All of Asgard knows where Thor's talents lie – on the field of battle, slaying monsters, bringing further glory to the hall of the Allfather, and giving the minstrels ever new material with which to compose the songs and sagas that will be sung and shared for ages hence. Similarly, it's as well known that the majority of Thor's companions, the Warriors Three and the Lady Sif – their talents lie in following along after the golden prince and adding to the honorable combat with each strike of their blades.

Unsurprisingly, Loki's hours in the various libraries of the realm poring over the equally various texts and tomes aren't sampled nearly as often to be embroidered into the histories. He tells himself that he doesn't care about which songs are sung by drunken oafs deep in their cups. The trophies and spoils to be found from Loki's pursuits are much more useful and applicable than some great dragon's head bleeding all over the place when all is said and done.

What would come as a surprise, though, if anyone thought to ask, is that Loki's' readings are not limited to sorcery and enchantments and theoretical magicks. He reads everything. Histories, tactics, diplomacy, politics, war chronicles – everything has its own purpose in the grand scheme and to exclude any one point is tantamount to gouging out one's eyes entire.

Far too Greek for Loki's tastes, thank you very much.

As such, he's very much aware of a simple adage, a truth that spans realms and ages alike: no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy. As such, he prepares for every permutation, every variable he can think of as possible, and then every one that he thinks isn't. He's always been good at reading people, analysis and predictions and predations. It made his domino line of pranks all the more amusing – prod one weak point and watch the chain reaction spark its way down the line.

But right now he isn't sure what's going to happen next. And that is almost as frightening and unsettling as his father's stony silence as he marches before them all – Thor, Loki, Sif, Volstagg, Hogun, and Fandral, carried between the latter – towards the healing rooms. Not a word is spoken twixt the Bifröst and the palace proper (for once in his infinitely charmed life, Thor implicitly understands to keep his mouth shut and Loki thanks the Norns for that), and Loki would have to be thicker than a troll to assume things are over when Odin leaves them to watch over Fandral's recuperation.

"I told you everything would work out," Thor says cheerfully as soon as the great golden doors shut behind the king, letting Mjölnir hang by his side and grinning like a fool.

Thankfully for Loki's sanity, he's not alone in staring at his brother and Sif beats him to the punch in correcting his far-too-cheery paradigm. "Thor," she starts cautiously but she's cut off by the prince's enthusiasm.

"I'm sure he's rounding up an army as we speak to invade Jötunheimr proper. Make no mistake, friends, you all fought gloriously – even you, brother – but now is the time to show not just the best of us, but the full might of the realm! Then those frost giants will truly rue the day they defied the House of Odin."

Loki is already pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation at the errant "compliment" and resultant snort from Volstagg – else he'd have been able to truly appreciate the marksmanship of the goblet as it struck his brother square in the back of the head. Damn.

"Thor," Sif bristles, and it's only the nigh-oppressive peace of the healing room that keeps her from shouting, but it's still a near thing. "For the love of Yggdrasil, shut up."

As Thor looks over his companions and the clatter of the cup on the floor falls away, the confusion clear on his face and only slightly marred by the annoyed glare he aims back at the warrior maiden. It isn't nearly as effective as the initial salvo.

"He's waiting," Loki explains, voice low and tight while still managing to sound as though he's attempting to soothe a toddler's tantrum. He's all too aware of how foreign the concept is to his brother, so logically he wouldn't recognize it when he encountered it. Even as his mind was churning and broiling, control remained. Control was paramount, key. Never mind no matter how he envisioned the immediate future unfolding, control was a scant commodity as far as he was concerned.

He'd miscalculated. Miscalculated how set Thor would become following the three jötunns disrupting the coronation, how bullheaded his resolve in reclaiming the day and the glory; miscalculated how fearful of Odin's wrath Thor would be at the prospect of said reclamation; miscalculated how blindly Sif and the others would follow his brother, despite the far too obvious danger from both the Allfather and the giants themselves.

Even on the plains of Jötunheimr, Loki could still have salvaged something of the situation.

Until Odin arrived, spear crackling with power and Sleipnir's harsh neigh ringing across the ice. Even as Loki had set his being there into motion, the Allfather was the absolute last resort – the one infallible fallback to ensure they would make it out in one piece by introducing the single unpredictable piece onto the board.

Loki has always been able to read people like the dusty pages of his books; in fact, the books have oftentimes proven themselves much more of a challenge. But never in his life has he been able to truly know his father's mind. He's tried, but it all flows together into a towering dialect completely alien and foreign to him-

He stills the seed of doubt and refuses to acknowledge the knot in the pit of his stomach as he flexes his arm. What he cannot still is the flicker glance to Volstagg's frost-blackened flesh and back to his own unmarred skin.

There are more immediate problems, he tells himself and he forces his arm down to his side as roughly as he quashes the niggling questions in his own mind.

But his fingers twitch. And his mind works.

Loki has always been too clever for anyone's good. Least of all his own.