Disclaimer: I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

Look Right Through Me

They take their god away, speaking in hushed whispers, and he knows; knows that they speak of him, even blame him, for the fate that has fallen upon the Allfather. Though the reasons are rather unclear, he has no doubt that it has all been piled on far too thick. His jealousy, his anger, even his fool brother's well-deserved banishment.

Yet, even as Loki had crumbled, unraveled that great lie, all that could be seen in his father's eye was Thor.

He remembers the shock, the chill, slithering up his arm as he had touched Odin's hand. A chill, perhaps his own fear, which had outmatched that of the Casket. Where the god had fallen, he remains, clad in the dark, embraced by the cold of the chamber. He has refused to leave, to find refuge in his mother's arms.

The prince wants nothing to do with the warmth of a long lie.

Frigga comes without warning, the flames flickering to life atop the torches as her hands reach him. She says nothing; sits behind him with her arms thrown over his shoulders. An awkward embrace. But he can feel her fear, her anxiety, that bizarre trembling within her chest as she wonders what more can go wrong, what more she can lose.

"You knew." It is not a question.

The goddess speaks in but a whisper, "Of course."

He sneers, shakes her off, stares deep into her eyes. "You said nothing." He grabs her arms, knotting his fingers in her flesh, willing himself not to scream. "Why? Was Thor not good enough? Did you seek the opportunity to raise a monster?"

It is a moment that she spares, looking him over with uncertainty. Pity, or perhaps fear.

A step down the stairs, and he turns his back on her, feeling her eyes follow him down the corridor. He reaches for the relic, the Giants' precious power, the whisper of her distant breath snaking its way into his ear.

"Don't."

His eyes burn as he looks to her, perched atop the stairs, more fragile than he's ever seen. But he has no pity for her, being burdened with his own horrendous affliction. Staring up at her, he feels so much smaller than he is. Like a child, unable to have what it is that he wants.

And he wants only truth.

"And why not?" Loki's fingers graze the artifact, the cold numbing itself away as ice sweeps across his skin, the faint pattern of the Jotunns filling in across his heated brow and flushed face. "Can you tell me, in honesty, that you have ever felt love for the offspring of monsters?"

She has only ever loved Thor, he tells himself, loved the golden son of the great Odin; fabricated the affection she claimed to hold for him in these years. It's no wonder he feels this way; hates his so-called brother.

Her silence is torturous, but he cannot call out to her. He cannot bring himself to speak to her as before. To let slip this brand of lie from his silver tongue.

Mother.

"Knowing what I am... Why would you not tell me?!" His voice trembles, echoes faintly through the chamber, that beat in his chest pounding harder, and Frigga turns herself away, as if to shun him. He breaks. "Can you not stand the sight of me?!"

His bright eyes shine, mirrored by the cold shade that coats his flesh. The same frigidity, the same color, the same monstrosity as Jotunheim. And it is that same sickening feeling that fills him again. The horror he had felt in battle upon that frosted world. He bellows again, the sound shaking him to the core.

He does not see her come.

"This," their hands touch, "means nothing." She pulls him from the Casket, the color fading from his skin. As Loki falls to his knees, the goddess takes him in her arms. "Birth does not define you, my son. But your actions will... like your brother..."

And it sickens him that, even in his mourning, his shock, his utter disgust, all his mother can think about is that bastard, Thor.