Chapter 1: The Truth About Heaven I

OKAY, so I just saw Thor 2, which totally inspired me to work on this fic a bit more before (despite my looming deadlines and exams).

AMAZING MOVIE btw! My favorite Marvel movie so far! And it even inspired me to integrate some new information into this fic (don't worry NO SPOILERS, this story is still very incompatible with Thor 2 since I started it way before the movie came out)

Anyway, I apologize for the slightly shorter chapter, because as I was writing it, it became much longer than initially anticipated, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. So Steve's adventures with Heimdall will be in two parts. Please enjoy the first :)


"What's going on?" Steve takes a hesitant step back, as the gold and crystalline walls around him fade into nothingness. He finds himself outside once more, but rather than New York during its brisk, clear winters, Steve is now standing at the edge of a cliff, before a desolate wasteland of black stones and ice. "What is this place?"

"Heimdall?" The soldier calls for the guardian upon receiving no response, the syllables of his name feeling strange and foreign on his tongue. He turns to where Heimdall had stood, only to realize that he is alone.

Steve exhales through his mouth, but doesn't see the white wisp of his breath, and despite the falling snow and howling wind, the soldier feels none of the harsh conditions of his surroundings, as if he were still sheltered within golden walls. This—whatever, this is—isn't real.

He hears a chorus of shouts followed by the clashing of metal, and he whips around to find two armies seemingly appearing out of nowhere, tearing one another to shreds below the cliff where he is standing.

Golden armor, Steve realizes, and helmets with horns. They are Asgardian soldiers battling against creatures of blue skin, red eyes—could they be Frost Giants?

Steve blinks, and suddenly he is on the ground, the battle all but over. The planes are littered with dead from both sides, so vast in number that not a single patch of untainted snow remains. The soldier maneuvers himself passed the bodies, head low in a solemn salute for the newly fallen, until an arching stone temple rises before him, invisible forces pulling him inside.

And before the soldier stood a wounded old man—too regal in his posture to be a mere soldier. His right eye is bloody and hollow, and his snow-white beard tainted red. The man kneels before a bundle of loose blankets, as the cries of an infant echoes against stonewalls. The baby hushes from the sudden attention, and Steve looks on in awe as tender blue skin fades to pale, and red eyes transform to a shade of green that is all but too familiar

"Loki," Steve exhales a stuttering breath. And Heimdall, suddenly beside him, responds with a single nod.

"How long did you plan to keep him from me?"

The abandoned temple is now a furnished chamber, with velvet gold curtains and marble floors. Steve watches as a woman lean over a golden crib, her blonde hair pooling past the satin linings, just long enough for a pair of small hands to grasp longingly at the strands. She straightens herself at the sound of footsteps, much to the protest of the infant, seemingly to stare right through Steve.

"Your guards are ill-suited for this kind of responsibility. I could hear the poor child cry from the other end of the palace." The woman—Frigga, Steve is almost entirely sure—smiles, as she turns to the man from the battlefield—Odin. He now stands awkwardly by the arching entrance, and not even his regal armor could hide his unease before his beautiful wife. His injuries have healed with time, but a golden patch now replace where his wounded eye had been.

"He is not—" Odin begins, but his queen shushes him with an enigmatic smile. She is unbelievably stunning—unworldly almost—and Steve's portrait is nothing but a shadow in comparison.

"Of course, he is not."

"I found him, at the heart of Jötunheim. Abandoned."

"And you rescued this sweet child out of the goodness of your heart." There is a touch of humor in her voice, as Frigga lowers an elegant hand into the crib, eliciting a soft giggle from its inhabitant.

Odin's lips twist to a frown below his thick, white beard. "I am ashamed to admit the thoughtlessness of my actions, my Queen. And now, I am at loss to what I should do."

"What possibly could have been on your mind at the time?"

Odin approaches a nearby chair and sinks into its cushions, before bringing up a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "A whim, a wild hope—useless thinking, now in retrospect—that perhaps, the hatred between our realms would finally come to an end through this child—the future king of Jötunheim."

"A wild hope, indeed, to place on a mere child." Frigga parts from the crib to kneel before her king. She twines her fingers with his, before gazing into his weary eyes. Her expression is gentle, although the wrinkle between her brows suggests a touch of reproach.

Odin hesitates briefly before responding with a heavy sigh. "I cannot return him to that wasteland, to die."

"You must not, my King."

"But for him to remain here an unwanted child? Motherless? Forsaken?"

"He will not be without a mother. I wish to be his mother."

Odin looks at his wife, disbelief evident in his battle-worn features. "You cannot possibly."

"Why not, my King?"

"He is the son of Laufey."

"Laufey abandoned him."

"He is the son of our enemies. The blood of our people stains the hands of his ancestors."

"And why should an innocent child pay for the crimes of his ancestors?"

"A Frost Giant in the house of Odin?"

"No one has to know. He is a sweet child—small, for a Frost Giant. Your glamor will conceal him."

"I could not conceal him from you." Odin looks pointedly at his wife.

"I can guarantee, my King, you need not worry for anyone else." She runs soothing circles on the back of his calloused hands. Her smile remains but her eyes are sad. "I feel as if its fate, almost, that has brought him to us."

"Frigga, he is not—" Odin stumbles over his words, falthering, his brows furrowed in worry. "He cannot replace—"

"I know, I know," Frigga hushes, "He is no one's replacement. He is Loki only. My Loki."

The scene before him fades once more in a transition of colors, and Steve is left motionless and speechless—overwhelmed with an odd mixture of guilt and intrusion.

"Why are you showing me this?" He demands even though he is alone. Heimdall appears to have the ability to come and go as he wishes, much to the soldier's frustration. "I—I don't understand! What is the meaning of this?"

###

Steve watches Loki grow to a shy little boy—clever, studious, sensitive (but perhaps, a bit too sensitive). Young Thor was absurdly fond of his brother, but his exuberance and overprotectiveness embarrassed the young god almost as much as the jokes of cruel children, who often mocked the young prince for his pale appearance, his preference to magic—as if they made him any less of a warrior.

Some of the children had been unkind, but Loki was not entirely blameless either. He was far too sharp-tongued and quick-witted for his own good, devious in his pranks and relentless in his petty acts of vengeance. Furthermore, the young god possessed a certain degree of haughtiness—fitting only for a spoiled prince—whixh rendered him quite the unpleasant child when provoked. But despite his faults—Steve could tell—that Loki was not cruel. He just never seemed to belong no matter how hard he tried.

Odin was kind to his second son, but his favoritism towards Thor was obvious. Steve finds it almost heart-breaking how Loki could never impress his father—with his magic, his studies, his gifts—at least, not in the same effortless way Thor could, through his spars and the fruits of his hunt.

Frigga's love offered some compensation, but it was never enough, not for Loki. And as Thor grew more arrogant and reckless, Loki became reserved and cunning, until his resentment towards his golden brother reached a peak. In retrospect, the debacle around Thor's coronation seemed almost inevitable, and Steve watches on in dread at the unfolding of events—from Loki's wiles to Thor's idiotic raid into the heart of Jötunheim, and finally, the touch of a Jotun soldier that changed Loki's life in every way imaginable.

"I thought we could unite your kingdoms one day. Bring about an alliance. Bring about permanent peace, through you. But those plans no longer matter."

"So, I am no more than another stolen relic? Locked up, here, until you might have use of me?"

"Why do you twist my words?"

"You could have told me what I was from the beginning. Why didn't you?"

"You're my son. I wanted only to protect you from the truth."

"What? Because I-I'm the monster that parents tell their children about at night? It all makes sense now. Why you favored Thor all these years! Because no matter how much you claim to love me, you could never have a Frost Giant sitting on your throne of Asgard!"

And what follows is a disaster, a tragedy of a boy who made all the wrong choices—blinded by the need to please his father, consumed by jealousy for his brother, and plagued with the irrepressible anguish that his life had been a lie, and all his efforts had been in vain.

Steve watches as Thor summon his hammer, before directing all this strength to the crystalline bridge below. He strikes it once, twice, until the foundation shakes, and he continues until the entire bridge collapses in a flash of brilliant lights.

"I could have done it, father! I could have done it, for you! For all of us!" Loki cries out frantically—tears streaking his beautiful face—as he dangles over the edge of the bridge.

"No, Loki," says his father, and the young god looks at him unblinkingly, expression muted in comparison to the anguish he must feel. He allows himself to fall—despite the protest of his brother, his father—and disappears into nothingness, along with the rest of the scene.

Steve could hardly repress his frustration—with this damaged family, with himself—now that Loki's face before his fall—hopelessness and distraught—is permanently etched into his brain.

No, Loki.

How could Steve have known that these were the exact words that drove Loki to madness, to his fall? And he had said it—in his idiocy, in his obliviousness—the night when Loki kissed him, the night before he disappeared from Earth. And how could he have known that Frigga had died, that Loki had been mourning, for the only person he still cared for in his once home. If Steve truly wished to reminisce and determine all the wrong things he said to the god, certainly he would drive himself mad.

"Are we done here?" He shouts into the void, into the nothingness surrounding him. Heimdall has not conjured another scene in awhile, and the soldier feels as if he's simply floating in a vast void.

"Or are you going to show him attacking Earth too! Leading the Chitauri army, maybe? Because I still remember that quite clearly!" Steve continues after receiving no response. His hands are nearly shaking, and he supposes it's unfair and childish to direct his frustration at the guardian, for something that is clearly not his fault. "Is this supposed to explain what he has done to us? Justify it?"

"Are you even listening?" Steve seethes, and he supposes this is typical—Asgardian—how nothing is ever straightforward, and that he is simply forced to sit through this experience, without any say in it at all. "Because I can think of a much better way to—"

Steve is cut off mid-sentence by a blood-curling scream, and he feels as if his heart had dropped to his stomach.

"Loki?" The soldier's voice is barely a whisper. He looks frantically around him, but is only greeted by pitch-blackness in all directions. And no matter how long he waited his eyes would not adjust.

Another scream rips through the silence, and that sets Steve running blindly in the general direction towards the source. He could hardly recognize the outline of his hand before him, and he tries his best not to stumble, and to ignore the sudden deficiency of his most dependable sense. Steve waits for another signal of some sort, but receives none, and he feels as if the blood in his veins has turned to ice, knowing that Loki is here somewhere. After all, everything has been revolving around the god so far.

"Loki? Is that you? I can't see a thing! Where are you? Wher—Oh, no—No, please, no!"


Sorry, for the cliffy again, omg.

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