Loki, He is my Son
When Loki is a very young child, he is almost desperately affectionate.
There is scarcely a moment, Frigga finds, when he is not at her feet, trailing after her and seeking her attention, wanting to be lifted and held.
He hugs her constantly, and tightly for a boy so small and frail. He puts his arms around her neck and crushes his face to her shoulder, as though he's trying to hide away from the world completely, tiny fingers clinging and burying in the material of her gowns.
To Thor he does the same, but his older brother is already of an age where he is beginning to look unfavorably upon such open displays of feeling, and of late, he has been shoving Loki away, scowling at him and telling him to stop.
Loki is yet too young to understand it, and frequently now, Frigga has had her youngest son running into her rooms, crying and his arms held out, wanting frantically to know why Thor hates him so much now.
She tries to explain to him that Thor doesn't hate him at all, that it's just his age, that he's becoming concerned with appearances and reputation amongst his peers. But Loki doesn't grasp such a concept, and he sobs into her chest, distraught beyond consolation.
His attachment to her only grows then. He stays by her side more frequently, hardly a day passing when she doesn't find him following her to her dayroom or out to the gardens, remaining by her side for hours, until the evening meal comes, and then even he sits by her side and touches her constantly.
Odin has complained to her that she is pampering the child, that he is becoming dangerously dependent upon her when he should be out with Thor and his friends, getting into trouble.
"He is only at that age." She has told him in reply. "He feels safest with his Mother. He will grow out of it soon enough, as Thor has."
She says nothing of her own, private sadness at the thought.
Loki is the child of her heart, even as Thor is the child of her womb. She loves them both dearly and in equal measure. But Loki is hers, in the way Thor is his Father's.
The thought of him ever leaving her side makes her ache deep, even as she acknowledges and accepts that, some day, it must happen.
Until then, she will welcome his closeness and return it fully.
/
When Loki is to her waist in height, she begins teaching him to fight.
He is still incredibly small, a good head shorter than Thor and all his friends. Inches shorter even than all the other children his age. And he has yet to grow out of his frailty.
Frigga had worried, when Odin had first brought him home, that eventually, his giant's heritage would catch up to him, and he would begin to sprout so tall and wide, that they would be incapable of hiding the truth of what he was from anyone.
But those fears have thus far proven unfounded.
Loki hardly grows at all, and the Queen begins to understand the full implications of what it means to be a runt.
Even among giants.
She doesn't think her second son will ever be very big or strong,
The fact of his demure size has affected negatively his already precarious place among his peers.
In the training rings, Loki is woefully lagging behind, and has so suffered mockery and laughter at his expense, both at the hands of the other children and even of his brother.
And even now, Loki remains a painfully sensitive thing.
Frigga is not sure if she will ever get from her mind the image of her youngest child's tears, weeping softly to himself and hidden away in the corner of his room, face and hair and clothes caked with dust and dirt, his little hands and face scrapped and cut up from the others being simply too rough for him. Too strong.
And so she teaches him now, combat based on speed and agility, rather than raw, brute strength.
Combat based on thought and trickery and cleverness.
"But won't the others call me a coward and a cheat?" Loki asks her pleadingly, eyes wide and filled with fear.
"Do not concern yourself with what others think and say child." Frigga tells him gently. "You will only find yourself trapped and unable to move forward."
He lets her guide him then, listening with the intentness and awe he has always shown to her. Her sweet, clever boy.
He struggles at first, and Frigga is unforgiving in her lessons. She will not coddle him here, because Loki must learn to defend himself. He must be strong in this. She knocks him to the ground innumerable times, until her son is bruised and bloody, and tears run down his pale, thin face.
He begs her several times to stop, and the Queen would be lying to herself if she claimed she weren't tempted to give in to his pleas.
But instead she shakes her head no, and explains to him why they cannot, before reaching down a hand and lifting him back to his feet, telling him "again.".
And Loki obeys, despite it all. He tries and tries and tries, until, after weeks and months, he finds himself less and less splayed upon the ground, learning to defend and counter and parry her strikes. He is naturally quick, like the wind, and he takes to the defense based combat like a fish to water.
And so then she carries it over to offense, and again, he finds himself struggling.
He is afraid to attack her.
"I don't want to hurt you Momma." He says softly, small hands clasping his practice daggers in a white knuckled grip.
Frigga laughs gently.
"Do no fret my darling." She says with a smile. "You will not."
/
Loki is a quiet child.
Ever has he been so. Even as a babe, when he would cry, he would not wail loudly, as other infants, but simply lay there, tears running down his face, only an occasional, softly uttered whimper escaping past his lips.
It is not the first time Frigga is struck by the vast contrast between her oldest and youngest.
Thor is as his namesake, loud, is seems, as the thunder.
His voice booms, even though he still is just a boy. And everything he does is broad, and encompassing. His presence demands attention, his approach always clear and obvious for the pound of his boots upon the stone floors. He is a mountain of a boy too, shoulders already wide as most men, chest as broad. He is a shambling mountain, as tall already as his Mother, with hands large and thick and already rough with callous'. He will be a fine and terrifying warrior when he reaches manhood, it is evident.
By comparison, Loki is silent as the night. He speaks rarely, and when he has occasion to, his voice is so soft, it can be a struggle to hear him at all. Nor do his movements create noise. More times than the Queen would openly admit, she has had to suppress a shocked gasp when he's called out for her from behind, having not heard his approach in the slightest.
Thor complains constantly of Loki's uncanny silence, saying he is like a shadow. Admitting that, often, he is not even aware his little brother is at his heels until he has whatever cause to turn around and finds him there, looking back.
"He is a strange thing." Thor says.
And Frigga knows Thor does not mean so unkindly. Loki is strange. He is unlike any child the Queen has ever known. But she nevertheless tells her oldest not to say any such thing to his brother. For Loki remains, as ever, sensitive and easily hurt, and he will take it ill to hear it.
/
Loki is to her shoulder. Today is his four hundredth name day. At least, as near to it as she and Odin were able to ascertain. It is the day they have declared as such, and that is all Loki knows. He believes them utterly, and it breaks her heart.
"We must tell him." She insists harshly to her husband, sequestered away in their chambers, voices hushed low.
"And what good will it gain him?" Odin asks in return, just as heated. "We will only confuse the boy. Only frighten him. He is already fragile in mind."
Frigga huffs in evident frustration.
"If we had told him from the beginning, we would not now be faced with such a dilemma! The longer we put this off, the more difficult it will become!"
"It is unwise!" The King barks. "Do you not see how the Jotnar are regarded here? He would be mocked, ridiculed by his own people!"
"Oh, you foolish, blind man!" She cries in return, hand coming up, trembling as it presses against her forehead. "Do you not see he already is!? Do you not hear the things people say? Do you not see the disapproving, withering looks the court throws him? They hardly try anymore to hide it!"
"And you think telling him now he is Jotun will improve such?!" He counters sharply. "They are a feared race among our people. A hated race. Ignorance though it may be, ignorance is not so easily stamped out. It will only make his life harder!"
"Ohh… by the Norns!" She curses, at last turning away, feeling the pained sting of tears in her eyes.
She doesn't know what to do.
She knows Odin is right. She knows to tell her son now what he is would only devastate him, and make what is already a hard life at court immeasurably harder. He already struggles so for any kind of happiness…
But she knows… she knows, deep in her heart, that not to tell him will in turn only lead to something so much worse. She can feel the sickening dread in her at the truth of that, and she doesn't know what to do.
/
The celebration is loud and raucous.
At the head of the table sits Odin, All-Father, King of Asgard. To his right, his Queen, Frigga All-Mother. To his left, Thor, first born, Crown Prince of the Realm.
To Frigga's right sits Loki.
He is quiet as always among the rabble and noise, the long table lined with courtiers and nobles and warriors alike.
Almost all's attention is focused on Thor. Thor, who is nearly now full grown, and already an experienced warrior. He speaks boisterously of his latest battle, received by the others with cheers and congratulatory slaps to the back.
It is meant to be Loki's celebration, but Frigga knows already, with growing despair, that her youngest has once again fallen to the shadows of her golden bright child.
Loki sits listless, his eyes fixed unseeing upon his nearly untouched plate of food.
He is too young yet to have fought in any battles. He receives no praise as does Thor.
"Do you recall Loki's last name day?" Sif suddenly interjects, when Thor's tale has come to its conclusion. "The hideous rock troll which attacked the city?"
Thor laughs loudly, banging his great fist upon the table, causing the entire thing to shudder under his power.
"Indeed!" He says. "A glorious day! I would not have let such a foul creature disturb my little brother's celebration!"
Every word from Thor's mouth seems an exclamation, excited and passionate.
Loki peers up at last at his elder sibling, but he says nothing.
"You fought well that day my son." Odin speaks, placing a strong hand upon Thor's shoulder, giving it a squeeze, rewarding the Crown Prince with a rare smile.
Frigga looks to Loki, seeing his eyes fixed still on Thor and Odin, his brow deeply lined and a small frown upon thin lips.
And with an awful start, she recognizes the expression upon his face as that of longing.
"It is unfortunate our second Prince was yet too little to join in the battle!" Fandral contributes. "But for his own safety, one understands why he was not allowed."
Loki looks away then, frame going rigid.
It is a backhanded insult if ever the Queen has heard one, and she cannot let it stand.
"Aye," she says, "but if you will recall, it was Loki's strategy which enabled you lot to lead the troll away from the city and trap it in the valley near the Eastern Mountains. Without Loki's input, a great many of our citizens would surely have perished that day, and the trolls defeat would not have come so easily."
There is a muted sound of half-hearted acknowledgment round the table, a small few halfway raising their glasses to the second Prince.
And then it is back to Thor, another of his tales of adventure, all eyes to him again.
A short while after, Loki tells his Mother he is tired, and wishes to retire for the evening to his chambers.
There is no surprise in the Queen at this.
Only drowning sadness.
She thinks, as the evening wares on, and the celebration goes long into the early morning hours, that she is the only one who notices Loki is gone at all.
/
Loki is eight hundred years old, and he is a man.
He towers over her now, a good head and shoulders, and only a few inches shy of Thor's own great height.
He is a man, and he has changed.
He does not smile anymore.
Not really.
Not truly.
He says little, but what he does say comes out, very often, sharp tongued and barbed. It is deemed by most a dangerous endeavor to engage the cold, second prince in a battle of words.
For Loki is, as he has ever been, frighteningly intelligent, and he will no longer hesitate to unmake and humiliate you with his razor wit and awful perceptiveness.
The ice Prince, they call him, and the irony is not lost on Frigga. The black Prince, others say.
In equal measure, there are those who regard the King's second son with contempt, and those who regard him with fear.
They who whisper of him in hushed and skittish tones, as though afraid he might hear and set upon them some wicked curse.
They think him emotionless and heartless. Uncaring and even cruel.
The Queen would laugh at such declarations, if the wrongness of them did not weigh so heavy on her heart.
They do not know her son.
To say her youngest feels nothing, oh, the fools…
It is that he feels too much. Too deeply.
Ever has it been so for him, and it is all he can do to protect his fragile heart.
All he can do, and still it is not enough, she realizes, as she stands within the threshold of his chambers, and watches him, and he does not know even that she is there.
He sits at his writing desk, head upon it, hands raised and buried, ripping at his black hair.
A hard shudder through his shoulders, a sharp gasp, and she hears a sound she heard near never from him, even as a babe.
He sobs, loud and broken and ugly.
And then again. And again. Over and over.
An open, wretched sound as he gives in to the strength of his pain.
Alone.
He thinks he is alone, Frigga realizes.
He would never allow himself this before others, and she can only guess that in his distress, he did not remember to ward his door against intruders.
She does not wish to think on what thing could cause such absentmindedness in her always viciously astute and aware son.
She thinks, as she watches him weep and buckle under the weight of sorrow, that it must not be any one particular thing. Only a near millennia of having his heart tread so thoughtlessly upon.
She moves, then.
He will be angry, at first, for this. He will try to push her away. She knows it even before she reaches him.
Some might say the kind thing would to be to walk away and let him remain ignorant to her having seen him like this.
But the Queen knows better.
To leave him now would only be to affirm to him his being alone. And he is not. He is not alone.
She closes the doors softly behind her, loud enough to alert him to her presence, however.
She sees him go rigid as stone, his sobs cutting off sharply, cleanly but for the struggle against a soft, barely heard whimper.
He doesn't turn around, and she sees his hands untangle themselves slowly from his hair. Sees him bring them to his face, wiping frantically, trying to rid himself of the evidence of his emotion.
"Loki." She says, gently, so that he knows it is her.
She sees his head bow, a hesitation.
"… Go away Mother." He replies.
He tries to sound cold, only the tremble through his voice gives him away.
"I will not." She says, stepping nearer.
Abruptly, Loki stands, his back still to her.
She sees his hand, fumbling a moment as it seeks purchase on the back of his recently abandoned chair, sees the way it trembles slightly as his fingers curl round the polished wood.
"I must insist…" he goes on, and his voice shakes harder now. He is struggling to control himself.
"Loki…"
"Please Mother!" He cuts her off, and there is a barely suppressed sob which threatens to break free. He is standing so rigidly, it looks as though he may snap in two if any pressure is applied, like a bow string pulled too taut.
For a moment, Frigga hesitates.
Oh, he is in pain. Her boy is in so much pain.
Her hands lift, and she waits there a moment, uncertain.
And then she watches as he lets go his grip on the chair, bringing his fisted hand to his mouth, the tremor working up his arm and through the rest of him. She hears the strangled whimper which slips past his lips, knows how miserably he tries to keep himself together when inside he is crumpling. And that decides it for her.
She closes the rest of the small distance between them, and without words, she closes her arms about his thin body, pulling him hard against her chest, pressing her face to his shoulder.
It breaks down whatever hold her youngest has left of himself, and he cries out, a loud and broken sob, a vicious shudder working through his frame.
"Oh Loki, Loki…" The Queen pleads softly, a hand coming up and finding her son's forehead, pressing firm against it, even as Loki bows his head in shame, hiding his face. "My child, my son, it is alright. It is alright."
Loki says nothing, only continues to stand there, shaking and stiff in her arms, weeping freely even as he tries still in vain to stop himself from it, losing the battle terribly as whimpers and gasps slip from his throat.
She feels him shift, feels his long hand fall over her own, grasping it tightly where it clings to his tunic, holding on to her desperately, frantically.
Oh, those foolish wretches, who think her son feels nothing.
Ignorant cowards, so fearful of his power. They give him reason to thus use it. Her boy, who she has seen grow to the Realms most skilled sorcerer.
Only Odin All-Father boasts stronger magic.
But her child, her Loki, he wields his seidr with an eloquence and beauty even Asgard's King does not possess. He is talented beyond measure. And for this, they scorn and belie him. For this, they whisper unkind words and talk is hushed voices of the dark Prince and his weakness'.
She remembers, her beautiful son, she remembers when he was a child, not yet tall enough to reach her knee, and his magic had already made itself impressively known.
She remembers teaching him, guiding him and showing him how to control it, how to form it and order it to follow his wishes.
She remembers those days with sad fondness, for the smile she recalls on Loki's bright face. His bell like laughter and wonder filled voice.
The last time, she thinks, she ever truly saw him happy.
/
It is the last time she sees him cry.
She does not realize then that it will be.
/
When Loki is just over a millennia in age, only a few, short centuries removed from boyhood, he falls into the void, and Asgard is left with a single prince.
He falls…
He lets himself go, Thor and Odin tell her both, and Frigga sobs uninhibited, because she knows, she knows why.
Outwardly, the Kingdom mourns, and much of it, Frigga thinks, is sincere.
Out among the commoners, it is.
Among the commoners it was Loki found affection of a sort. He was a Prince, and his interaction with them was thus limited. Or, it was meant to be.
But the Queen knew her child. Knew he would often slip away from the pressures of a life at court and spend hours, sometimes even days among Asgard's lesser classes. She followed him, more than once, and found him visiting among small homes and their families.
Watched as the people's faces would light, first with recognition of their Prince, shock and even fear soon following, wondering what they had done to cause their Prince, the second in line to the throne of Asgard, to pay them a visit in person.
And she would continue to watch then, as Loki would ask with painful cordiality and almost meek politeness if he could be invited in. They would, of course every time, scramble to oblige his request, and the Queen would creep to the edges of their small homes and listen and watch through the windows, Loki, her son, her baby boy, greeting the members of these households, bowing low, kissing the hands of wives and shaking those of the men, bending onto knee for the children if there were any, smiling brightly and kindly at them, paying them his full attention.
Would see her son seated at their dinner tables, freely and willingly sharing a meal with people who none other in the court, no nobles or royals or warriors alike would ever even deign to. Would hear him sharing with them the same tales and poems he would share with the court each morn, for which all gathered round to hear for Loki's renown as a story teller.
They would laugh and smile, and he would laugh and smile with them. And when it was done, she would watch wide eyed and heartsick as Loki would offer to lift the children onto his shoulders and march round the house with them, their parents sitting back and looking on with wide grins and disbelieving, grateful eyes.
Sometimes her son would stay the night, sometimes he would not. On those occasions he did, always he would rise well before the dawn, and on those mornings she had stayed to keep watch of her boy as well, she never saw him fail to depart the homes of these people without leaving a bag upon their kitchen tables, filled, she would later find through her own sources, with the richest and rarest of gems. Enough to provide them for many, many, many months.
Her son, her Loki, who loved his people so completely.
Who proved such to them in a way not even Thor had ever managed.
Their grief for his loss is true.
But within the wall of the palace, beyond the displays of sadness and despair, she hears the whispers. The snide and derisive remarks, spoken in hushed tones, talking of the shame of the second Prince. The cowardice and villainy. She hears, and feels her breath leave her in pained dismay, hisses of relief and almost celebration at the loss of the strange, dark and unbecoming second son of Odin.
And for the first time in her long, long life, Frigga, Queen of Asgard, harbors dark and violent thoughts for her subjects at court.
It bleeds then into a sadness so profound, there are days she think she will die from it.
Days she almost wishes she would.
Because she knew.
She knew. Of his suffering. His deep unhappiness. His loneliness.
Knew of the things these people said, barely even trying to conceal their contempt from her youngest son's fragile heart.
Knew of the devastation to come when he found out the truth. Knew it would be too much, all of it, too much…
She knew, and yet…
And yet, she has failed to save him.
She couldn't save him.
She couldn't…
/
He couldn't save her, he thinks, sat amongst the broken remains of his rage, fizzled now to nothing. Nothing, nothing, there is nothing.
He is nothing.
He couldn't save her, and his rage was as nothing against it.
And he sits here now, spent, and lost, and broken.
And he thinks, Loki of nowhere, Loki no one's son, now truly, truly, he thinks, he had not known absolute aloneness until this day.
He had not known, until he lost the last and only one who had always known his heart.
He couldn't save her.
Softly he breathes out, his voice lost in the stifled air of his prison, until even he cannot hear it.
"Mother…"