed more unfair of them to begrudge him his method than it was of him to use cleverness rather than brawn.

From then on it became a kind of challenge for Loki to test out his newest traps, snares and tricks on his so-called friends, those he learned and then eventually those of his own making. He almost never spent the days in play with them, their animosity and Loki's preference to remain solitary making it more plausible that he would be found far from their loud sport. But he still set his traps where they would be sure to stumble on them. None were sure if this were a day when one of them would find themselves snared into a tree, dunked in the lake, flipped into bushes, dumped into a hog's pen or just covered from head to foot in tar. It earned him no more friends, and in fact lost him some of the ones he'd had. He earned himself the reputation of a sneak and a trickster, more especially when his pranks became more elaborate. As his skills honed his pranks changed from those that resulted in the humiliation of his targets by leaving them in compromising positions, or filthy or sopping clothes, to elaborate schemes of manipulation and careful subtlety that left them in much more embarrassing social awkwardness. Loki always considered it a more successful venture when his victim was left unaware of who had put them in the situation, though it was becoming more and more common for Loki to be automatically blamed for anything that went wrong, even when he had nothing to do with it.

And Loki found he didn't care, less so as time went on and the difference between himself and the others became more apparent. As time passed it became obvious that how Loki viewed the world and how the others did were vastly different. They saw it as a giant playground full of battles and feasts and tests of personal strength; one great, unending campaign as far as the eye could see. To Loki it was a kind of game, a subtle interplay of action, reaction and intention that could be manipulated by one with enough insight and skill. Trying to preserve that kind of outlook in the company of louts would be a kind of torture to Loki. And as for Thor…

Thor was a special kind of thorn in Loki's side. He loved his brother dearly, he was his best friend who even now stood stoutly by his side when all of their friends openly disliked him. He would hear not an ill word against Loki, and had been known to pick fights with those that could not keep their poor opinion of his younger brother to themselves. Thor was also the only one who would spend time with him willingly. While Loki did prefer his private time, it could be lonely, and he appreciated companionship from time to time. He was still very young, after all.

But there was an issue, a wrinkle in their relationship that Loki could not ignore. For no matter how much he loved his brother, nor how much Thor cared for him, there was a difference between them that intruded.

Thor was well liked.

It would be hard not to like Thor. His boisterous energy and good humor were as infectious as they were all encompassing, all accepting. He was a strong and cheerful boy, and quickly became everyone's favorite. And it was not only Loki and the other children who were so affected, either. Thor was loved by everyone, from the lowliest stable hand and chambermaid to the captain of guards and chief of secretaries. One could hardly turn a corner in the castle in Thor's company without finding someone whose face would light up at sight of the fair Prince. This was true even of Odin the Allfather.

It was something that Loki had long tried not to see, but it intruded on his awareness and soured his mood. There was no doubt in his mind that their father preferred Thor over him, and knew it must be because Thor was the stronger. It was relatively understandable. After all, Odin was the King of Asgard as well as their parent, and had to consider the future wellbeing of an entire Realm. When he looked on his sons he couldn't see only his children, but potential successors to his throne. His manner would thus be swayed by his perception of who was the fitter candidate for the throne.

But even with that understanding, it was painful. Need their father show his preference for the elder son in every look and word? Yes, Thor was the eldest, the strongest, and none his own age could match him, even several who were older and more experienced fell short of his young prowess. But did Loki's talents count for nothing? It was not so surprising to go unappreciated by his peers, but surely his father, wise as he was, could see the merits of cleverness?

But no. Loki was overlooked once again, and he found that the resentment blossoming in his heart was striking out at the one who had done the least to deserve it: Thor.

His brother had really done nothing to warrant the bitterness Loki began to nurse for him, but it was there nonetheless. Thor was just so universally loved, while he was left unnoticed, or outright shunned. Worse yet, Thor seemed completely oblivious to how others, beyond those of their own age, treated them. The bluff boy still loved his little brother and saw them as equals, all while enjoying the better treatment, unaware. It was frustrating, made all the more so in that there was nothing Loki could do to change it. Everything he did to garner attention attracted the wrong sort, everything he tried to bring people closer to him only drove them further away.

One day when he was in an increasingly familiar orchard tree's boughs, he watched his brother at mock battle with his friends, at enough distance that he would be difficult to spot amid the leaves, but close enough to see all that they did. As he watched them all at play, he considered his own place among them, his talents and his feelings on it all when he heard a piping voice from the base of his tree.

"You're not playing with them," it said accusingly. "Are you planning another devil's trick?"

Loki had to crane to make out the face that was staring up at him through the branches. It was a pale girl's face, oval with large, owlish eyes and two plaited braids of golden hair that ran down her back. She was approximately his own, age and not exactly what he would have expected to see if someone had said 'young girl.' She looked more like a young lad, wearing dirty britches that stopped just below the knee, a tunic that was slightly too large and much worn, and mud spattered boots. Quite the opposite of what most little girls looked like in Loki's experience. But then, he didn't know very many little girls. Nor was he used to being found in his trees confronted by them. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"I am Sif, Warrior of Asgard," the girl said, placing small fists on hips and tipping up her chin haughtily. "And you are Loki, second son of Odin the Allfather, Thor's brother." She jerked her head towards the running boys. "Why are you watching from a tree? Are you afraid you will be thrashed?"

Loki decided he didn't like her, this Sif with the jutting chin and sniping tone. He sat back on his tree limb, one foot dangling free in the air as he turned his attention back to the boys and their antics.

After a minute or so of silence there came a thump, as of a small foot kicking a very old apple tree. "Hey! Why won't you come down? Are you afraid?"

Loki snorted and looked down again at Sif, whose brows had come together in a scowl, her lower lip now jutting out as far as her pointed chin. "Why don't you join them yourself, little warrior?" he asked rather nastily.

The girl flushed up to the roots of her fair hair, her eyes blazing. "I will! I have! But they chased me away," she added, a little of the defiance draining away. "Said a girl couldn't fight. But I'll prove a girl can be a warrior!" She held up a short staff, the kind that was given to young students of the fighting arts to practice with. Most likely she had stolen it, such things weren't given to children as young as her. Certainly never to girls.

The spunk and determination to prove herself against odds softened Loki's dislike a touch. He could sympathize with such a struggle. Feeling a small spike of kindness, he nodded toward the distant group. "Have you spoken with my brother? The others follow him like a pack of puppies, if you could get him to sympathize they might listen to you."

Sif glared up at him fiercely, as though she resented the implication that she might need help of any kind. "That has never helped you, has it? They don't listen to you even when Thor is your brother."

It was Loki's turn to flush scarlet, furious at the girl whom he'd just tried to help, throwing his sympathy back in his face.

The girl saw the flush and grinned up at him. It was the first smile he ever saw from her, and it was given at his expense. To his horror she began to trill up at him in a childish sing-song voice. "Little Prince Lo-ki is jeal-ous of his bro-ther, little Prince Lo-ki is jeal-ous—"

"I am no such thing," he snapped over her taunting song, feeling his face only become hotter under her glinting eyes, full of far too much understanding than he was comfortable with. "I am not jealous, you little guttersnipe. Thor just—"

"Gets more attention than you?" Sif interrupted, not at all perturbed at the name calling. "Gets more attention, because everyone loves him and they hate you?"

The words stung more than they should. He knew that everyone loved Thor, and a great many people, for whatever reason, did not seem overly fond of him. But he didn't think it was hate, not as such. The children might dislike him, and the servants all behaved a little more closed off around him than with his brother… And then there was that strange look that came into his father's eye whenever he looked at him, a tightness to his mouth that Loki could never quite interpret…

Loki pulled away to hide the expressions flickering over his face. Was it hate he saw hidden in his father's eye, was it distaste that twisted his lip? Was it because he was disliked by his father that he could not gain any favor, any approval for his rare talents and cunning?

"I am not jealous," the young Prince said. But even to his own ears the words rang false.

"Liar," came the hateful reply from the roots of the tree. "Loki the Liar."

As the footfalls of a small child wearing large boots floated back to him, Loki began planning how best to snip those golden pigtails off of her disrespectful head.

...

Then came the day when Loki discovered his second strength, that which would put him on more even ground with his peers and would complement his intelligence beautifully. But most importantly, would make him the equal of his brother at last.

He discovered his talent for magic.

It was small at first, tiny in measure to be sure, but present nonetheless, and it filled Loki with a dizzy sizzling in his blood. All it was that woke his powers was lighting a candle. A tiny flame that leapt from his fingers to the wick – burning his fingertips in the process – but it was enough. That single spark lit the fire of ambition in Loki's heart. He studied all he could without instruction, determined that when he revealed this new found talent to all it should be suitably impressive and leave none, absolutely none in any sort of doubt that the second Prince of Asgard was just as worthy as the first.

His studies went well, with only the occasional mishap that had him nursing burnt fingers or seeking out new inkwells when his own popped into nothing. Even without the aid of instructors – who would be very scandalized to learn a Prince of the Realm was doing something as hazardous as he was – Loki made rapid progress. He knew from what he read and by what he could do without proper training that his new talent was considerable, rare in its strength, and he allowed himself to dream that it was something not seen in Asgard for generations. Something, perhaps, that would garner him the recognition and praise he ached for.

He studied until he was sure he would see the text of obscure scrolls floating before his eyes in dreams for years. He practiced until he was sure he could impress his father and all the court at the same time with his magical gifts.

At the next feast, by dint of great concentration that had the sweat running into his eyes, Loki was able to raise a dozen of the large platters heaped with food five feet off of the boards and set them orbiting the heads of the guests. They only made a single circuit, and Loki was barely able to set them down again without shattering crockery and spilling roast pork and bread everywhere. He collapsed back into his chair, exhausted but thrilled by his success. He had done it, and everyone had seen! His father, his mother, Thor, all of the court, they had seen what he could do. There would be no denying him now!

It was as well then that he was too flushed with his success to fully register the expression that briefly graced both his father's craggy features and his mother's smooth ones. The look of startled anguish. They were looks that would have dashed all of Loki's hopes in an instant. It was as well that to Loki's dazed senses there were only surprised shouts and grinning faces, and that of his brother floating as the nearest and dearest to him.

His formal lessons, when they began, were more than he had hoped for. They added a whole new dimension to the rest of his studies, a depth that made everything else more meaningful, more interconnected than before. The universe began to open up for Loki in ways he hadn't imagined, not even after he'd burnt his fingers on that very first spark. If his lessons added hours' worth of study and practice to every day, in addition to all of his previous ones, then they were worth every second of reading dusty tomes and migraine-inducing training.

So absorbed was he in the marvels of his unfolding talents and the new courses of knowledge that they made available to him, that it took some time for him to notice the change in behavior of those around him. But rather than recognition or praise, his other instructors – specifically, those that taught the martial arts of his curriculum – despaired of ever making further progress with him and all but gave over his time in the sparring halls to his own judgment. Such would have been his choice, except that Loki found the neglect had a negative impact on how the rest of the training boys viewed him. While the young Prince utilized his time by turning his attention to what he considered to be more important and interesting – his burgeoning magic – the rest of the boys' veiled and mild dislike became barely disguised contempt. A boy who was a poor spar partner but who still made the effort was worthy of derision, but also a begrudging respect. One who spurned the sparring in favor of magic, but still remained in the hall as though he were still a warrior-in-training, was a lad worthy of contempt – even if he were a Prince.

Loki did his best to ignore them all. His compensation was magic, and he would find ways to use it and his more agile mind to make him the equal of any lumbering warrior.

Outside the sparring circle were the friends that still followed his brother around like a perpetual cloud, and for a brief time Loki thought he might become more accepted in that group, if not his circle at the training hall. There too his hopes were thwarted. As always, it was the immediate and observable show of prowess that reaped acceptance. Possessing a talent for magic, in and of itself, did not qualify. They insisted that one must defeat their foe 'in battle' to be considered worthy, but Loki was strictly forbidden from using his magic against anything living, and dirt stained brats would count. The best he could do was to create pretty lights or set small objects swooping through the air.

"Worry not, brother," had said his one staunch supporter, in this as in all things. "I know what progress you are making, and what an asset you will be in the field of battle. The others will come to see it as well, with time."

"Thank you, Thor," Loki replied, sincerely wishing that he could erase the envy and resentment that dwelled in him against his brother. Why was it that he only felt simmering anger against they that actively disliked him and tormented him, but for he who loved and supported him, he could not ignore the stone of bitterness in his heart? There must be something wrong with his heart, he decided, that it should betray him so cruelly. Instead of telling Thor of how he fought with his treacherous heart, however, he said, "Thor, have you heard of the little maid Sif? She says she wants to be a warrior…"

Even the servants, so distant that they were barely perceptible to Loki most of the time, somehow made their feelings on his burgeoning talents known. From the whisperings he heard in his hidden places about the castle, the feeling on magic in general was distrust. It was a component in everyday life, it was true, but always in small amounts, in little things that went by without much notice. Magic was known to be tricky stuff that harnessed the raw potential of chaos. Magic was the medium, in fact, by which chaos was bound and shaped into something that was useful without destroying the order of the universe. Magic in large amounts made people uneasy; it seemed very much like tempting fate. And as for he or she who wielded these powers, they were trusted perhaps least of all. The sorcerer may be an honorable and true Æsir, but chaos had a way of changing whatever it touched. A sorcerer came into contact with it constantly and could not help but be altered. If their morals or their allegiances were what was altered… then who could trust a man with the powers of chaos at his fingertips?

They didn't trust him. Loki could see it in the way they watched him, how they moved around him, now. More than distrust, they feared him. Him. Loki. They feared their own Prince though he was but a child and the weakest of his circle.

Still, it might have been bearable. He might have endured it all, if not happily then at least somewhat contentedly, even with all of his peers and sparring partners disliking him and the servants casting him nervous glances out of the corners of their eyes. He might have, but for one thing still denied him.

Despite all he was achieving, Odin the Allfather, and more to the point, his father, still demonstrably preferred his eldest son over his youngest.

Loki was no fool. In fact it was precisely because he was no fool that he did not understand. Simply being a clever, intelligent child on its own may not have been enough to put him on an equal footing with his brother, who merited both great strength and personality to make the best use of it. As such Loki could understand how he might receive less consideration from his father. It hurt, but he could understand that more was at stake in a royal family than in an ordinary one. But now, when he had both his intelligence and a magical talent that every instructor was calling the most potent they had ever seen, the Allfather's benevolent eye still shone more brightly for Thor.

Loki was no fool, and could understand that if his father's preference did not stem from their comparative abilities, from their potential as rulers, then it must be the result of a more personal predilection. Even though Loki now showed at least as much potential as a future King, Odin still showed more affection and partiality to Thor. The only reason Loki could think of for that was as simple as it was hurtful.

Odin loved Thor more than him. With all things equal, Odin clearly loved Thor more than Loki.

Why? What was wrong with him that his father could not look on him as he did Thor? Was there something wrong with him that kept his father's love at bay? He'd thought it often enough himself to believe it true, and fancied he could see something in Odin's eye, some watchfulness that was an echo of those the servants shot at him. Did Odin know of some secret flaw in Loki, and that was why there was this intangible barrier between them? What was it, and how could he, Loki, correct it?

Such were his thoughts when he found some time to himself, his emotions a confused muddle of pain and anger winning out over all. Such was his state of mind when he was challenged by one of his sparring circle partners to some unofficial practice.

It was a farce, of course, a challenge to draw Loki out and be beaten. One to one and fist against fist Loki was no match and everyone knew that. The only reason one would have to challenge him would be to humiliate him.

Loki was tired, angry and ready to lash out. Knowing there was no way he could win in a sparring match, Loki still accepted.

They met in an open glade with a lake standing near and several curious youngsters standing by. And there, against everyone's expectations, Loki bested his opponent.

His instructors said that he could not use magic against a living being, should the chaos slip his control and harm them, but no one said he could not use the magic as a tool to deceive his opponents into working against themselves.

As his challenger thought he was charging Loki in a final tackle, he ran right through a shade in Loki's image and plunged headfirst into the lake, flailing up again a few moments later caked in mud and the clinging slime left by weeds and ducks.

The impromptu audience of children stared, shocked, as Loki laughed at the disreputable sight his foe now presented.

"Cheat!" the mud-boy shrieked in rage and consternation. "Cheat and sneak! It's not fair to use such tricks in an honorable duel, oh Prince!"

"On the contrary!" Loki crowed in return, his own clean clothes and immaculate hair a fine contrast to the spluttering boy that smelled of sludge and ducks. "I believe that the purpose of a duel is to outmaneuver one's opponent. You, sir, have been outmaneuvered. You have been outthought! Were you less a dullard, it would be I who was a fit companion for lake fish!"

The boy glared up at him, his eyes flashing hate through the mud. "Still a cheat," he growled. "You are not allowed to use magic in battles, everyone knows that! When the Allfather hears—"

"Yes?" Loki cut in coldly, his voice taking on a dangerous, unfamiliar tone. "And what would the Allfather hear? That you mistook a simple shade for his son, that you lost a duel due to your lack of thought, your inability to sense a trap? That you are a fool, a dullard, an overconfident imbecile?"

"That you used glamour and piskie tricks!" the boy screamed, attempting to scrabble out of the lake and onto the bank.

Loki tossed his head and laughed. "But my friend, I was only showing you the wonder of my newest ability! And what harm could there be in that?"

The boy opened his mouth as though to argue, but he saw the cock of Loki's head, the gleam in his green eye, the ready curl of one of his hands lifted beside his face. He saw the tiny, ready sparkle of light dance around his fingers. He saw the promise in the young Prince's face and his mouth snapped shut, his head bowed.

"You have bested me, my Prince," his mumbled into the surface of the lake. "I acknowledge your superior skill and abilities."

Perhaps it was the subservience that did it, or simply seeing one who had thought to make him the butt of a joke laid low himself, or perhaps it was the looks on all of the observers' faces, the look of surprise and a dawning respect, but that one incident spurred many others like it. With or without the approval of his instructors, the young Prince became something of a hazard around the castle. He used his magic wherever and whenever he could, making things that were not real appear, things that were real seem to disappear, and other things take on a floating, gliding life of their own. He was careful never to cause any harm – that would surely land him in a world of trouble – but kept most of his pranks illusory and all of them harmless. Still, they had the power to startle, and Loki came to see that those around him feared his potential.

Fine, let them fear. Fear was a kind of respect, of recognition, and a compliment to his talents. It was high time he started to receive that, and if this was the only way to come by it, then so be it.

It was the only time Thor chastised him for anything, and it was halfhearted at best. It was difficult to take such things seriously when Loki knew that his brother, whatever objections he had for his pranks, still defended him against others who would speak against him.

Only once did Loki think he would get into serious trouble as a result of his pranks, and it was very instructive. It was a lesson, a dark lesson and insight to the hearts of his kinsmen, who all held honesty and stalwartness in such high regard. The creed of all Asgard was closely tied to the codes of battle – everything simple, straightforward and true, one's word was their bond and woe betide the man or woman who broke an oath. It was why Loki's own sideways tricks were seen to be barely on the right side of honorable, and many were not even so kind as that. Cleverness had the disturbing potential for deceit and manipulation, and that was reason enough for mistrust.

Yet Loki learned that there was a worse kind evil than deceit alone, a kind of lie within itself. It was hypocrisy, and that, despite the high standards of the Realm, was alive and well in the hearts of all Æsir.

It was the Lady Freyja that taught him this important lesson, the wife of Lord Óðr. Loki had grown bored of playing his jokes on children and servants. The former were becoming too acclimated to them and the latter were becoming skittish as mice whenever he was near. It was time for a new crop of people to play his little jokes on, which led him to the adults of rank.

He had given it great consideration, as the jokes he played on dirty children and subservient adults – some of them not even Æsir – would not be appropriate for noble born Lords and Ladies. So he determined to play something more devious and subtle against his first Lady victim.

The Lady Freyja was known to be vain. Exceedingly so according to the murmurings in the corridors, and took especial pride in her many jewels and baubles. Some were from the dwarfs themselves, the finest of craftsmen of any Realm, and it was rare to see the Lady with fewer than two such glittering treasures adorning her graceful throat or her pretty fingers. Loki's plan was to sneak into her chambers while she and her Lord husband were out, spirit away her entire collection of fine jewelry and replace them with chains of flowers, nets of grasses and stones no more precious than pebbles. The jewels he would hide in her very chambers, in a place neither she nor her husband would have cause to check – so they could not be said to be stolen – and the raiment's of nature he would dress in illusions so clever none would know them false. Not until he banished the illusion.

The feast that was planned, and to which she, her Lord, and practically every high born Æsir was meant to attend would be the perfect time.

Just to imagine the Lady Freyja, so proud and preening like a peacock before all the high Lords and Ladies – but especially the Lords – to suddenly find herself bedecked as a girl from the woods, a trapper's brat or forest piskie instead of one of Asgard's elite! Such a shade she would blush! And serve her right for her preening, there would hardly be a soul who would fail to enjoy the spectacle.

All went as the Prince had arranged. The Lord and Lady left their chambers, Loki slipped in with arms laden with Nature's finest fashioned into adornments suited for a noblewoman, and left with the shining jewels hidden in the trunk filled with winter furs and the leaf and branch 'jewels' suitably disguised and in place.

That evening at the feast the Lady appeared, as proud and fawning over her own beauty as ever, her Lord following more at her side than she at his, and to Loki's hidden glee she made a point of drawing eyes to her fine 'gems' through the evening.

As the evening drew into night and there were signs of fatigue, there came the round of final toasts, when the Lords and Ladies and notable warriors at the table would stand and honor their host the Allfather with words and raised flagons.

The Lord Óðr made a very pretty speech, though a little slurred through his mead, his Lady Freyja standing beside him, flushed and smiling prettily, and even adding a few words of her own to the end of her husband's toast. A murmur of approval went around the table, Odin nodded his great shaggy head in recognition, and it was then, while all eyes were affixed to the pair that Loki waved his hand beneath the table boards and banished the illusion he'd placed on the Lady Freyja's 'jewels.'

For a moment no one seemed to notice the change, that the glittering jewels at her throat had become a wreath of slightly wilted blossoms, her hair net of fine silver studded with tiny diamonds a weave of grasses and acorns, or the rings on her fingers little daises with twisted stems. As it was noticed, however, it was like a wave of awareness that washed around the great table, a ripple of whispers, points and the occasional muffled chuckle. Odin, on noting the change the Lady's personal decoration, immediately looked down the table to his youngest son, who could not contain the grin that stretched to his ears. Odin's expression was difficult to read as ever, but Frigga's, when she cast her eyes down on Loki, was openly horrified.

Lady Freyja seemed to be the last to notice the change in her own attire. She heard the whispers, sensed the change in focus and was casting her eye up and down the table, seeking the source of the disturbance. It was only when she caught her Lord's eye, staring at her that she thought to check herself. Then all knew she became fully aware of her humiliation.

She shrieked.

It seemed she did not enjoy all forms of attention, after all.

In the chaos that followed none noticed the little Prince being taken away from the table by his mother, nor the dark look that passed between King and Queen as she did so. Once in private, Loki became only too aware of how much trouble he was in as his mother began a long tirade of scolding. When he explained where the real jewelry was she relented a little, but not much. It wasn't the pecuniary damage that she was concerned with, but his intention to cause humiliation, public pain. Loki couldn't help but feel some pride in his mother's priorities, even as they resulted in his punishment.

They were nearly finished with their scolding, Loki being marched to his chambers when the Lady Freyja herself swerved into view, her face red and twisted in ire, a single blossom caught in her hair and the rest of her bower missing – torn from herself disdainfully, it would seem.

The furious noblewoman bore down on the two of them, Loki in particular, all considerations of rank and propriety forgotten in her rage. "You!" she spat when she came within earshot, pointing a long nailed finger in his face. "You little troll! How dare you make a fool of me before all the court!"

Frigga, at first taken aback, took a step forward, inserting herself between her son and her subject, leveling her cold stare on the latter. "Lady Freyja," she said, every syllable a shard of ice falling from her lips. "I would ask that you remember whom it is you are addressing."

But the Lady was beyond the touch of reprimands. Her vanity had been bruised, the admiring stares turned to laughter. Her pride would not allow her to be intimidated or mollified. "I remember very well, my Queen. I am addressing a hooligan and troublemaker in Princely garb! No one has ever dared to insult me thus, none, my Queen! And where, I would like to know, had the little monster spirited away my proper jewels?"

"He tells me they have not left your chambers, Lady," Frigga told her, her tone, if anything, possessing even less warmth than before. "If you would be so good as to check your winter furs, I believe you will find them. If you do so now," she said pointedly, "I may forget this insolence you have displayed against a Prince of the Realm."

Before the Lady could reply, Loki looked out at her from behind his mother's protective frame. "I thought you made a very handsome wood elf, Lady Freyja. You should try the natural appearance more often."

The Lady colored deeper until she resembled a beet, her beauty lost under a mask of wrath. "You horrid little—"

"Do not worry! Even if I hid them, you could always go back to the dwarfs for more pretty things. I'm sure they would be more than willing."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"That the metal smiths would welcome your business, and what you have to trade," the boy said blandly, and felt his mother go rigid at his words. The Lady's face, too, became very still, the color draining unevenly and leaving it an ugly patchwork of red and white. They both knew what he meant, but he took a delight in spelling it out. "It's not often a Lady of Asgard is willing to lie with them, not even for their pretty trinkets. They were raised from maggots, were they not?" he asked his mother, and then turned an innocent eye back to Freyja. "Does that make you diseased flesh?"

"Foul child," the Lady gasped when she could speak, her lips trembling in rage and shock. "How dare you- how dare you speak such foul lies-! Before the Queen, as well, besmirching my name!"

"Twas you besmirched it when you parted your legs for vermin gifts," Loki said tritely, and heard his mother take a breath at his words.

"Lies! The boy lies!" she cried, growing paler every second. "All putrid tales that fall from his wicked tongue! You must not believe him, my Queen!"

Loki looked up at his mother, and saw that she, too, had grown quite pale during the exchange, and now seemed torn, looking between the irate Lady and her son. He could see by her expression that she knew he spoke the truth, that the Lady's accusations were all false, and waited patiently for her to say so. She could not possibly defend the harlot who insulted her own son before her eyes when she knew the truth of it.

And yet: "Loki, what you have said is most hurtful. You will apologize for your words and for your prank. And then we will hear no more of this entire affair."

Loki stared, mouth agape, disbelieving his own ears. Surely they would sooner betray him than his own mother? But no, she prodded him when he failed to speak at once, and Loki was forced to apologize not only for his bit of fun, but for revealing the truth where another had told falsehood. He had to suffer the name 'liar' when it was the Lady who had deceived, and felt the sting most when Frigga refused to meet his eye.

It wasn't long after that incident, as Loki considered all that it might mean, that he heard, as he often did, two ladies in waiting speaking to each other in private tones as they went about their business.

"Did you hear what the young Prince said of the Lady Freyja?" asked one.

"Who has not? Who would have thought our Prince could dream up such tales?"

"So different from his brother, he is. Hard to believe he's from the same stock, is it not?"

"True," agreed the second maid thoughtfully. Then she chuckled. "He has such a talent for falsehoods and mischief, he's turned it into quite an art."

The first joined her chuckles. "Yes. Loki, the Liesmith!"

And they moved on, leaving behind a small Prince in turmoil. He was not respected for his cleverness or his skill, but he was feared for his potential and renowned for being a liar when he was nonesuch. His father disliked him for unknown reasons and his mother did not defend his name. His brother loved him, but took all that Loki desired so much without effort. All Loki did seemed in vain. He would ever be the lesser brother, the coward, the sneak, and the liar. And now he even had a title.

If it were to be his fate, then why not embrace it?

In the lonely, echoing halls, young Prince Loki, the Liesmith, thought to himself: Why not?

...

They called him the Sly One, Trickster, the Father of Lies. And yet how often had they all relied on his skills, his cunning and his magic over the years, those things they so despised and yet could not seem to do without?

They called him Liesmith, a name that told everyone that any words falling from his lips were false. But how many lies need he tell when the truths those around him clothed themselves in were so damaging? And yet none would believe him should he reveal those shameful truths them, for he was 'Liesmith.'

The greatest lies were those one told themselves, and Loki told himself that his title was an honor.

…

A/N2: Norse spellings are going to be my bane this year, I can sense it. On the up side, all of this has kicked off a huge bout of self-study on anything and everything to do with Norse mythology. It's quite fun.

Continuity Disclaimer: This is going to be a standard disclaimer attached to every fic I post that has to do with the Avengers, so everyone knows where I'm coming from in terms of characters and world canon.

For the most part, assume that I am coming from only the movies. Iron Man 1 & 2, The Incredible Hulk, Thor, Captain America, and Avengers – and any sequels that come after these unless mentioned otherwise. I realize that I'm missing out on worlds of story and character development, but I would be starting from square one and 50+ years of backstory, (each individual character's series(es), the team series(es) and any/all crossovers or notable appearances), is more than a little daunting. So as much as I want to know everything about everything – trust me, this is really frustrating for me – I just can't. I'm picking my battles and this one is a 'nope.' So as a result my Avengers fics will not have 'comic book depth' to them. Sorry.

What will they have? The movies, of course, one or two short comic arcs that I've been convinced to pick up that will have little to no effect on the continuity, Norse mythology – since I do read that – and any details that I can pick up from other fans or that I research on my own. The result of all of this is usually going to be a sort of fusion that hopefully works and isn't too confounding for anyone. :)

Thanks for reading, my darlin's!