Fortune Days

March 23rd, 2010

Loki was uncertain. He was used to limbo, to sit there pondering what decision to make for long days at a time—but his own impulsiveness here had shocked him and left him unsure. Bringing Hermione, to Asgard? Yes, perhaps this was preferable to her consorting with Thor in his exile; she had such a nose for trouble that she'd probably even somehow manage to bring his idiot brother back to Asgard. While Loki had not had long to plot when this unexpected opportunity had flung itself at his feet, what plans he had made thus far were nonetheless critical to the survival of Asgard. Having Hermione—or Thor—meddle with them would make things unnecessarily difficult.

No. Best to keep Hermione here, an extraneous variable, but one he could at least keep under close observation.

Besides: he needed time to process the... recent revelations, time to decide on possible outcomes and punishments, time to weave his webs and set them out carefully if he was to catch himself a crown... time he wasn't sure if he had.

Loki sighed heavily, their footsteps echoing through the vast empty halls of Valaskjálf. Still, Hermione's presence had the potential to... complicate things. She had a tendency towards that too, to make things difficult. Because of some internal twist of sentimenthe now had that human woman on his arm who needed tending to, something else to somehow make time for. He could hardly ignore her, now that he had her here: after all, she kept her little Time Turner tucked into a little pocket dimension at one ear, winking at him with the promise of all the time in the world if he could just get the damn woman to go along with it all.

And what a woman she was. Wouldn't shut up with her questions for one moment. "Why is it so empty?" she asked.

There were guards, and servants, but it was true: Valaskjálf, the great golden palace of Asgard, was largely silent. "Because we are gods to many," Loki replied with a weary grin, "and we like to prove it ourselves by making larger and larger palaces until there are few enough of us to properly inhabit them."

She frowned a bit, looking around her. They kept a quick pace, secure under an illusory veil that averted casual looks from courtiers and castle guards but did not hide them in the most thorough sense. Heimdall had a habit of becoming suspicious at the most inconvenient times; best not alarm him much, particularly not with Hermione around to ask similarly inconvenient questions. "This might sound silly, but—your parents have been together for thousands of years. Why are there only the two of you? If Asgardians live so long, then why haven't they expanded in population and—and gone to other stars, there are so many you can see from Asgard! How can you resist not visiting them all? What do you do with that time? Clearly you don't—" she flushed a bit despite herself "—breed."

Loki shrugged. "Again—we think ourselves gods. Think of your own race. When I visited five hundred years ago your families would each have a dozen children and few would live past forty of your years. Now, two parents raise two children, perhaps three, and manage to prolong their lives past a century." He bared his teeth a bit. "Each parent in Asgard thinks that the child they bring forth into this world is, of course, perfect. Why create a second when you already have one bright shining jewel? Two is clutter. Two is complicated. Our childhood lasts hundreds of your years; after a thousand years, Thor was to be coronated heir bare hours ago as recognition of his coming of age, until he did something that proved himself still a child." He looked over at her slyly. "My people know too well the taste of fratricide. The Allfather has bastards, of course, but the court in all its courteousness is bidden call them cousins lest his prophesied-excused indiscretions cause some new strife. Asgard fears change, particularly that brought about by the squalling of unpredictable little children."

Hermione opened her mouth, likely to spill out some of her beloved statistics, then shut it again. "Culture," she said instead. "Got it."

Loki smiled to himself. How politically correct she had become. Perfect for the court, as long as she didn't clutter her speech with too much of her science. "And as to why we do not explore the stars..." He paused, briefly, by a window that looked out into that sky. He had been one of the few to carry his fascination with the stars and exploring them all past childhood; that Hermione shared his interest was... refreshing. She reminded him of who he had been, before bitterness had settled so deeply into his bones. "Some of us do," he said, his voice quiet. "But most of Asgard is simply satisfied with staring out at the same view for a thousand years, and listening to the same old stories told and retold in our feast halls by those that fancy themselves adventurous." His lips curled as he thought of the Warriors Three, prior to when Thor had gotten it into his head to join their little band: most of the stories they had told hadn't even been true. "Do you know, in our calendar, that your millennium is counted only as decades by the wheeling of our little planetoid, and we have no true day or night? This twilight we have, all these lovely shades of gold—this thing that your poets and your artists dream of, is also all we have, shifting between states only marginally different from each other. It rarely clouds, and then only briefly to water the vegetation as the Allfather decrees; we have only—this. Endless, pitiless perfection."

"I've always been confused by the concept of heaven," Hermione replied softly after a few moments. She was standing next to him. He could feel her warmth inches away; he stood still, doing his best not to lean into her. He so rarely felt comfortable with the little simple blessing of physical contact, but now was not the time. Later. "Everything's supposed to be perfect. But if every day is exactly the same—is it really all that perfect?" Her brown eyes were bright, filled with the light stars of the Asgardian sky she looked out across. She had become a rather pretty thing, for a mortal. "If we do not continue to live and grow and change? That sounds... more hellish, to me."

"Such a conception of the afterlife may have been our fault," Loki said, his lips twitching in amusement. "Or at least, we did not discourage it. Told your people of our Valhalla, that we'd steal some of their souls away when they found themselves poked too full of holes to keep on living. Valhalla! Where you never stop drinking until the day you get to die again, a place for souls to be stored lest they disintegrate and may not longer be useful to the Allfather's designs." He smiled again. "Millions of your people have thrown away their lives for the promise of such an afterlife. Crucifixions of saints, loyal soldiers who die simply so others can die later, suicides of those who wish for something more, all that. How does it feel, knowing that so much of your kind lives only with the intention to die well?"

Hermione grimaced. "Don't take all the credit. We humans can do a perfectly good job of coming up with psychophilosophically unhealthy cosmologies all on our lonesome. The Elysium Fields don't sound all that great to me either."

Loki looked over at her slyly. Oh, he had missed this! "If you'd like me to shed some insight on the nature of your Olympians—"

Hermione cut him off with a laugh, open and smiling. It was... good, to see her happy, losing something of that air of wretchedness she had born but a few hours earlier. "Never mind that. Let me figure Asgard out before I tackle other pantheons. What can you tell me about the planetoid Asgard is on? I mean, it's not even a proper sphere, I don't understand how it's stable, it doesn't seem to sit at a Lagrangian point or anything..."

And so it went; they moved from the window and kept on walking, ever onwards. Hermione was wide eyed in a sort of shock from her abrupt uprooting from that infertile place she had been failing to properly flower in, a transplant dangling from his arm in a state of helpless curiosity about her new surroundings. He'd certainly care for her as best he could during this delicate time of transition, though he had little choice in the matter if he didn't want to waste another few centuries putting the pieces carefully together. Oh, and to think, he was so close...

Still, despite her newfound laughter, she had lost something of that delightful boldness of hers; she looked tired, her face crinkling up with new lines when she smiled like crumpled silk. How quickly mortals aged. If the Odinsleep lasted longer than it was supposed to, perhaps like it had in the days of wars when he was constantly draining himself in the defense of Asgard, Loki may have to set her on the path to immortality himself and trust Father to understand his decision afterward.

Father—

He shut the thought off as quickly as it came. Later. Time enough for such things later, later. Right now he could not allow himself to think of such things, not unless there was something nearby he could make scream.

Hermione was here, and more pressingly now. She was currently in the prime of her magic, from what he knew of human development, and now had a wary sharpness to her like a folded switchblade. Loki had not left her weak those years ago, certainly, even by his own people's standards, but now he wondered if this girl who had grown up when he wasn't looking might now prove a challenge even for him in combat. He itched to spar with her, to throw himself at her in a whirl of vicious blows and curses just to see how she would respond, but he didn't think that would do much for her nerves at the moment. Minimally she'd prove a more interesting opponent than the Warriors Three and other Asgardians; even in that scant two years of training she had become delectably wily in her ways. It wasn't raw power, but rather how she honed what she had. Even the short knife may prove just as deadly as a hammer when stuck between the ribs while the bigger man was still swinging.

She had obviously been practicing her wandless, wordless spellwork while he had been away, though her wand still fell naturally into her hands whenever she wanted work any magic. He couldn't say he much liked the idea of depending on a little stick, or anything external to himself for that matter... but anything was better than that ridiculous hammer, or those great swords Heimdall and his like lugged about. Tools of the trade, he tried to think of them as, augmenting existing abilities instead of entirely taking the place of them. Perhaps he'd feel differently, once Gungnir was in his hands.

He sighed, trying to be patient with himself. All things in time.

Even time itself, if he had his way with Hermione.

Whenever he paused before he answered, whenever he threatened to fall into his thoughts—there she was, a light touch to his shoulder, a rephrased question, some new and small and marvelous little gesture. Loki had a serious soul, but—those smiles, despite the whole weight of the Nine Realms having settled down on his shoulders, those smiles of hers made him feel inexplicably lighter. He had her loyalty, if not her trust. What a rare and lovely thing—and what a fool Thor was, to fail to recognize what gifts his friends had thrown at his feet. Loyalty was a thing that Loki could never, ever take for granted. No one had ever been loyal to him before. Not like... not like this.

Despite the new coolness to her temperament Hermione was still warm beneath it all, merely draped in a veil of frost as if she had been left out overnight by accident. He had forgotten how much he had missed her heatedness in their time apart; he watched himself as if from a distance as his face would go lax and spill whatever occurred to him into her presence, smiles and scornful sneers intermingling in a wonderfully freeing fashion.

Oh, leaving her behind to rot amongst her own kind had been awful. He could have some semblance to honesty around her at least, he only had to omit some bits of the truth, the full glory of his plans. Here on Asgard he had to lie all the time about what he truly intended even though—for all that the bards may sing of the maliciousness of the Liesmith—he actually hated the taste of lies in his mouth. The necessity of a lie meant that he had failed to see the way around its telling, had tripped himself up with inconvenient truths and now needed to stumble his way out of trouble like a child.

He struggled to keep his breathing even. Though as he had found out not very long ago, he had been lied to for a very long time, in a fashion so fundamental that even he wouldn't have dreamed up such a falsehood.

He looked over at Hermione, who was happily speculating out loud about how to restructure language trees given the new etymology presented by the influence Asgard must have had on Indo-European languages. Her Midgadian garments were ill fitting and unflattering, but the life in her eyes seemed to outshine it all. What a strangely lovely creature, how... how curiously comforting he found her.

He hadn't thought of how to tell her yet, about how Mother and Father weren't really quite... that. His parents. He hadn't even had proper time to process it himself, other than to run off to Midgard after the confrontation with Father to see his... his not-brother for himself, to look upon Thor's face and fully see that there was nothing similar between them, just as Loki had noted a thousand times before in his childhood, how all the times when he had pleaded with Mother and Father if there had been some sort of mistake and Thor had gotten the wrong brother they had always lied to him, that the whispers that had worked their way up from the piss-drinking prophets on Midgard were true, that he was different, that he was evil, a monster, a—

He took a deep, shuddering breath. Oh yes. They had all lied to him in a deep way indeed. What a family they made. Odin Allfather, who was a poor father indeed, always lording silently from his throne; Frigga, a mother who knew all futures and wouldn't do a damn thing to ease present pain; and of course Thor, an oaf of a brother who would just as quickly kill everyone at a wedding as crash it for its mead. That Loki wasn't of their blood was almost sickly reassuring—except that he was joten, synonymous with all that he had been taught to hate in his childhood.

So many memories. He found himself closing his eyes. The words trailed after him out of the past, too-real ghosts, Thor punching the air crying out, When I'm king, I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all! while Father looked down at them both and only smiled and didn't quite disagree with the sentiment. How many times had such a scene been replicated and reproduced in the stage of court life? How often had he roared his approval, right next to Thor and all the others, while the Allfather looked on and couldn't even smile but for the irony of it all?

Hermione touched his shoulder and asked something of him, if he was alright or some such. He threw out something vaguely reassuring and she went back to happily babbling away about some theory she had or another. Oh, at least she tried.

The possibilities were frankly frightening. What if Thor learned of Loki's heritage, and took to the throne during the Odinsleep? It'd be Loki exiled then, not to the soft excess of Midgard but to Jotenheim where Asgardian princelings would make for excellent target practice to ready for whatever oncoming war Thor would inevitably start. That is, of course, if Thor didn't decide to end Loki himself. Perhaps the oaf would even accidentally puzzle out that joten had brought in fellow joten to despoil his big day, putting two and two together in a way so obvious as to be absurd. Or, perhaps someone in court would whisper of the Ragnorak prophecies in his ear, that Loki would be the one to lead the monsters to conquer Asgard and Thor would imprison his not-brother instead to delay what half the court thought inevitable and the other half thought impossible for a scrawny little false princeling that no one had ever thought much of. Would they put him down at the roots of their world with snake venom dripping into his mouth, just as the Midgardians had gleefully predicted? Or would they manage some small amount creativity and come up with something suitable all on their own and not rely on histrionic prophecies of mortal kind?

Loki pinched his brow. Oh, to be a prince. To think that some envied him his royal status. He was heir to two thrones, but to claim one would be to lose the other, and he had a slippery grasp on each. Asgard made his eyes ache with the memory of the stagnation of a thousand years, a childhood that refused to end. Bitter indeed, but it was the home he had. More so than Jotunheim, also in a state of stagnation but peopled by monsters and so it could hardly count.

To take that throne would be to count himself amongst them and... that...

Loki didn't think it beneath himself to admit that he was a touch overwhelmed. Things happened slowly in Asgard, the æsir a people who lived as long as they felt the desire to reach for the golden apples at the feast hall. The pace of this place had always felt too slow for Loki's taste, truth be told, hence his grudging involvement in Thor's adventures and his own independent trips to Midgard. Still, so much excitement, and all at once—an identity crisis, a war between his fathers, a regretfully well liked brother in exile, and the key to completely unrelated plans all coming together at once?

Overwhelmed indeed. For the first time in centuries, Loki could feel panic bubbling up, just beneath the surface, like hot embers buried long-cold ash.

He would have to take one thing at a time. Isolate the issues and handle them independently of each other. Divide and conquer, one of Midgard's better sayings went.

Loki stopped them outside Father's room at the pinnacle of the palace. And here, the first of many tasks set before him. "It believe it customary," he said quietly, "to meet the parents."

Hermione, wide-eyed, nodded. Though the irony of his statement might sting shortly, her sweetness thrilled him even now. It was much more satisfying to be half-loved, half-hated by someone with a mind of their own than to be adored by some thoughtless creature who wanted to give themselves up to you entirely.

All the better, given those pearls that glinted at her ear like a row of promises, sweeter than anything lovers could ever whisper there. Two of them were Hallows that she had taken for herself: already she had quite the hold over Death, even if she wasn't quite aware of it yet. It was all so close he could taste it, true immortality, not this thing that required him to suckle at golden apples.

He could rest when it was all done and over. Secure his kingship, craft his queen. These things first.

Loki opened the door. Mother, of course, looked up in delight from where she sat at Father's side. "Loki!" she cried out, clearly having missed his presence during his little outing, "I have been waiting for you, I could not see where you had gone, and—" She stopped herself when she noticed Hermione, and her face turned uncertain, though not unhappy. "I have been expecting you," she continued after a moment, "though we have not yet been introduced."

Hermione flushed, and inclined her head—Loki would have to sit with her and teach her some court formalities soon, though for now perhaps her manners (or lack thereof) might be viewed as endearing. "I am Hermione Granger of Midgard, a guest of your son." She flushed a bit more, probably remembering Mother's other son, left behind in the desert to die like some mortal peasant. "Loki's guest, that is."

Mother looked between them, perplexed but not obviously displeased. "Forgive my manners; I am always a bit anxious while my husband sleeps, and my sight scattered. I am Frigga Fjörgynndottir." She smiled obliging. "As you already seem to know."

Mother. As if she knew everything, like Hermione's own tendency to do the same herself. But Mother's gift of prophecy was not so precise. The thought rankled him, like a bruise. They all thought they knew better...

Loki couldn't avoid it any longer; he cast his gaze onto the bed and did his best not to flinch and look away again. Father looked tired even in sleep; his exhaustion had been apparent even down in the Armory as Loki had shouted him down like a petty child throwing a tantrum. His child. Whether they had the same blood or no, still, Odin was still somehow Father in his head. An old man and a fool, Thor had called him, perhaps the aptest thing to ever have come out of his brother's mouth. But still... still...

Something hot curled in his stomach, as if a little tongue of lava had slipped inside to taste how a lifetime's worth of lies paired with ill-favored love. He swallowed it down as best he could. Not now. Not while Hermione could see any spite that might slip onto his face. Oh, it burned, and how he wanted to break all around him!

Not that she would have noticed such a thing. No. She was a curious creature and here was one of the greatest curiosities of them all: her gaze was firmly fixated on the Allfather. "The Odinsleep?" she asked, her voice properly awed.

Mother nodded. "Yes." She looked over towards Loki and there was something like a smile drifting through her gray eyes. "My son has told you much of his home."

'My' son? 'His' home? For a bitter moment Loki was glad he had not inherited his adopted family's idea of subtlety.

Hermione nodded, apparently missing the little pang on Loki's face. She had probably read every version of every myth on the subject available on that grubby planet of hers. "Somewhat, though I won't pretend to understand. Yet." She hesitated, then asked, "I know we haven't been formerly introduced, but—may I see for myself? With my magic, I mean. I have spells that let me examine magical phenomena like this." A nervous smile. "My day job, see."

Mother looked surprised—Hermione definitely was not acting like any of the court ladies, who tended to do a lot more simpering before making any requests—but nodded her assent. While Mother could see the future, her glimpses were garbled, and certainly didn't provide insights into the finer points of personality. "It would do no harm," she said at last, looking on curiously.

Loki had done some prodding of his own at the magic underpinning the Odinsleep, part of the century-long study of healing he had done in an attempt to perhaps render the Odinsleep obsolete somehow and curry Father's favor. Narcolepsy was such an inconvenient weakness to have, a too-predictable vulnerability to them all, but his study had come to naught. The look in Father's sad single eye as Loki admitted his failure had burned him to the core: Do not attempt to understand, Father had said forbiddingly, Hlidskjalf is beyond the limits of your magic. That Mother allowed Hermione to pick at Father was, minimally, a testament to how harmless most thought magic on Asgard when it wasn't some shiny artifact from their long ago golden age.

He and Hermione were far from harmless, however. The thought rose up, hot and bright in his head. Oh no. They'd show them all what true power was. Perhaps Mother had even already seen it come to pass; perhaps that's why she smiled so at Hermione.

Why was Odin Allfather, why Frigga prophetic, why Heimdall all-seeing? So few of the æsir had such cosmologically all-encompassing gifts; why them, and why not Thor, why not Loki himself? He felt weak and dishonored even though he was now heir. He did not understand their power, though he had learned to subvert them somewhat over the years. With Hermione's help...

He allowed himself some small thread of hope as Hermione stepped forward towards the veil that hung over Father, holding her wand out. The bright curiosity that had first drawn him to her was now glimmering like dawn gold in the pools of her eyes, reflecting the protective veil of the Odinsleep. Good. He had been worried he had stumbled into her too late to save all those lovely bits she had had about her in her youth. It'd be a shame to have to find someone else. Imagine the trouble explaining another mortal to Heimdall, whenever he did manage to find one that fit his requirements half so well. "I'm only going to look," Hermione said, her voice excited, "do an analysis of sorts, but please tell me if me poking around triggers anything on accident. I'm still not too familiar with your sort's magic."

Mother nodded again, watching Hermione with a curiosity of her own. They were similar creatures, soft with kindness, though while Mother presented a sort of austere warmth as prompted by the Allfather's own aloofness, Hermione's was sharper, sweeter, the difference between high summer and and the tumult of spring.

Oh, they would get along famously, once Hermione finally found it herself to be at ease here. This would make things much easier. If Hermione thought herself at home, then it wouldn't take more than a year of her time, maybe two, to win her to the point that perhaps she would stay and hear out his other thoughts...

Loki watched intently as Hermione concentrated over the body of Father. How small she seemed, a little creature silhouetted against the immensity of the bed and the Allfather upon it, yet just as fierce as any warrior as she whispered her witching words. Power radiated off of her like a wave of heat, but he could also feel it thrumming from the pearls at her ear. Oh, the wand she had in her hand was not the one that was hers, though, not truly. And the knife she still wore, sweet little Famine at her side that could sever even the soul of a god and send it sailing on towards Nifleheim, and a stone at her ear that could call back the dead from beyond Gjallarbrú... all she needed was a lovely cloak about her shoulders and—

Well.

Perhaps things could, for once, proceed according to plan; perhaps he'd have that happy ending that Mother had always promised him, from when she would bounce him at her knee as a boy to when he was a prince at her side.

He couldn't keep the smile off his face as he watched Hermione, lost as she was in learning the magic of the Allfather, Yggdrasil, all the ways in which the Nine Realms connected. Her brown hair, a wild mass of curls, seemed to catch the golden light of Odin's veil and become an amber halo around her head. Angelic, as Midgardians would say, caught up in her sacred science. Such a terribly useful creature she was quickly becoming.

To be honest, he had hoped Hermione would get sick of her own people sooner, but he supposed it was her very fortitude that had allowed him to mold her slowly over time, the finest of clays between his fingers. Oh, she wasn't quite there yet, but give another few years... Loki could see the threads of her magic spread over Father like a thousand little hands, a touch so soft that it didn't even cause the slightest alarm. Hermione reveled in life, as it was meant to be lived; who could be better to be a new avatar for Death? It would certainly make everything else much easier for him.

But Mother was watching him, and he could not seem too entranced by his pet. She'd think it infatuation, then, and that wasn't the impression he needed to sketch out for her if Hermione was to be accepted at court. Mother was always so easy to read: there was only ever kindness, deeper than the cold black of space, extending right out to the heat death of the universe trillions of years away. Mother was gifted with little gasping visions of the future, but could not speak a word of what she saw, nor act on the terrible truths in her head. It had always confused him as a child when he had realized the full weight of her gift why she was not a bitter thing, knowing all of the injustices that would happen past, present and future and being incapable to correct any of them. "I do as I will do," she'd say with such a strange sense of solidity, "and nothing more, and nothing less."

For all the warmth of such assurances her confidence had been a cold comfort to the bullying he had received, the big black bruises Thor would raise on his shoulder when Loki pointed out that his brother was about to do something profoundly stupid, or the cool disregard of the court at the younger of the two Odinsons who preferred books of sorcery to a spear or sword. If Mother knew the future, then she must have known of the icy torture it had been for him those long centuries on Asgard, friendless and alone except for the buffoonery of his brother and the antics of Asgardians who stagnated in their arrogance. Yet her interventions were few, and he could not make sense of how she could possibly let so much stand as it was.

Loki didn't have Mother's faith in endings, not when the meantime was so mean spirited. Loki didn't want to wait. Loki would make things right, but right now; if that meant bringing Hermione to Asgard, so be it; if it meant keeping Thor on Midgard so his temper tantrums wouldn't knock over any more of his chess pieces, so be it too.

Smiles did no one any good if smiling was all one would ever do. Kindness was a lovely thing, but it could not be the only thing. Not if things were to be made better.

When Hermione finally stepped back from the Allfather, Mother smiled at her. "And what do you see, Hermione of Midgard?"

Hermione turned to face them both, her face bright. "It's—fascinating, really. Odinsleep really is an appropriate term." Seeing Mother's confused, but kindly look, she ploughed on. "See, when all creatures sleep, it—it isn't a single state of consciousness, but rather fluctuates between varying sorts of activity in different parts of the brain. It heals, it processes, it organizes, it does all of the housekeeping that the mind needs to function for the next day. But the Odinsleep—" Hermione pursed her lips. "It's deeper. I can't grasp the entirety of it without more time but there are strands of his magic extending far beyond this room, and I'd guess to most of your Nine Realms—he's tied into the ley lines of your whole system, and when he sleeps, his brain is quite literally taking it all in for some repair work. The Odinsleep restores those connections. It restores whole worlds." She looked on with something close to awe. "We've been able to work out why the ley lines lay the way they do on Earth, based on the mineral composition of the underlying crust and so forth, but we hadn't figured out the origin of it, or what kept them stable. And now, here it is—right here before me." She caught herself and blushed a bit, lacing her hands together before her. "His formal title makes a bit more sense now, I suppose I'm saying. Allfather and such. I'm sorry if that didn't make much sense. It'll take me some time to find the words for it."

You'll have time enough, little lioness. She was just starting to crackle back to life; how bright she had burned on Midgard, but how brighter still she'd be with the mortality drained from her and the golden apples of the sun burning in her veins and the dark Veil of death lifted from her future... surely, a more fitting companion for a king than even starforged Mjölnir.

"You are insightful, little one." Mother smiled again, meeting Hermione's gaze steadily, regally. "You honor my son with your grace."

Hermione flushed a bit more, looking down at her feet and frowning. "But—there is one other thing." She looked over at Loki, biting her lip. His body seemed to twist unpleasantly from beneath him. Ah. This. "Odin—he is not Loki's father.." She swallowed. "Or you his mother. I'm no expert in Asgardian bodies, but your signatures are simply too different from each other. Like, not-even-the-same-number-of-chromosomes different.. I'm not missing something obvious, am I? I mean, I don't know where Odin's magic comes from, so much of it seems to be channeled from elsewhere, yours does as well, but..."

Hermione was studying Loki for a reaction and he gave her one, a frown of his own but nothing too troubled. He was still sorting out his thoughts, of course, and that he was shaken was like calling a hurricane a bit of a summer squall... but for now it would be best to put on only a small show. Let her understand this little tender spot in him, see it for herself; she'd get some pleasure in seeing him vulnerable, think herself a friend beyond measure to be allowed so close. She could do with the reassurance. Maybe he could too. He could allow that. It would be an... acceptable weakness.

Mother's eyes softened and Hermione eventually looked back over at the Queen. "We are his parents," she murmured, looking deep into Hermione's eyes. "We found him, weaned him, raised him, loved him as our own as best we could. Even his appearance—he is our son by unconscious choice." Mother smiled tenderly. Loki forced himself to look at her, still half-desperate to find a lie but unable to see anything other than kindness, the truest sort he'd ever see besides in the other woman in the room. He felt a creeping dizziness, a warmth threatened to overwhelm him like he was ill. Ah, to be loved, and to be lied to, out of that place of love. It was in Hermione's eyes, too, mixed comprehension and care. Monster he was, but was it not more monstrous to love a monster, to tempt it with a thing it could never truly return?

And Mother continued on, careless of the cruelty of her kindness. "When Odin, Allfather, first held you, when he first looked into your eyes, your skin—it turned from joten blue to pink, like any of the æsir. You were our son even then, our darling shapeshifter who shifted his skin and so it has stayed. You always have been our son, and always will be, as you are now." Her eyes were filled with quiet prophetic knowledge but Loki knew now that prophecy was not always quite as people interpreted it. She may know, but she did not necessarily understand. She yearned for a kinder truth, as all people do, and so leaned into it as one might press against stained glass to see the outside.

It fits a god of lies to start so young, he thought bitterly, but even such sourness couldn't quite sustain itself. He couldn't be mad at Mother. She was always so genuine in her love, even if she was a fool like the rest of his sorry little family. Such softened stories she told herself, how palatable they were. "I asked you, earlier, why you lied to me," Loki slipped in, his voice quiet; it was the first thing he had said since entering. "Would it not have been better to simply accept that I was different, instead of pretending that I was the same?"

You were the ones who taught me to lie. I may be joten but at least I can say I am no liar by blood.

"You always wanted to do just as Thor did," Mother replied, her voice soft and steady. "But when you asked to learn magic, we found you the finest sorcerers in the Nine Realms to tutor you—Amora and others, who would come to Asgard from their own far-off realms just so that we might see you flower. Our kind have little innate magic, and we wished to foster these skills as best we could in you. Once you had learned all you could from them, we allowed you your trips to Midgard to learn from the magicians there. We never spoke ill of your learning."

"But you never spoke ill of those who did," Loki said, letting the bitterness now bite sharply into the air between them. "Our sorcerers are jesters and jokers, court fools who could scarcely even fool me. That or those who tinker with amorous tinctures and call it their trade. In Midgard, at least, there are some circles in which magic is valued in and of itself, even though they are mere mortals and my time spent amongst them became a mockery as well." His mouth twisted. "And even on Midgard, many of those that practiced magic were murdered by those that didn't. In Hermione's tongue they even have a phrase now, 'witch hunt', to refer to unjust persecution, even now still used without a mote of irony amongst the greater portion of their race. Those who practice magic on Midgard still fear to show themselves to the rest of the world, lest they be tortured and torn apart by those who do not suffer witching ways, considering it wicked by nature. I think her kind are wise, if only for that." Loki's fists clenched. His eyes felt hot, his cheeks burned; he felt like a child. "You did nothing to quiet our court when they whispered behind my back and called me a trickster and a liar."

"You never asked me to."

Loki closed his eyes with the pain swelling up like the sea around him and oh, his eyes were burning from the salt suddenly in them. "I shouldn't have had to," he said heatedly after a few moments, when the sea had receded and he could think again. It was the old childish knot, left in a tangle that had only tightened over the years. "I wanted you to understand. That's all I had wanted. That's all I have ever wanted."

Hermione probably had something warm and fuzzy crawling up her navel by now: But I understand you! her eyes seemed to cry out with the small little pleasure at being wanted. Predictable, but let her feel desired, let someone feel like they were wanted around here. He'd spill out this small secret spot in his heart like flushing an abscess, just for her. It was useful to be loved by a queen, but it felt better yet to be loved by a friend. Particularly useful friends. Emotion tightened his throat at this flickering self awareness and he felt like he was suffocating.

"Your father has placed you in the line of succession," Mother rattled on. Was she still talking? As if anything she could say right now mattered. She knew the future already. Let him be damned to it in peace. He felt tired suddenly, his thoughts falling apart in his head even as he tried to think through them. "As he sleeps you sit on his throne and wield Gungnir and sit upon Hliðskjálf itself. Surely this means something: it is the highest trust to give, and he gave it to you."

"Over Thor." He blurted it out like one might lance a wound.

Mother's eyes were pained for a moment, one acutely precious to Loki, and she nodded her head. "Over Thor," she agreed, and leaned forward and took one of his hands. It was a rare sign of physical affection from her, or anyone in this fine little family of theirs. Everyone had always treated him as if he were to be held from a distance, if at all, and this was no different. It had always seemed that they had feared he'd slip a knife between their ribs. They were right; how could he not yearn to, after they suspected it of him for so very long? But her hand was warm, and he was cold, and he took with a gladness that made guilt swim in his eyes. "You'll never stop being our son," she murmured, catching him by the eyes.

Her touch was soft yet limp. It was supposed to be comforting, but it only served to highlight the differences between them: now he knew why everyone had always seemed to be so hot blooded in Asgard, they were æsir, of course their hands would always be warm compared to one born in the cold of Jotenheim. One of a thousand questions he had failed to ask, when he was a child and intellectual curiosity was still tolerated, why he could run in the snow without furs and Thor had to bundle up like a bear, why the healers and lovers alike had always clucked over his skin that they never could seem to warm, why he had so hated the summer heat even though he always felt so cold, cold, cold even though he never numbed, but oh, how it would have been better than to feel such things—

He closed his eyes. No one wanted a scholar for a son, let alone for a prince. Even the court sorcerers Father had found for him had been reluctant to encourage his pursuit to the exclusion of martial arts. Mother wouldn't answer his questions because she could not speak of the future that lay in her head, and Father, Father rarely said a word to him except to give a lesson in anything other than how his own magic worked, a sort of grunting monosyllabic communication entirely not suited to a king, Yes, no, good, bad, Thor, Loki...

He closed his eyes again. He wanted to sleep. Abruptly, the thought flashed into his head, to teleport away, following the secret roots of Yggdrasil and to take Hermione to their little chairs in their library, his plots years yet into the future and she still a soft warm little child that only wanted to be kind and he didn't always have to be clever or cruel, they could just be...

Well.

They could just be.

Cruel as it was, he knew: that could never be the case either. Neither of them were creatures for contentedness.

He could hear Hermione moving; apparently she had seen fit to give him a hug, of all things, her arms wrapping around him from the side, awkward if well intentioned like everyone else in this room. "But don't you be asking me to call you your grace," she whispered into his ear, and he couldn't help but chuckle a bit at that. The court wasn't going to know what to think of such an improprietous woman, who roared like a lion instead of simpering like a mouse. Sif still received quite a bit of grief for not wearing dresses around the court; Asgard was slow to change, and Hermione was nothing if not quick. Oh, she'd want to change many things about her new home, and that was precisely was Asgard needed, something hot and fierce to stab it out of stagnation.

And—what he needed. He leaned into her touch, absently wishing he was not wearing so much armor so that he could better feel her heat. For all his bitterness he could feel a hunger rising up in him at her touch. He had uncomfortably accepted his longing for companionship a long time ago, but at least with her it didn't seem like... such a weakness, and if it was, the exploitation of it would at least be a sweeter sorrow than others he had suffered.

But not now. No. He had gotten what he had wanted out of Mother: affirmation that she would stand behind him on the throne, and not try to seek Thor out to replace him on it. Whatever it was that she saw with those infuriatingly kind gray eyes, the future did not involve intervention from her. "Gungnir—is it still here?"

Mother nodded, leaning down and taking it out from—of all places—under the great bed she and Father shared. "It only awaits the hand of its king," she murmured, demure. Gungnir gleamed bright gold by the veil of the Odinsleep. He had left it here before teleporting headlong into Midgard, disbelieving, needing so desperately to see his false brother fail, needing to see that the Allfather would allow such a thing of his favorite.

Oh, and it had been so sweet, the sweetest wine he had ever supped upon, but now it was souring in his stomach. That bit of fun with the coronation had been like kicking a dumb dog, twisting Thor's mood into belligerent impulse, but in his wildest dreams he hadn't thought Odin would actually exile his firstborn—and who Loki now knew to be his only trueborn. Such fantasy, he had had to see it for himself, taste it in the dust of the desert that had swallowed his dear brother up, feast upon it until he was gorged with a vindicated vengeance.

What a peculiar ecstasy, to have all that you ever wanted. The future stretched before him in an endless plain of possibility, no braggart of a brother to drag him through the briars. He wouldn't suffer this horizon lost as the world turned ceaselessly under him. This time the glory was his, and he would chase it down. He would keep this. All of it. All of these mad dreams that ran in his blood as delirium, he'd bring them to life or he'd be damned at their death. It was all here, the pieces needing only proper assembly: Hermione at his side, the trust of Father, the love of Mother... heir of Asgard, he could take a treasure of his own from the vault and throw down the Gauntlet in challenge, a roar to the whole wide world that he was Loki, chosen heir of the Allfather, and he would not be stopped in acquiring what was his.

The universe seemed like such a small step after that.

If lies made for a better world? He'd spin them like the spider he was and what lovely webs there'd be, holding it all together. Any dishonor in the telling of lies were belied in turn by the ends he'd weave.

Thor, of course, would need to stay on Midgard, but that would be easy to arrange. Tell him something to strike him deeply, wound him such that he'd never wish to move against Loki ever again. The trick would be to keep from smiling when he broke his brother's heart. Loki could feel a small little needling sliver of affection as one might have for a pet, but Loki had little patience for creatures that could not take care of themselves. A thousand years of tending to his brother's idiocies had been quite enough.

His father by blood would have to die, of course; that side would have to be disinherited forcefully, fatally, in order to prove himself a 'son' of Odin in the eyes of the few who knew his true parentage. Hermione would squirm at the gesture but find it morally sound after some sleepless nights. Father, the father of his sorry spirit if not of his flesh, would think it a worthy battle only if it could be claimed in self defense... but such a thing could be easily crafted. Mother would smile, as she always did. The court would hear about the regicide and think it grand, perhaps put their hands together and make some noise at a feast and doubt him less for such a deed—as heir, he needed to be loved—but they wouldn't know why it was such a big deal.

Loki looked like an æsir, and would remain that way. A convenient skin for the tasks at hand. He could dwell on the... interesting existential implications later. Blue wasn't really his color anyway. No—it was a brilliant shade of envy green, and he wore it proudly as a cloak about him. Let him be jealous until there was nothing left to be jealous of. He had been æsir for a thousand years, and casting aside that heritage would leave him stripped to bones and blood and nothing to keep him warm in the cold of Jotunheim. He craved the warmth, he always had, the warmth of fires, of flesh, of acceptance, of love, and now he knew a little of why.

Killing Laufey would be a clever little twist indeed. It would take some—some more tangling about with half-truths, perhaps, and with Hermione now poking her head about he'd have to be more careful than he had initially been planning. The Bifrost allowed him to save his strength, as slipping in the cracks between worlds created by Yggdrasil's creeping roots without its assistance while also hiding from Heimdall could leave him dangerously tired. Perhaps this was good, though; Heimdall was a suspicious soldier, and Loki didn't want to waste the time to assuage the gatekeeper's worries anyway.

Perhaps in bringing an end to Laufey he could also bring an end to Jotunheim itself while he was at it, a total refutation of the monsters that lurked in the shadow of his past, the monster in his very blood. It'd be an easy blow. He could make it look like war, but a wise one. Father would be proud.

He looked to Hermione. "I have not yet welcomed you to Asgard as its king," he said, taking Gungnir from Mother. No wonder wizards liked their wands: it was not a source of power in and of itself, but rather channeled all that Odin had, right from his body into Loki's hands. His control was... crude, for now, and it would take time to learn to wield another's power, but time enough he had... time that need not be wasted in the halls of mortals, now that Asgard could finally be a home to him. Tothem. To us.

Hermione didn't say anything, only took his hand and squeezed it. There were doubts in her. Delightful. He'd answer them with a smile, as he always did. Staying a step ahead of her was such fun, this dance. He'd step so surely that none would know it to be the caper of a king to come.

A/N:

Revised 3/6/13.

Well. Um. Loki. Whatcha all thinking about him now? Still in character? I figured his head would be full of many things at this point, and in a very different place than when we saw him last, but I'm worried that I made it too jumbled up with thoughts to be coherent to the reader. I've had similar issues with writing previous chapters, but I'm hoping I got the sense of increasing emotional instability a little bit better this time. A sense of embers in the ashes, waiting to catch.

I'm having a hard time balancing revelations about his plottsome self across the entirety of Aphelion; I want to reveal some things, but not so much that I don't have more balls to drop on y'all later on. Does this dissipate some tension while still building more, while also not feeling too tiresome with the continuing questions? Do tell.

Frigga: I'm trying to bring in more aspects of Norse mythology in, and blending that in with the scraps we get from Thor resulted in this. Did she seem like an interesting character? I'll be exploring her and others in more depth in the upcoming chapters, but was this an adequate introduction?