A/N: Thank you very much, to everyone who favorite-ed, marked this as a story to follow, or left a comment. Posting a story is a bit like diving in slow motion off a cliff-you second guess yourself all the way to the edge and then, thanks to the wonders of slow-motion technology, get a good long while to second guess yourself all the way down. I really appreciate the feedback! My plan is to have a new chapter up every week.

The drink settles in by the time I make it to my suite. I am weightless, the air is heavy, my coat is too warm, and every move I make is of extreme importance.

It's funny—hysterical—the way feelings can wash upon a person caught unawares: my suite has been dusted, and it's this homey, cared for surprise that hits me in a wave when I swim through the double doors. I am freer than I have been in some years now, as if I could drift sideways and think myself to bed. Warmth lives in these walls. The light is peaceable. There are no shadows here. There will be no pain if I sleep.

This is my home. That is my entertaining room. There is my locked door to my bedchamber. Friendly, scallop-legged tables bask in their old spots and my satisfied, overflowing bookshelves wink motionlessly from the walls in between stately curio cabinets. Each and every happy surface or article of furniture is polished and new as if I had only gone away to visit Midgard. They are all waiting where they should be, unchanged. Each one is a soap bubble connection between now and years ago from now.

These rooms, you know, are the rooms I used to own before I tried to kill myself.

This is the suite-that-was. This is the suite-that-might-have-been. This is where I used to belong.

. . . I think—honestly I think . . . that I am a little drunk.

I sit down on the footstool to work off my boots, which takes far more effort than it should with time slowed to half speed. The marble floor is almost too much to look at, with its blurred sweeping lines merging and reforming from one square to the next. I have to look at the plain black rug to keep my head straight. When I stand, the maze-y stone is pleasantly cool against my bare feet. It's nice stone. Not rough, unfeeling stone.

My bedroom door is still protected by eight separate enchantments, because as a self-important little shit this seemed like a good idea at the time. When I finally get the things unlocked I have to cling to the door to keep from falling through.

Inside, the air smells like a spoiled wretch's naïve, self-pitying desperation if I were to tell you the truth.

Safe. Checking twice to make sure I am safe.

That someone's dusted outside concerns me much as I can be concerned from within my internal downy blanket; I suspect, as a distant theoretical-fear, that these are Frigga's orders. Loose-limbed, I slough through setting up a perimeter ward with an alarm. The magic fizzles and sparks before catching hold. Which is hilarious.

I feel, in truth, pretty damn good for a dead person.

I don't want to waste this feeling. I'm going to waste this feeling if I get started sorting what I want to take with me, and right now that's the worst thing I can do. Packing is out. The weapons vault is out. I think . . . I think . . . I can risk cleaning myself up a little. I haven't been able to get properly clean in years, not since . . . well, actually, not since the last time I lived in this suite.

The lights in my washroom are butter-yellow, rich and soft. My legs don't want to stay straight. My knees could be buckled with a teaspoon. I bow to nature with my chin dropping on my chest, my head slack on my neck for the thrill of seeing the world tip upside down. I have been replaced inside and out with glowy vibrancy.

Dropping the illusion which masks me as the worthy Odin Allfather, I duck my head as a green gold aurora sears my eyes with more blazing light. My hands grow from Odin's veined weathered hands. My own clothing emerges poorer, cruder, but mine. Really mine.

In the washroom mirror I look ghastly, ghoulish, sickly, ill. Under the pristine globe lamps my face is burnt; my eyes are sunken; I am paste slapped over a boney outline. There is a weight above my head that stretches from one horizon to the next, but right now I can't see it and—better—can't feel it. The air should be this heavy always. I am made from cloudstuff.

No; what did I s. . . ? I am vanished in light.

The shower is nice. Cold water is nice. Hot water is nice. The tub is nice. Every surface is welcoming. Every texture is comfortable. Drying off is nice. The slick marble floor is biting under my feet and this is nice; the Alfheimr rug is a fuzzy warmth and this is nice, too. Just walking around feels good. My robe is dusty, but good. My chair—my familiar unaltered chair which hasn't moved from the spot by my heavy curtained window—is a good place to sit.

With my eyes closed and my neck against the hardwood back, I don't have to do anything or see anything, and being alive means nothing except feeling moments sleep by thick as viscous honey that passes through me without catching hold.

By the time I wake, get up, and crawl into my old clothes from my old dressing quarters there is no more glowy vibrancy. I am dull, emotionless lead. The suite surfaces around me—not a poetic was or might-have-been—just an old place full of old, worn-out, dried-up roots. A tomb.

The roots are all dead. What aren't dead need to be sliced free.

I won't bore you with the details of what I chose to pack. Suffice to say that I wanted nothing sentimental. Imagine my perplexion at the nonsense I kept from fifty, one hundred, five hundred years ago. Also, far too clear to me now that everything personal I owned is rubbish. I do not need to fill up my new life with princely rubbish. Loki, I decide, was a grandiose fool.

Good riddance.

Pairing down my life takes less than an hour. When I am finished I have a small bag which contains nothing of me except tools to keep me alive. There are weapons and necessities for travel, four books on magic less asinine than the rest, and ink for drawing runes. I need nothing else. I want nothing else.

I am almost done hacking off my hair when my suite's perimeter alarm sounds. I snatch my bag and throw on a spell for invisibility, then slip out the double doors into the royal hall. Othgam Svaldismage, Svaldir's runny-faced attendant, is being led to Thor's suite by two guards. They are sixty feet from me, not looking my direction. They couldn't see me if they tried.

Svaldir. Well, Frigga can deal with the high council. She'll be a better king than Thor, at any rate.

Asgard is smeared thin and lackluster when I step out into watery afternoon. The guards and attendants, councilors and war councilors, sorceresses, messengers, and staff are sluggish walking between faded columns or speaking in low voices on the blemish-free antiquated steps as if they, too, are made ghost-like by the passing centuries. Or if they, too, died last night and haven't yet dispersed from their old haunts. They are unreal to me as surely as they cannot see me. We pass each other in separate futures.

But then, I always knew we would. Someday.

I am alive and I hate them all. The scholars and the warriors, going about their day as if nothing has changed. The gentry and their nameless staff, hungover but nonplussed. The masons and the prophets and the dancers, who don't mind that the world moves on. The children and the adults, caught up with their own lives. And I hate grandmothers and I hate young strong heroes, who won't remember me in twenty years. I hate old bent-backed men and young women who wear gold in their hair—rich silk-swathed merchants and poor ragged workers, who belong here more than I do—I hate the people lingering by the fountain in Bor's Square, who look like jeweled birds, and the guards marching as shift changes outside the treasury. And I hate the people watching the guards: mothers and infants, a puppet vendor who's laughing at two little boys, and the boys tugging each other out of the way for a better view.

I hate every soul who would be missed.

The weapons vault is buried below several security blocks and an automated sentinel compound. I rebind the illusion that makes me into Odin Allfather and dodge behind a winged statue to dispel my invisibility.

And I hate Odin Allfather. When I am Odin-King, the best protective measures in our realm melts aside. I can parade into the heart of our stronghold with its astral-armored guardians bowing me along. Smiling. Honored to see me.

The guards leave me outside the vault itself. Ahead, habrium walls slanting inward from floor to mid-ceiling turn the corridor into an elongated triangle. The habrium is drab and morose, the color of bruises; along with such morbid surfacing the many deepset alcoves give this place a crypt-like appearance. White grids cut the far wall and what exists of a ceiling—here are the vault's naked teeth. These grids are photo-optical wards, and the light they emit is cursed. Any person entering the vault who isn't known to these wards will trigger the Destroyer. Any person trying to steal what lies here will burn.

Except for Prince Loki.

This place is also called Odin's Trophy Room, so the weapons vault is of course open to Odin's sons that Thor and I can marvel at our father's prowess. This is the place where he keeps every mighty weapon stolen from the hands of his defeated enemies. He used to bring Thor and I back here to tell us tales about his crushing victory over the Frost Giants. Oh, how we cheered when Laufey-King fell. I didn't know it at the time, but the Casket of Ancient Winters wasn't the only prize ransomed from Jotunheim.

I belong in this trophy room, too.

I wonder if Odin Allfather used to spend decades lying awake at night smirking to himself when nobody could see because he had taken, not only the keystone to the Jotun civilization, but Laufey's son as well. I wonder if it gave him pleasure to hear his enemy's whelp calling him father.

As soon as I'm clear from the guards' admiring eyesight I kick Odin's hard stride into a jaunty stroll. The corridor could be an open-air market brimming with flowers and summer toys. Everything here is for sale. I lose the Allfather's stately composure for a meandering wile that leads me from one vendor's stall to the next. No one can see me inspecting the wares, but I incline my head anyway to imaginary merchants and smile at imaginary common folk out for a day in the sun. I step aside and open an imaginary gate so a woman laden with Midsummer gifts can usher her small girl into the next shop.

Your royal highness! Sir! Here we have a lovely Orb of Agamotto! Fancy price—nary a cost to you, sir!

Ick. The clairvoyance thing is nice, but I don't dare touch the surface. No, I don't want any more gateways between dimensions. I can already feel my skin trying to abandon ship.

Ah. Moving along, then. Here's a pretty treat: a goblet wreathed in bright orange fire. How about an Eternal Flame?

Now what am I supposed to do with that? Next!

An ancient spectacle! Behold, sir, the Tablet of Life and Time!

Useless. My not-great-grandfather Buri already had some fun with that. The Aesir can tell you. Thanks to him, they can tell you every day for about five thousand years.

You do know your specialty items, sir! I can see you're a hard man for a sell.

I'm not a man. But do go on.

Ah-ha. Here is the Warlock's Eye. Mind control is a fad always in season—

The Warlock's Eye is out. We never got that to work.

Very well, sir. Here we have a . . .

The Tesseract glowers up from its alcove.

My insides contract into a small steel point. My blood slows to a thick, slimy gel.

Alone. I am alone.

There is no one in this corridor but me.

I shut my eyes.

There are more alcoves farther ahead, so I turn left and slink onward. My footsteps clank on the stone. They're my footsteps.

I pivot to a stop before what turns out to be a gold armored glove. I recognize what this is, too, and the drowned feeling melts into a vice-like rush behind my eyes so hard I have to smile until my face hurts.

Ooh. Now you're a shiny toy

Hidden by the habrium walls, in the vault's mortuary shadows, I lift the Infinity Gauntlet from its luminescent stand. The metal plates are slick and yielding in my grasp; almost too much so. My false face warps like water in the reflective surface but the golden-hued skin is plain—no engravings cheapen the armor into silly excess. The six unadorned jewels blaze like miniature, winking suns.

This weapon is beautiful.

This is a weapon made to be worn. This wants to be worn.

I fumble opening my still-invisible bag, and then the Gauntlet joins my books with a slithering percussive crash.

Next!

I've got one more on my list. One more happy plaything to buy from this market filled with flowers.

The Casket of Ancient Winters is right where I know it will be: still revolting blue under a polished facade. The Jotun weapon is weighted with its own failure as the conquered crown for a dying race, but this is coming with me too. Ice and snow is a devastating skill if wielded correctly. Pity only a Frost Giant can use this weapon.

My heart is sweating under my ribs. The curved handles sting my palms when I heft the Casket. Acid prickles up my arms. The Casket's deep cold eats my false Aesir skin without my willing, turning me into a monster under my Odin-mask. I can feel my shape warping, growing cold, as I am replaced with a Loki-shaped horror. I remember what happened the last time I held this weapon, and summon a cooling spell over myself to prevent ice forming a protective barrier between me and now-scorching-hot-Asgard. What would the vault guards think if Odin Allfather left icy footprints?

The forced transformation creeps up my face. My eyes burn. I lose my sense of smell. My vision changes. While I don't miss the musty, muddy, stone-cold air buried so far below the palace, there is a newfound ability hand-in-hand with the lack: when my brain reorients to its new shape, I can see infrared.

I can see where I've paused in place, here and there. I can see my handprints inside the Infinity Gauntlet's alcove. I can see a glowing, ghost-trail hovering behind me—stretching back in time—where my Aesir shape's hot flesh and blood left a tattle-tale path.

It's a good thing the vault doesn't employ Frost Giants as guards.

Oh well.

The Casket goes under my books, so it doesn't hurt my Gauntlet.

A deep voice says, "Your majesty."

I whip around, back straight, hands rigid at my sides. Through still-Jotun eyes Svaldir's green councilor's cape is blue. The gold-caped vault guards beside him wear light gray. The councilor's dark brown skin is still almost normal—at least, the correct color names I have for Aesir skin seem to fit well enough with what I'm seeing. Both Svaldir and the guards emit radiant living heat that makes my empty sto—

Erm. You know what, never mind.

I am thankful, in every electrified cell of my body, that I kept my Odin-mask up. Another heartbeat and I have illusions constructed to fill the two empty trophy stands, the most obvious behind me and out of sight.

"You have a son and daughter," I say, to cover what I have been doing with an impression that I'm only snooping around my own vault for sentimental reasons. Not, I don't know: stealing? "All these victories around me, and yet . . . tell me, Councilor, have I failed in the one legacy which matters?"

Svaldir bats not an eyebrow. Skilled politician, he. "Your legacy will take the throne after you, as was always meant. He will be a good king." Liar. "Beloved, and strong." True.

He hasn't seen a thing.

"This is the second time you have come to me at personal hours," I warn him, breathing easier. With the Casket safely in my bag I can feel an inverse transformation creeping down my scalp, reverting me to my usual shape. I am rendered temporarily blind when the spreading acid reaches my eyes. Then, Svaldir is wearing green and I remember what yellow looks like. I adopt Odin-King's fire-and-axes voice. "Please tell me you come with good news."

Svaldir draws into an apologetic, respectful stance. "There is an emergency meeting in the War Council's Tower. I begged Tyr's pardon; I said that this is something you would wish to oversee. The children are squabbling over what to do in the event that a colony has sprung up on Vorsgard. There's only one Midsummer Beast, and not enough sticks to whack sweets from it."

"News from the investigation?"

"None. Our finest have only been deployed as of two hours since, by approximate count. Ilda is with them as per your command." He tucks his hands behind his back in a gesture of off-the-record informality. "If you want my honest opinion, Allfather, I hope there is a colony. In a single day we've suffered an attack on our own home and lost a prince—the people could use a good revenge war to settle their nerves."

Preside over the War Council? Fizzing sunlight fills up my chest. Laughter flutters, but I squelch it. I keep my face implacable.

Sure. Why not?

"I appreciate your coming to find me," I say, moving away from the false Casket to face Svaldir with a haughty nod. "Let us see what the Red Tower is deciding in their king's stead."

He follows me from the weapons vault. His attendant, Othgam, is waiting for us in the hall. Othgam's eyes are glassy, although whether this is for having been unsuccessful in finding dear departed Thor or because he is still unused to being this close to royalty—who can say.

The vault guards flank us to the closest checkpoint, and the next pair to the middle checkpoint. Councilor Svaldir and Othgam Svaldismage are searched at each juncture, just in case the High Council has turned to black market thievery. My person is never searched. My invisible bag passes through all levels of security unnoticed, hanging from my left shoulder like a messenger's satchel, although I have to cast a silencing spell on both the contents and my armored side to keep the two from clacking together.