"He that hath no cross deserves no crown." - Francis Quarles


The King of Asgard was alone.

He was always alone.

By day he sat upon a throne behind a mask, concealed from all who would look upon him, ruling the world that should have been his by right under the guise of his now dead father.

The once-prince Loki ruled, but he ruled in chains.

And it galled him.

It had seemed like such a brilliant plan at first – by all accounts it had been. "Die" in battle saving Thor and assume his father's place – redemption, freedom, and his birthright gained all in one moment.

But freedom was elusive. After all, he had to rule as his father lest he be arrested and almost assuredly executed for Odin's death. Despite the tales of his exploits in Svartalfheim, the Asgardians still whispered his name with the taint of fear and shame – relief as well. Relief that he was "dead." Relief that the traitor Loki was no more. It made his blood boil, knowing that they spoke of him thusly, but even greater than his desire for revenge at their slights was his desire to rule.

And so to rule as king, he ruled as Odin. Every morning he awoke as Odin. Every evening he retired as Odin. Every person he spoke to, he spoke to as Odin. Every command that he made was as Odin. Every meal that he took among the Asgardians was as Odin. Every fake smile. Every forced laughed. As Odin.

He'd forgotten how much he'd once loved laughing – his tricks had been all in good fun, and he remembered, albeit dimly, how long ago his brother had laughed with him. Loki mercilessly squashed the memory. It was pointless, really, to remember such times, for he had allowed his past to be swallowed up in the great maw of his hatred, where he had willingly, joyfully left it to die.

At night, he retreated to his rooms for a few blessed hours of solitary freedom, the illusion of Odin fading from his body. Falling into bed, he'd scream himself horse into silken pillows so that he would not forget the sound of his own voice. He had not figured this into his plan: madness was never more than a footstep away from his door.

The bedroom was his sanctuary, the only refuge from the outside world. He tried at first to sleep in the King's Bedchamber, but found the idea of sleeping where his now dead mother once had repulsive. So he'd built another chamber – no one had found it strange. After all, half of Asgard was being rebuilt after the Dark Elves had attacked, and no one dared question the Mighty Odin, who seemed to have survived both the attack and his wife's death with preternatural strength. Of course, the real Odin was dead now, but only Loki knew to mourn….

It was not like the old king's room's had been, done in yards of golden silk and glowing light. Loki's new rooms were dark, the walls and furniture made from black ebony harvested from the Earth, with shelves of books and weapons reaching up three dozen feet to the dark, emerald colored silk that hung from the ceiling.

The bed was enormous, but he drew little comfort from it. Sleep was always elusive – when he dreamed, he dreamed of something like regret, or even worse, of nightmares. Sometimes he dreamed of the Chitauri, coming to exact their revenge for his failings, torturing him, peeling the skin from his body inch by inch until he begged for death. He'd wake up shaking like some pathetic weakling, wishing he'd actually died on that God-forsaken field in Svartalfheim rather than live through another nightmare. Still other dreams were crueler. In other dreams he'd been born to rule, and his family sat lovingly by his side - he had everything he'd ever dreamt of having. No, sleep was no good at all.

Madness; its flames were licking at his heels, and everyday the fire grew hotter.