A/N: Hello, dear readers, old and new alike. I am guessing many of you thought this story had been abandoned and I'll admit, for a time, I did too. But here we are. Life ebbs and flows. Things change while others stay the same. My depression will always be a constant battle but certain of my circumstances have changed which in turn has given me more free time to write. So here we are.

If you are an old reader willing to return you have my thanks. If you are a new reader, welcome. I hope you enjoy your stay. I completely understand that people may have forgotten what has happened and can not/do not want to take the time to go back and read the previous chapters. So here is a quick recap:

Earth has been destroyed and Jane and Darcy are the only survivors. They were whisked away in the nick of time to Asgard. How Earth was destroyed remains a mystery that they are trying to solve. In the meantime, Loki and Darcy have developed a kinship, which in turn, has caused problems and upset. And amidst all this someone tried to assassinate Darcy though who has not yet been revealed. However, Odin, in all his glorious wisdom (sarcasm), has locked up Loki believing him to be the one that tried to kill Darcy. This chapter takes place a few days after Loki's incarceration. No one has been allowed to see him. Not Darcy, nor Thor, nor even his mother.

I hope that's enough of a recap but if you have any questions just let me know. And as usual, no copyright infringement is intended. I do not own these characters. I just love them. Let me know what you think and I do hope you enjoy.

And as always, a very special thank you to my beta latessitrice. Who knew that one silly little tentative message on FFnet way back when would lead to all of this.

Before…

The young man stood on the hilltop looking over the land he called home. Dark clouds swirled above him and he could hear the wind twisting the leaves of the great oak tree, feel it ruffling his fair hair and sliding along his skin like supple leather. The air smelled metallic, biting sharp on his tongue, telling him that rain was coming soon.

Perfect, he thought.

He closed his eyes and held out his right hand loosely.

Forged from a star, eons ago. This is more than a weapon of might, my son. More than just the rage and power of thunder and lightning. It knows the heart of every living thing. And when you are ready, when you are worthy, it shall come to you.

His fingers flexed ever so slightly in anticipation. He was certain today would be the day. As certain of this as he was of his seat upon the throne. He was nearly a man now, though in mortal years he still looked but a boy. He'd gone to war already, albeit just local skirmishes, but still. Surely the Mighty Hammer would find him worthy on this day of days, the day of his birth. Such celebration there would be! Such pride on his father's face!

He waited, fingers outstretched, calling to the weapon that had nearly once destroyed Midgard on its day of inception, millions of years past. He waited, as the first fat drops of rain came down from the sky, plunk, plunk, plunk, till they came faster and faster and soon he was soaked through and anxious.

One eye peeked open and scanned the horizon but all was still aside from the wind and the rain and the darkening skies.

"Donkey's arse," He let his hand fall to his side, shoulders slumping while he trudged back home heavy hearted.

Still, there WERE celebrations that night, for he was, after all, the favored son and it was his day of birth. There were honey cakes and roasted pigs and all manner of bread and wine and ale passed round; and the young man filled himself aplenty till he felt fat and his fingers were slippery with grease and his lips sweet with honey and ale.

People came from all over the land bearing gifts small and large, both lush and humble; and even those who could not make the trek celebrated in their villages, lighting fires and singing songs and lying with each other after the children had drifted off to sleep.

Even the young man, whose day of days it was, took a shine to a young lass late that eve, out of sight of his father's watchful eyes; took her into a closet, young hands fumbling, young girl blushing. And when he'd pushed into her, clumsy and awkward and careless of her needs, she'd cried out his name, both a warning and a benediction.

His name, meaning thunder. He, of the storms. He, of lightning. God of War.

His name, Thor.

Now…

Thor paced his quarters in solitude, the scent of his lover still on his skin. They'd made up from their previous fight, careful and slow in their lovemaking, and then Jane had turned her focus to what she knew best: data and statistics. She was currently getting a crash course in Asgardian tech, accompanied, of course, by a small entourage of guards. Just in case.

In the time since then Darcy had asked the impossible of him. She was becoming cunning, that one, unafraid to slip a metaphorical knife between the layers of his armor.

You owe me. This is your fault. You were supposed to protect Earth.

Another time, another situation, he might have felt angered by her words, might have countered them with his own sharp tongue, but not this time. Not this time because he could see. He could see in her eyes that what drove her was worry for the man she loved and truth be told, if anyone had ever dared take the mortal, Jane Foster, from him, he knew he'd tear down all of Asgard to get her back. Hel, he'd tear all the Nine to shreds if that's what it took, lineage and responsibilities be damned.

So now he paced, scheming, trying to think of a way to sneak Darcy in to see his wayward brother when even he, the future king, was not allowed passage. He knew only that Loki was in the cells below. What state he was in, Thor knew not, but given what he knew of his father… well, it made him shudder.

"If only I'd been able to speak with him," Thor said to himself. "He has secret passages all over this place."

"I think I can help with that," came a woman's voice.

Frigga stood in the doorway, eyes tired but stature elegant as always, gold dress billowing around her. The door clicked shut behind her as she moved into the room and to her son, whom she embraced.

"Thor," she said, cupping his face in her hands; and for a moment they were just mother and son looking upon each other with love, not queen and warrior, not shadowed by all that had befallen them.

A flicker of doubt seemed to slide across his face. "Are you certain?" he asked. "About Loki. That he…" That he did not do this. Tell me he did not do this.

Frigga patted his face once and looked upon him as though he were a child struggling with an exceptionally easy mathematical problem.

She moved away from him and sat on one of the nearby couches, patting the space beside her. Once he was seated she continued.

"Did you know," she said, hands folded in her lap, gaze distant as she reached back in time to a long held memory, "that Loki cried the night Mjolnir finally came to you."

She spared a glance at Thor. "It's true," she said in response to his shocked expression. "I caught him once, on his balcony, arm outstretched. He was so deeply concentrating that he did not take notice of me."

Before…

She stood and watched her child, HER child - blood or not - as he stood there on the balcony, sun illuminating his pale skin, so pale that others often thought him ill. He was gaunt, even then, and it stood more starkly in comparison when he played side by side with young strapping Thor; or when they walked the great halls with their father, her husband, who even in his youth had never been a slim man.

She watched as his slender fingers flexed, as small beads of sweat formed on his skin under the noonday heat, as his lip curled in frustration, oblivious to her presence. She saw too, the moment he gave up, the anger that flashed within him, nearly felt his rage as a palpable thing. She wanted so badly to go to him and to tell him that his own time and glory would come but found her hand staid by her duty as a king's wife. She was bound, as queen, to raise her children in such a manner as to befit royalty. In the Halls of Odin that meant they must learn to fail before they could succeed.

So she slipped away that day, unannounced, and listened to the sounds of a child's temper tantrum fading with each step she took.

It was the year following that had seen a change in Loki. Saw him form like forged steel, a blade sharp and cruel, immutable, except by fire.

Loki had sprouted like a quick growing vine that year, had sprung nearly six feet tall, all sinew and lean muscle and features growing fine and angular. He was quiet even then, prone to books and studies and nary an eye spared for the young women of Asgard. There was a time, short as it was, where Frigga had wondered if perhaps her adopted son had other proclivities but it was a short lived notion, eclipsed by more serious concerns.

Despite his solitary nature he was often found to be testing his metal alongside Thor, eager to make his mark. What he lacked in brute strength he made up for in cunning, often winning sparring matches by studying his opponent and learning their weaknesses. But even then she could see him focusing on his failures more often than on his successes. That he could not wield an ax with the same strength and precision as his brother ate at him, never mind that he could wield a knife faster than their eyes could track.

In all things, he compared himself to Thor. Thor, who so often loudly boasted of his future as King of Asgard; who spoke proudly of how one day soon Mjolnir would come to him; who laughed and smiled brightly at the ladies of the court, wondering which of them would be his queen.

Frigga saw it all; saw the shadows slip across Loki's face when Thor spoke so surely of his future upon the throne, saw Loki's brow knit together when he took aim with an ax and failed to meet his mark; watched as Thor pushed him towards a servant girl despite Loki's protests.

She watched and she did nothing, trusting in her husband when he assured her it would work itself out, that boys were boys and Loki would find his place.

She watched, too, the night Thor came home caked in mud and streaks of drying blood, wielding the Hammer forged from star stuff. He'd held it high and cried out in victory, face beaming, smiling the smile of a golden child turned man. All of the palace had cheered with him that night. All but Loki, who had trudged in after him, just as dirty, just as victorious, and yet clear as day that victory did not reach his eyes, though she felt sure no one else had noticed. They were all too caught up in the fervor of Thor's might, for surely Mjolnir in his hand assured his seat upon the throne. It was all but writ in stone now.

Later, as the festivities wound down and the stars traveled their path up in the sky, she had sought out her raven haired child, who had somehow, over time, slid into a special pocket in her heart; whom she wanted to protect and coddle from the pains of their world and their way of life. Mayhap because of his beginnings, beginnings they were not allowed to speak of, beginnings not even Thor knew. Left to die, heir apparent, denied. She wondered if somehow he knew, if some remote infant memory had survived, had left him with a longing in his heart that could never be filled. For despite all his best intentions she knew that Loki would never sit in Odin's place, knew her husband, merciful as he was, would never allow a blue skinned bastard to rule his kingdom.

She found him near dawn in the Vault, stood before the empty space that had housed Mjolnir.

"I'm worthy," she heard him whisper, voice already hoarse from crying. She could see the tears streaking his face even in the dim light.

She moved towards him then, taking sure even strides across the gleaming marble, politics of raising boys all but forgotten. He turned in kind, as though he'd known all along that she'd been there.

"He told me I was worthy."

In all his years she'd never seen such pain on his face, pain as though his whole life had just fallen out from under him, pain like that which comes with death.

"You are worthy," she'd said as she wrapped her arms around him. "You are."

She'd held him, she didn't know for how long. Till he stopped shaking. Till he had no more tears. Till his body went slack against hers. And all the while a kernel of resentment wound its way inside of her, tipping the scales so that she did the one thing a mother should never do: choose a side. That night, subconscious as it was, she chose Loki. Chose to protect him. Chose to champion him. Chose to love him just that little bit more.

When he pulled free from her embrace his façade had changed. Gone were the tears and the anguish and the youthful frustration. In their stead was a placid expression, flat as glass, still as water before a storm; all but his eyes, which reminded her of the ice from which he came, cold and sharp as a razor, ready to cut if one weren't careful.

It was later that same day that he'd come to her and asked her to teach him magic, and like a good mother, she had obliged. Never mind that it was women's work. Never mind the protests from her bellowing husband. Never mind the barbed jibes from Thor and his friends cast always with a smile and laughter. She taught him, and she taught him well.

In the years that followed she saw him settle into a pattern. He fought alongside his brother and The Warriors Three. He made eyes at Sif and visited the taverns after battle with the men, drinking and making merry and lying between the legs of the girls who'd have him. In the palace he used his magic for mirth, sat at the great table and dined with the rest of them, toasting and tossing goblets into the hearth with glee.

And if, at times, she saw him sneak off into the night, shedding his Asgard form and trading it for a wolf or a bird or a snake, only to return days later without a word, she thought not too much on it. Or when Thor had declared his intentions for Sif, had asked Father his blessing, and she had seen what could have been a brief flash of hatred: the narrowing of eyes, the thin line of lips pursed, mar Loki's perfect features, she had not thought too much on that either, for wasn't it normal, mundane even, for men to fight over women?

No, she thought not too much on it at all, for all seemed well in the House of Odin. Her husband had settled into an aging grace, her blood child stood to rule the kingdom, and Loki, the child of her heart, smiled and laughed, content, she thought, to serve at Thor's side. At least, it seemed that way, so long as you chose to look at it one way, and not the other, which is exactly what she did.

Now…

"So you see," she said, "this is as much my fault, as much my burden to bear, as it is Loki's or yours or your father's." Her body slumped then, as though the weight of all those years were finally catching up with her.

"You look tired," Thor commented, voice thoughtful, but Frigga laughed by way of reply, and waved her hand dismissively.

"Your father may have the benefit of the Great Sleep," she said, "but I do not."

She smiled weakly. "I am tired, son."

The fire snapped and sparked and its flames reflected in her eyes.

"Now, about Darcy," she continued, straightening her posture. "I know a way she can see him."

She rose as she spoke. "It is not without some risk. If your father catches us…"

"This is not your fault," Thor interjected, grasping her hand as he rose too. "What Father did…"

"What your father did is what happens in war. You know that." She patted his hand before slipping out of his grip.

"I will tend to Darcy," she said before he could argue. "You," she paused, took a deep breath, "You find who threatens us now."

Thor watched as his mother left the room, the weight of her words hanging in the air like the smell of burnt flesh.

You find who threatens us now.

Because it was always something, always someone. The safety of the Nine had been laid upon their hands by the World Tree eons before his blood had ever flowed in his veins, and with such great power and great responsibility had come the gaze and envy of all who desired such things. Many wars had been fought in the beginning, and many lives lost. But in the end Odin had defeated them all.

He wondered, as he stood there, about his father, sworn to protect all those within their cosmos; the people who loved him, the ones who did not, and even those of Midgard, who had not known his name at all except from within the pages of books. He wondered about the choices his father had made, wondered what choices he would have made in his stead.

Would he have taken Loki in? Or would he have left the child to die in the cold?

And now? What choice now? Stand against his father and face banishment again? Or be the dutiful son, bound by honor?

At every turn they faced some new challenge and he found himself longing for the days of his youth when sovereignty had seemed like such a simple thing, his future assured, straight as an archer's arrow. Now his future was a chasm, a wide and yawning labyrinthine maze of choices with lives hanging in the balance. Darcy's life, to be sure, but his brother's as well, and worse, possibly all of Asgard, if not the Nine. All resting on him, or so it felt.

Indeed, his mother's words hung heavy in the air, a smoke that made his head hurt as he tried to work it all out.

Thor paced again, feet leaden on the marble floor as his muscled body tensed with every passing minute.

Enemies within, and enemies without, he thought as he paced. What happens in war does not end when war does.

He wondered how long they would all be paying the price.