Hi, all! I'm interrupting Trengsel briefly, to give you this one-shot, from my heart. Big thanks to my friends, followers, and soundboards (you all know who you are)! You're seriously the best. Enjoy and please review!

LLL

THE MONSTER PARENTS TELL THEIR CHILDREN ABOUT AT NIGHT

LLL

"Deception!

Disgrace!

Evil as plain as the scar on his face!

Deception!

An outrage!

Disgrace!

For shame!

You know these Outsider types!

Traitor, go back with your own!

He asked for trouble the moment he came!

See you later, agitator!

Born in grief

Raised in hate

Helpless to defy his fate

Let him run

Let him live

But do not forget what we cannot forgive

And he his not

One of us..."

-Tom Snow (Lion King II: Simba's Pride), Not One Of Us

LLL

"A rash speaker is like piercings of a sword,

And the tongue of the wise is healing."

-Proverbs 12:18

LLL

A snarling breath.

A hitching snore.

Loki blinked, opening his eyes. He stared up blankly at the white, empty ceiling in the dark. Inhaling deeply through his nose, he sighed.

He couldn't sleep.

He lay flat on his back in bed, with his hands folded on top of his belly, without any bedcovers—he didn't have any—just a bare, cushioned bed, and some white pillows for his head. The navy cushions had tiny, golden stars embroidered into them; the design reminded him of the bedding in his bedroom—his old bedroom. The one he used to have.

Shutting his eyes, Loki wriggled his lower back in bed, trying to get comfortable. He swallowed, and tried to slow down his breathing.

The constant hum of the forcefield—that he could ignore. It'd become white noise to him, now. But these new sounds, coming from the adjoining cells—though not actually loud in volume—sounded absolutely cacophonous in Loki's ears, compared to the relative quiet he had grown accustomed to in recent months.

New prisoners had been brought in, earlier that day: Marauders, from Nornheim, brought in chains. They were a riotous bunch, and they now occupied the adjoining cells to Loki's left. Thankfully, they were completely out of his sight. He didn't have to look upon their ghastly faces, thank heavens. But the forcefields were not sound barriers—he could hear every snarl, breath, sigh, snore, growl and murmur.

The fluorescent lights of their cells had flickered off, nearly an hour ago. The Einherjar switched to their night posts, and yet, the marauders kept him awake, sounding like a pack of sleeping wolves.

Loki shook his head and grunted exasperatedly. His eyelids felt heavy—he was tired. And a headache lingered from another long, boring day of staring at nothing but fluorescent-white walls that, oftentimes, strained his eyes by the time he hit the sack. And now, not only did he have to deal with sore eyes. Now he had this never-ending racket, which he expected would keep him up the rest of the night.

Then a different sound filled the dungeon air:

Clank.

Like a giant, bolted door being unbarred, followed by a creaking groan...

Then, footsteps.

Loki's eyes fluttered open. His brow furrowed, and he lifted his head.

Inspection, at this hour of the night?

Metal boots clattered against the ground, chain mail jingling, as hushed voices echoed, coming down the stairs.

Then came a man's voice.

"This way, lads."

Alright, so it wasn't an inspection. Sounded like one of the prison guards was giving his students a private tour.

Loki glanced up, peeking through his eyelashes, past the golden forcefield and the fiery torches and pillars that surrounded his cell, towards the staircase which led up to the palace. Soon, he saw feet—armored feet, belonging to an Einherjar. He held up a flaming torch in his right arm, and his spear in his left. Then more feet appeared—about a dozen, or so.

A group of young boys followed the Einherjar down.

Loki's neck muscles stiffened. He slowly lowered himself back, his head resting again on his pillow. But he continued to watch through narrow, nearly-shut eyes.

Through blurry vision, Loki saw that the boys varied in stature; though most of their heads came up to a grown man's shoulder. They were very young—a century old, at the very most, if Loki had to guess. They all wore light, training armor on top of loose tunics, with gold and silver metal covering their vambraces and boots. Similar to the kind of armor Loki wore as a lad.

Unable to keep their voices down at times, the boys murmured excitedly to each other as they poured into the low-ceilinged hall at the base of the stairs, behind their instructor.

Loki slowly lifted his chin to face the ceiling, shutting his eyelids completely. He inhaled a steady breath and relaxed his limbs, while, at the same time, going absolutely still, as if he were sound asleep.

The Einherjar in charge of the group of boys clicked his boots together, coming to a halt. Then he shushed them, whispering harshly:

"Boys. Keep it down. We don't want to wake the prisoners...they can be quite vicious, if provoked."

The boys all went completely silent, listening to their master.

"Now. Listen well," the instructor continued. "As we go down this hall, I don't want to see anyone climb up close to any of the cells. The magic barriers are actual walls. They will burn your skin to a crisp, if you touch them. So, don't go anywhere near them. After we've had a good look around, I'll show you where the prisoners go through final inspection, before being admitted into their cells." The guard paused for a moment. Then asked: "Does anyone have any questions before we proceed?"

Silence lingered. Then:

"Yes, Hallvar?"

"I thought prisoners always slept on the floor," a young voice spoke up. "So why does this prisoner sleep in a bed? None of the others do..."

"Because," the Einherjar began—then he lowered his voice, so that Loki had to strain to hear: "Because that prisoner is Prince Loki."

Gasps filled the underground chamber, and they whispered in turns:

"Prince Loki...?"

"What! Really?"

"Right there...!"

"That's him...?"

"Indeed, it is he," the Einherjar affirmed. "The furniture were given as gifts from our Queen...permitted by our King, though he has ordered that the prince be kept under very tight surveillance. This corner cell, being our most secure, is also separated from the other prisoners. For their protection, really. He is, after all...incredibly crafty, and infamous in his mastery of magic. And now that he is an enemy of Asgard, he is considered to be our most dangerous prisoner."

At that, the Einherjar fell silent. His torch disturbed the air as he whirled, turning on his heel. He rounded the corner of Loki's cell, and began marching down the hall to Loki's left. Meanwhile, Loki heard the smaller bootsteps head in different directions, spreading out. Some followed their master down the hall, while others seemed to stay close by—he heard their feet shuffling and fabric rustling—they wandered about the halls adjacent to Loki's chamber.

Soon after their instructor's footsteps faded into a distant echo further down the hall, Loki could hear them murmur to each other. Their voices sounded closer this time.

Loki kept himself from moving—even an inch—relaxing his limbs completely, and making sure that his face didn't frown, even if he felt like frowning at these boys for disturbing his sleep. Even if he wasn't getting any.

He breathed in deeply, very slowly, waiting impatiently for them to simply go away and leave him be...

"I've never seen him this close up before."

The small voice came from the short hall, to the right of Loki.

One of Loki's brows twitched upward, but the rest of him didn't move.

Without having to open his eyes, Loki knew that the boy stood close to the wall, probably at the base of the two steps that lined his cell. And from this short distance, Loki could hear his voice as clearly as if the boy stood in the very room.

"Well, I have," a second voice came, boasting proudly, sounding older than the other one. "Remember the day Prince Thor brought him back? And paraded him through the streets, on the way to the palace? I was there. And I remember how terrible he looked: with that creepy muzzle covering his mouth, and cuts and scrapes all over. He looked absolutely disgraced."

"I'm sure he did," the first boy agreed immediately.

"Hey."

A third boy spoke up, his voice sounding even younger than the others'. He stood, also to Loki's right, but further away from the others, nearer to the pillar that supported the corner of Loki's cell, at the crossroads of the dungeon. "You two are standing far too close to that cell, and speak far too loud!"

"We're whispering..." the second boy retorted.

"Ignore him, Falur," the eldest boy murmured. "Villi always talks out of cowardice."

The youngest, Villi, grunted lowly:

"I am not a coward."

"Fine, then," the eldest allowed. "But you are short as a dwarf."

"And stink like one, too," Falur added.

"I do not—" Villi protested.

"Go on, dwarf," the oldest insisted. "Climb up a step so you can see the prisoner inside."

"No!" Villi cried, "You just want me to get in trouble!"

"See," Falur chuckled. "He is a spineless little dwarf."

"If you're so brave, Dreki," the little one challenged, "why don't you get any closer?"

The elder one, Dreki, clicked his tongue. No footsteps—so the boy hadn't moved.

"I can see him perfectly fine from here," Dreki finally uttered cockily.

"And what is he doing, besides sleeping?" Villi asked.

Loki could practically feel the boys' eyes on him. He let out a slow, steady breath. Then the boy finally answered:

"Nothing. Just sleeping. A rather boring sight, actually."

"But you wouldn't want to wake a sleeping dragon," Villi advised. "You heard what the master said—"

"That he's a master of magic of great renown...blabitty bla bla bla," Dreki mocked. "But his spells can't go through these walls. He's locked up in a box. More like a caged wolf. And caged wolves can't bite."

"Alright," Villi assented. "But he's still our prince. Which means that what you say now, might be remembered, and used against you someday, when he's released, and back in his place."

Dreki laughed.

"Oh, trust me...he's not getting released. My father was there, when the 'prince' stood before the All-Father, and told me of all the things that were spoken."

Loki swallowed carefully, listening with bated breath. Then a soft punch, like a fist against fabric, reached Loki's ears.

"You didn't tell me about this!" Falur cried, chidingly. "What did the All-Father say?"

Villi cut in, muttering:

"I thought Einherjar were supposed to keep royal family matters a secret."

Dreki replied flippantly, "What is said between Einherjar remains a secret. And we will be Einherjar before you know it. Besides...it's not a royal family matter anymore, if he prince is no longer a prince, but merely, a prisoner."

Loki's blood boiled. He was very tempted to lift his arm, spread his fingers, twist his wrist, and shoot a spark of magic straight at the wall and scare the living daylights out of these stupid little boys. But instead, he dug his fingers into the fabric of his shirt and continued to lay still.

"But he's a Son of Odin," Villi argued, in a more serious tone. "The gracious All-Father couldn't possibly sentence his own son to the prisons for all time."

"He did," Draki said. "And spared him the axe, only for the Queen's sake. Because Loki is not...in fact, an Odinson."

Loki stopped breathing. And a knife-like pain stabbed straight through his chest.

"What? What do you mean?" Villi questioned, disbelief in his tone.

"My father heard the All-Father say it himself. Loki is not of Asgard, but of Jotunheim."

Loki's blood went chill as a familiar dread filled his gut, twisting his insides.

"Jotunheim?" Falur exclaimed.

The younger one's breathing became uneven. "But, that would mean..."

"Mhm..." Draki hummed in delight. "That he is a frost giant."

Loki's mouth parted involuntarily; he closed it, as gasps filled the air, and feet shuffled away from his cell wall.

"But how can that be?" Villi asked shakily. "He doesn't look like one."

"The All-Father must've cast a powerful spell on him," Draki guessed. "One to keep his monstrous form hidden."

Villi let out an exasperated breath.

"Well, now it's no wonder he's locked up, in here! We're not talking about a wolf, or a dragon, here...We're talking about something far worse. If he is, indeed, a frost giant...then, no one, under any circumstances, should ever let him out!"

"Aye!" Falur agreed in a whisper.

"Or, if they ever do," Draki began suggesting. "They should banish him—send him back to Jotunheim, where he belongs!"

Another wave of sickness swept through Loki's stomach, tightening it. Even with his eyelids closed, his vision turned flaming, hot red.

"Come, boys! It's time to move on!"

The voice came from the other end of the corridor.

The boys' garments rustled, as they shifted their weight. Draki groaned, and sighed.

"Guess we better get going. Come on, Falur. Come on, dwarf."

Boots hit the ground, as one of them walked—likely the eldest one—the others following, closely behind him. Their steps came round the corner, towards the long corridor down the center of the prison cells. As they passed by where Loki rest his feet, from right to left, he heard the youngest one call out in a loud whisper:

"Yan! Yan!...You won't believe what Draki just told me...Listen...!"

Their voices blended together, and soon faded into echoes. When even their footsteps died away, a low hum filled the air once again. Along with constant, heavy snoring.

Loki finally allowed himself to open his eyes. He let out a long, rattling sigh.

He unfolded his hands, letting his right hand drop down to his side on the cushiony bed. He stared up again, at the cold, dark ceiling—feeling a shiver start at the base of his spine, rattling up to his shoulders, and finally running throughout his entire body.

He shook, and his eyes sealed themselves shut.

Letting out a huff of air, he tossed himself onto his right side. He wrapped one arm tight around his abdomen and stuck the other one underneath his pillow, under his head. He bent his knees, his body curling. Blackness filled his eyelids.

The noises didn't keep him awake, after that...

The shivering did.

LLL

"There in the flower garden, I will die..."

Loki sat cross-legged on the marbly, white floor in the very center of his cell. The floors felt cold beneath his leather pants—he ignored it. His two fingers absently twiddled a lock of his ebony hair, locks which now fell in waves around his neck and shoulders.

He stared out into the stone hallway, away from the white light, his eyes distant and unfocused. His lips moved, mouthing the words of an old, familiar song. He could not recall when he first heard it. Only that its melody felt as old as he. He sang its slow, mournful chords in a sigh that was barely above a whisper:

"...Among the rose bushes, they will kill me,

I was on my way, Mother, to cut some roses..."

Loki shut his eyes as he sang. He could almost hear the lute, playing along; a fire, crackling in a warm hearth. And encircling him, voices—carefree voices—singing with him in a small, cheerful chorus. And a lady's voice blended in, with them. It was familiar, and soft, like his. But hers had true elegance, strength and beauty. It lifted the melancholic song, warming him all over, making the melody ring out like it was made of gold.

But the voice began to fade, drifting to the back of his mind. The others fell to silence, and only his voice remained. He became very aware of just how feeble and rough his voice sounded, all on its own.

He paused the song, sighing. Then he began again, gradually decreased the tempo as he reached the end of the verse:

"There in the flower garden, I found my love,

There in the flower garden, they will kill me."

He held out the last note until he ran out of breath. His shoulders slumped, and he sighed again.

A sudden tingle ran straight through his right arm—

He flinched, quickly pulling away his hand from his hair. He focused his gaze on the back of his pale, unmarked hand, staring at skin and veins for a long, breathless moment.

He stretched his fingers out—then he clenched them, drawing them into a tight fist.

Then the lights in his cell flickered. Like a candle burning out.

Loki looked up, his expression unfazed. This happened every night. He knew the walls would stay lit for a few more seconds, before slowly dimming, till his cell grew dark.

Sure enough, the lights in each cell began to dim. The yellow forcefields remained just as bright, but the blinding white turned to gray. Only the orange fire of the torches outside and a faint strip of turquoise light shone from an indenture in the ceiling above.

Loki's eyes quickly adjusted to the shadows. It actually felt easier on them. They'd grown tired again, after another long, tedious day of staring at nothing but empty whiteness...

A guard hollered, from the other end of the hallway, his voice gruff and impatient.

"Night has fallen! Time to sleep!"

Loki glanced up at the ceiling again.

The guard kept on repeating those two phrases, over and over, all the way down the hall, as he systematically halted before each cell and clanked his spear against the stone pillars. Instead of encouraging sleep, he was probably waking up prisoners, if they were already asleep...

"Night has fallen," the guard grunted, for the thirtieth time, at some prisoner two cells down from Loki. "Time to sleep..."

When he finally came up to the very last cell, Loki's cell, he still just had to hit the stone frame with the metal tip of his spear, with a clang, clang, clang...

"Time for bed, yer highness," he said, emphasizing that word with irreverence.

Loki didn't even flinch at the spear—he was used to this.

He just glared at the guard, his mouth thinning, and didn't budge an inch from where he sat.

The guard jerked his head away. As he began marching away, Loki could've sworn he heard a low snicker, before he carelessly uttered two words under his breath:

"Jotun scum..."

Loki gut tightened, as if it had just received a punch.

He clenched his jaw, his hands clenching too. But all he could do was stare after the guard with daggers in his eyes.

The last of the guard's footsteps echoed up the flight of stairs, and the double doors groaned heavily, their hinges grating mechanically, before they slammed shut, with a rumble that echoed through the dungeon.

Gripping his knees with his palms, Loki sat still, until there was absolute silence. Then he uncrossed his legs and slid them to one side. He pushed himself up off the ground and stood up. There he stayed standing, thinking he might wash his face in the stone basin which stood in the left corner of his cell, before heading to bed...

But his eyes fell upon a folded-up piece of paper, resting on the top of his desk: a handwritten note. He had already broken the seal, and ripped one end of the envelope. And he had read the note once before setting it aside, next to the bowl of fruit, which also sat on the desk, untouched for two days.

His gaze transfixed on the pale parchment, he stepped slowly towards the desk. In the dark, the rim of the desk glinted with orange torchlight. Soon, he stood, leaning over it, gazing down at the letter. He took it up by its edges and brought it up to his eyes, so he could read it.

He scanned across the familiar hand, each cursive letter beautifully and ornately drawn. His brow drew tight, as he absorbed every single word on the page, understanding them afresh now:

My Dear Son,

I know that this letter cannot take the place of a visit in person. Know that I am doing all I can to come and see you. In the meantime though, I'm sending you a very small gift...some of your favorite fruits...in the hope that you continue in good health. You must be strong, and patient.

Do not dismay. We will see each other again, soon.

Love, always, Frigga

Loki's eyes lingered over the letters of his mother's name, his vision clouding up.

He shook himself, blinking away the mist building up in his eyes.

"Be patient," she said. "We will see each other again, soon."

But another voice echoed through his memory, with words that always shot an arrow straight through his heart...

"Frigga is the only reason you're still alive. And you will never see her again."

Loki shut his eyes momentarily. He knew Odin never went back on his word. As long as Odin remained King of Asgard...

Loki huffed from his throat, lowering the letter in his arms. He hesitated, before setting it down on the desk again, next to the wooden fruitbowl, which now captured his attention.

He surveyed the clusters of green grapes, the lime apples and pears, and deep red pomegranates. They looked perfectly ripe—though perhaps, some were starting to look past their prime.

It'd be bad of him to let them sit there rot. If his mother heard how he neglected her gift—suffice to say, that her next letter might not be so graciously worded as her last.

Without deliberating, Loki reached out and snatched up a green apple. He brought it up to his mouth and took a bite, tearing through the lime-green skin.

It crunched. Still fresh.

The skin tasted bitter, and the flesh—while still juicy—filled his mouth with sourness. But he liked his apples like this: Perfectly sour.

Holding his snack between two fingers, he crossed over the smooth floors to his chair in the corner of his room, near the foot of his bed.

He sank back into the cushiony seat and kicked up his legs, crossing them over the footrest. Leaning back, he set his elbows on the armrests, and let out a contented sigh.

There he sat, in the dark, munching away at his apple for a good several minutes. When he heard something stirring outside his cell wall...

A quiet shuffle, like feet against stone.

His peripheral caught a shift in the shadows outside—

He turned his head sharply, and stopped chewing. Swallowing what he had in his mouth, he roamed with his eyes, studying every shadow and pillar, for any small sign of movement.

He sat perfectly still for several seconds—maybe a minute. His ears grew more and more acutely aware of the other sounds, echoing through the halls: mostly snores and murmurs from the adjoining cells.

That must've been what he heard, he told himself...

But what he saw...?

It must've been nothing. He knew he was perfectly safe inside his cell, about as guarded as he ever could be: under constant surveillance, and under the sight of Heimdall. He couldn't find a safer place in the universe if he had tried.

Slowly, then, he eased his shoulders down. Turning his head away from the shadows, he lifted his hand and sank his teeth into his apple once more.

Perhaps I'm finally going mad, he thought amusedly to himself as he took another bite.

Then a small click resonated near the ground, just to Loki's right...

He jumped, involuntarily.

Turning his head, he searched the shadows again...

There. In the shadow of a pillar, he saw—

A boy.

Loki blinked, focusing his eyes.

One blonde-headed boy stood with his back against the stone wall, across from Loki's cell, in the shadow of a carven pillar.

Why hadn't Loki noticed him standing there, before? Or how—or when he even got there?

The light of the bronze lampstand in that corner barely illuminated the youth, so Loki could just barely make out the edges of gold hair that fell in waves around the boy's face. A dark cloak mantled the boy's shoulders, and height-wise, the boy's head probably came up to Loki's shoulder. He had a load, or a satchel of some kind slung around his shoulder. Silver shinguards covered his boots—ones that had golden kneecaps. They were exactly the same kind the Einherjar wore.

Heat suddenly shot through Loki's veins. He narrowed his eyes, his mouth tightening, as he remembered the careless whispers of three young boys...

"...Nothing but a prisoner..."

"...Frost giant..."

"...Send him back to Jotunheim, where he belongs..."

Every bone in Loki's body went rigid. He watched the boy's shadow with intensity, waiting for movement. But the shadow did not move, and neither did Loki.

So Loki lifted his hand, and took another bite of his apple, savoring the acidic juice in his mouth. He smacked with each bite, on purpose, and pretended to look away.

That's when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the boy start to move, advancing just a foot around the perimeter of the dungeon...

Loki stopped chewing. And the boy stopped dead in his tracks. Loki shook his head, and rolled his eyes.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," he breathed. "Look, I know you're there. Come out."

The boy's head snapped up.

"Y-your...your highness!" he gasped.

Loki almost smiled. But he made himself frown, and he glanced down at his apple.

"Tell me," he asked casually. "What are you doing, wandering about these halls?" He took a crunching bite into his apple. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

The boy's head fell. He sighed.

"I couldn't sleep."

Loki huffed to himself, and writhed in his seat.

"Still no reason for you to come all the way down here, into Asgard's deepest cell. When there's a thousand rooftops and balconies that offer fresher air." Loki glared at the boy's shadow, still unable to meet his eyes. "So once again, I ask: what is your purpose down here?"

"Forgive me, sir. I mean—" the boy's hand flew to his chest, "—your highness. It's just that I...didn't think you'd be awake when I came down—"

"Of course you didn't..." Loki muttered under his breath.

"And I had to come down," the boy insisted.

Loki lifted his chin.

"What is your name, young man?"

Silence lingered.

Then, the boy drew in a deep breath, and took a bold step forward, and spoke clearer than before.

"My name is Yan."

The boy's face finally came into the light; no longer veiled in shadow. The orange light revealed a pale, yet ruddy complexion; freckles marked his cheeks and the bridge of his small, round nose. He had bright, brilliant blue eyes and a head of yellow hair which fell in loose waves around his ears and shone like a crown made out of gold.

It became hard for Loki to maintain his cold expression. His mouth, jaw, and forehead stayed hardened, but his eyes softened.

"Yan," he whispered thoughtfully.

"It is short for Yanvald," the boy explained. "But most everyone just calls me Yan."

Loki uncrossed his legs and sat forward, leaving the remainder of his apple on top of the footrest. He sat up straight and folded his arms over his chest.

"Then tell me, Yan," he said, his voice now turning cold. "What will they do to you...when they find out you've gone missing? That you snuck down here, without your masters' permission...That you spoke with a prisoner?" Loki canted his head to one side, and narrowed his eyes. He lowered his voice to an icy whisper. "Flog you...?"

Yan's eyes widened.

Loki smiled. "Oh, that'd be unpleasant, wouldn't it be? But there are worse punishments than that."

Loki shot up to his feet, towering above the boy. He knew what he must look like, from the boy's perspective—like a real giant. Slowly, he advanced on the boy, his blood pounding harder, and heart beating faster.

"Say...they were to expel you," Loki whispered, canting his head. "How would you ever break the news to your family? They'd be so displeased...you would bring them dishonor, and shame."

Loki stopped, right in front of the golden wall that stood as the only barrier between him and the boy, still drilling him with his gaze. Folding his hands behind his back, he lowered his chin, and watched the boy squirm in silence.

"And why would you risk all that, by coming down here, alone, at night...for what?" Loki's hard gaze flickered, and changed. His lips slowly curved into a bitter smile. His head shook, and he finished his own sentence in a whisper: "So you could come have another look at the monster?"

Yan's brow tightened. He opened his mouth, but couldn't speak. Loki didn't let him anyway...

"Once wasn't enough, for you, was it?" Loki cried roughly. "Oh, no...you had to come another time. Once you heard all the tales, you had to see for yourself, if the tales they told you were true!" Loki could feel his throat tightening and his vision turning red, heat shooting through his limbs, his fists clenching into fists at his sides. But he did not stop. He went on, fuming: "You had to see the monster...see if it would...do something! Like...turn blue in its sleep!"

Loki's chest burned, as if it were on fire. It rose heavily, each ragged breath hissing through his teeth.

Yan hadn't moved. He stared up at Loki; his eyes blinking rapidly, with his mouth clamped shut. But he hadn't turned away for an instant.

Still seething, Loki focused his clouded gaze, and suddenly noticed how the boy's eyes shimmered, watering with unshed tears.

Loki's narrow eyes suddenly widened. He flinched away, and drew himself back—away from the wall, away from the boy...

But in that instant, Yan took a single, determined step forward. Despite the way his small mouth trembled, he shook his head firmly. And managed to speak.

"No, that is not the reason. That's not why I came down here, tonight."

Loki glanced over at Yan, and stood still.

Yan swallowed, and took another step towards Loki.

"It's...it's true, that I stood by and listened, as the others told me things, about you—things that were not true. I did not know, that you could hear, every word of it. I didn't speak up, did not respond. I kept my thoughts to myself...as I often do when I am with them."

Loki searched the boy's eyes, trying to detect lies behind his words. But he couldn't find any. The boy's eyes were like crystal, hiding nothing from him.

"But I do not believe what they said," Yan said firmly. "That you're a frost giant. I know it...you're not. I came down here alone, because I didn't want the others to pry. They wouldn't understand my purpose. Not even the masters. My family sent me, actually. Because they wanted me to give you...a-a gift."

One of Loki's eyebrows lifted, furrowing.

"What?"

Yan turned his head and reached down and around, lifting the opening flap of the large sack slung at his side. He stuck his both hands inside, and pulled out a large bundle of cloth: A navy blue blanket, folded up in thirds, tied up with a leather string.

Biting his lip, Yan lifted his arms, presenting it to Loki.

Loki stared at it. His fingers started to unclench...

"It's a...blanket."

Yan nodded proudly.

"My mother made it, by hand. She finished it yesterday. Though it took her several months."

Untying the leather string which bound the cloth together, Yan took the blanket by the edge and unfurled it. It fell, draping down, all the way to the ground. He held it up to his chin, so Loki could see it.

Stars, made of golden thread, dazzled in the dim flamelight, woven into the fabric in random patterns—just like the real Asgardian nightsky. They had each been designed uniquely, with rays of different numbers and lengths. They twinkled brilliantly against a swirling backdrop of deep, royal velvet.

Heat flooded Loki's cheeks, as his eyes ran all over the detailed fabric.

"Your mother did all that?" Loki finally asked, softly.

"Mhm. She made it in your honor. When my family heard you were alive, we all rejoiced. And she's worked on it tirelessly ever since."

Loki suddenly snapped up his head.

"I cannot accept it," he stated.

Yan's shoulders sank. "Why not?"

"Because," Loki bit out. "Because in case you haven't noticed...I'm in here. And you're out there. You can't just hand it to me."

"But I can give it to one of the guards, down the hall," Yan offered. "One of them is my father's cousin. And then they will hand it to you—"

"No, they won't," Loki insisted, strongly. "Your mother would do better keeping it. Selling it, displaying it—such handiwork should not be left in the hands of a stranger, in a place that will never see the light of day again, where it will soon be forgotten. It'd be a tragic waste."

"But it is no waste—!"

"It is!" Loki cried, louder than he had meant. "You cannot...give it to me."

Yan went silent. He lowered the blanket in his arms, sighing.

Then he frowned, though not angrily.

"Do you remember saving a warrior's life...in a battle on Muspelheim?"

Loki's mind flew back, gaze growing distant. He saw, in sudden vividness, scenes of fiery lakes, dark skies and blackened caverns. He heard the clashing of swords and shrieks of fire demons, and felt the heat of steam rushing at him, carrying the stench of sulfur and ash.

"No, I don't recall anything...specific," Loki replied, shaking his head. "But that was several centuries ago." He looked at Yan, arching a brow. "Why?"

Yan began folding up the blanket up in silence.

Then he stepped forward, till he reached the two steps around the perimeter of Loki's cell. With the cloth all folded up, he glanced up at Loki.

"Because my father remembers it well. How you saved his life."

Loki inhaled an unsteady breath. Yan continued.

"You, the Prince. And he, a stranger. And yet you did not think it a waste to save him."

Yan hugged the blanket to his chest and crouched, sitting down on the lowest step. He sat just a few feet away from the glowing, magical forcefield—and alarmingly close to Loki, as if it were just the most natural thing in the world, to sit so close to a detained prisoner.

Loki stared down at the boy, suddenly unable to breathe.

But Yan didn't even glance up. He sat faced away at an angle, staring out into the hall, with the quilt on his lap, gaze growing distant.

"My father has told me the tale many times, since I was a child," Yan explained. "It was his first journey to Muspelheim. He had just joined the ranks of Asgard's army, and was also recently married to my mother. The All-Father led the first battalion, along with his two sons, the princes. They went deep into a volcanic cave, through a mineshaft, and there came upon a legion of ancient fire demons: whose breaths were made out of sulfur, and who could wield fiery swords. Battle broke out, and the army scattered. King Odin and Prince Thor pressed through the battlefront, taking out dozens of demons at a time. But my father, along with many others, was chased by one of the demons towards one end of the cavern, where lakes of fire flowed, and even the cavern walls spewed with molten lava."

Loki listened, as he slowly eased himself down to the ground, till he sat on the floor and crossed his legs. He did so, without making a sound. And Yan's head didn't turn as he continued:

"He was totally separated from the rest of the army. He could see the line of defense at the far off end of the cave. He knew that they would leave him behind if he didn't catch up to them quickly. So after he slay the demon that had chased him there, he took off running in the direction of the army. One false move, and he knew he could plunge himself into one of the rivers of fire. As he ran, he suddenly saw a torrent of lava burst forth from the ceiling, pouring straight down towards him. His hands flew up, above his head, though he knew he couldn't escape or block it. He shut his eyes, and expected to burn. Instead, he felt someone push into his shoulder, pushing him to the ground. He heard a blast, and everything flashed green."

Yan turned his head. He looked Loki in the eye, and smiled.

"When he opened his eyes, and looked up...he saw you."

Loki's chest throbbed. He could barely maintain eye contact with the boy, his face heating again. But thankfully, Yan glanced away, continuing to smile.

"You stood, crouching above him, and protected him from the lava, by placing a magical shield above you both in the shape of a dome. And when the flames dissipated, he says you reached out, took his hand, and helped him up to his feet. Do you remember that?"

Loki's forehead tightened.

He made a half-smile. "You know. I really don't."

Yan nodded, playing with his boots against the stone floor.

"That's alright. You probably thought nothing of it, then. But, just think...If you hadn't have done that, then my father wouldn't be alive. And I wouldn't even be here, right now."

Loki tilted his head to the right, observing Yan's profile through the glowing barrier and dark shadows—glanced all over his small, blonde head, and innocent features.

Yan glanced down at the blanket in his lap, and ran his hand over one of the gold stars woven into it.

"My parents always spoke of you in the highest regard, telling me of your many talents and great deeds. I always looked up to you, from afar, and would always try to catch your eye from the crowd, whenever you'd pass through our streets." Yan lifted his eyes, gazing out towards the hall. His voice lowered. "Then, one day, we were told you had fallen to your death. Not three days after you had become our acting king. My parents...especially my mother...they were both heartbroken. You can imagine my mother's joy when we were later told that you were alive. And that Thor was sent to find you." Yan ran his hand over the golden star in the blanket. "That is when she began making this. And even when we heard you were condemned to this place, she has never stopped. Nor have any of us stopped hoping, and praying for your release."

Loki bit the inside of his cheek. He glanced down at his hands, which were folded in his lap, letting out a huffing sigh.

"I doubt that's ever going to happen."

Yan lifted his feet on the step, and turned his body, facing Loki. He hugged his knees.

"Why not? Surely the All-Father would grant you forgiveness, if you show him you've reformed."

"No. I—" Loki grunted, stopping himself. "It's just...it's not that simple."

"Course it is," Yan said, with certainty.

Loki scowled and reared his head up at Yan.

"No, it's not."

"But he's your father!" Yan pressed.

Loki swallowed, hard.

"No...he's not."

Yan stared, wide-eyed. He closed his mouth, and breathed heavily through his nose.

Loki snapped his head away, clenching his jaw.

"There can be no forgiveness," Loki said unshakably, releasing a shudder. "Not on either side."

There was a long, tense moment between them. Loki stared at the emptiness of the dark walls of his cell, anticipating that at any moment, he would hear the boy gather his blanket, stand up, and walk—or run away...

Instead, when Loki heard the rustle of fabric, he also heard the jangling of a small chain.

Loki glanced over and saw Yan holding up a small golden key from a chain that hung around his neck. Yan shook his head sadly. But he looked like he was suppressing a smile.

"This isn't the key to your cell. Sorry..."

Loki's brows flicked upward—he almost released a smile.

Yan at least, did, glancing down at the necklace.

"Actually, it's just a pendant that my mother gave me. But when she did, she taught me a lesson, which will always stick with me."

Loki waited. Yan only stared down at the key, twirling it between his fingers, and did not continue. So he had to ask.

"And...what was it?"

Yan looked up, his brow knotting.

"Well. She told me that forgiveness is not an even exchange. That sometimes, we have to forgive the other person, before they've learned how to forgive us. Or before they've made it right."

Loki opened his mouth to object—but nothing came to mind at all. He closed it, listening in uncomfortable stillness.

Yan continued, "When someone has wronged another person, it's like they've locked you in a cage. A prison. Now...they can use their key to get you out, if they realize they've made a terrible mistake, and decide they're going to make things right. But nine times out of ten...the person who wronged you doesn't do that. Most of the time, they decide to toss the key, and walk away."

Nodding absently, Loki listened, all the while recalling with a sickening feeling, how it felt to have a heavy chain around his neck—how it felt when the guards led him down the cold, dark steps for the first time, with the words still ringing in the back of his mind...

"Your birthright...was to die!"

Yan's bright eyes looked into Loki's, and pulled Loki from his darkened thoughts.

"But forgiveness," the boy explained, holding up his pendant once more, "is like the key, that you hold. You have a key, too. If you want to be free of the prison of unforgiveness...all you have to do is use your key to turn the lock, and you can step out. You're free."

"But that...makes no sense," Loki interjected, his hands turning to fists. "That's completely unfair. That's like saying that what the other person did to them didn't really matter. If all the person does is forgive them, then they're letting the one in the wrong get away with it! The one in wrong should pay—they should make up for all the suffering they caused the other one."

"Forgiving someone doesn't mean what they did was alright," Yan agreed. "Forgiveness, is letting go of something that's already out of your control. Because you don't have their key. You only have your own. And if you don't use yours, you'll be stuck in that prison cell forever."

A hundred protesting thoughts screamed through Loki's head, all at once. His fingers clenched and unclenched, his brow drawing tighter, as he tried hard to make sense of what this boy was saying.

"So, you're saying I should just turn my key," Loki stated doubtfully. "Even if the other person never turns theirs."

Yan slipped the key back under his cloak, through the neck of his shirt and shrugged.

"I'm not. I'm just telling you what my mother told me."

Then Yan pushed himself up with his hand, and stood to his feet. He descended a step, landing on the even ground. He turned and faced Loki.

"Well...Goodnight," he whispered plainly. He smiled, and added: "I'm glad we could visit."

Loki made a nod, but didn't say anything.

And Yan turned on his heel and began marching up the hall, towards the stairs. In the direction of the palace...

"Yan," Loki called.

The boy stopped in his step, and turned around.

"Yes?"

Loki's wrists rested on his knees. He flicked the fingers in his right hand, his jaw slackening. He canted his head side to side, eyeing the ceiling.

"If you run and tell the guards that the gift is from Queen Frigga...I'm sure they'll take it without question."

Yan's eyebrows shot up. Then his entire face lit up, beaming.

Something about his boyish, freckled grin, and his bright, blue gaze felt suddenly familiar to Loki, and sent a warm feeling straight through Loki's chest...

Yan's smile softened. And he whispered:

"I told them. You're not a monster, Prince Loki...Not at all."

Loki's breath caught.

Yan lifted a fist to his chest, and thumped it. He bowed his head, in the Asgardian salute.

Then he started in the other direction, down the hall. Loki watched, with a slight smile, as the boy scampered past his cell with light steps. Soon he disappeared past the frame of the cell and out of Loki's sight. His padding footsteps echoed further and further down the hall until they ceased altogether.

Loki sat still in the near silence, staring at the empty floors in the dark once again, and a single, consoling thought entered his mind:

At least one person had paid him a visit.

FIN

LLL

Please review! Let me know what you think! :) Notes:

This story was inspired by an experience I had, in which I cosplayed as Loki for a birthday party for boys, ages 5-8, and I was seriously picked-on, and called names by kids who were being downright mean-spirited bullies! I really wanted to vent and get de-slimed, and well—this is the result, I guess. :)

The flower garden song is an actual song, originally from Spain c. 1400. And it is called "Anonymous Song." Thought it was something Loki might hum whilst in prison, so, there you go!