Midgard was not the first time Loki had tried to run away.

Laufey was in another one of his rages. Loki had fled the palace and sought refuge in the Fields of the Dead, where he now stood before his family—the tall stones towering above his head just as their living forms would have—shivering with so much fear he worried his legs might give out. Every inhale was a struggle. Surely some bit of their spirits lingered here, might comfort him, protect him?

Apart from his imagined memory, all Loki knew of his mother came from the etchings on her funeral stele: in memory of Farbauti, most beloved queen. Succinct and direct, as Jotun carvings tended to be. The geometric patterns across the stone marked her as a magic crafter, a rare gift in this realm, yet Loki had never heard anyone speak of her abilities.

Of course, Farbauti was not really there—Jotuns burned their dead, the frozen ground making burial impossible, and her soul would have been set free with the scattering of the ashes—but he liked to stand before the monument anyway, as if he could absorb more information by simply looking at it long enough.

Next to Farbauti, a smaller stele for a son, Helblindi. The date of death told Loki that his brother had died during the first war with Asgard, just days before their mother. The stone had a seal on it that indicated he had perished by the sword.

But dusk was approaching, and the shadows were lengthening, and now even the stones sacred to his mother and brother seemed to gaze down at him sternly, seemed to whisper, Why should you have survived and we have died? What right have you to draw breath?

He had begun crying again, but he clasped a hand over his mouth to muffle the sobs.

Crunch, cruch, crunch.

Muffled footsteps in the snow, drawing nearer. His stomach churned with dread.

He is looking for me.

Loki was better at hiding than running—one of Laufey's huge strides outpaced ten of Loki's—but that day he could not remain hidden. He could not stifle his fear and stay quiet while Laufey walked past. He could not bear to be that close; he had to run.

He ran and ran and ran until his was gasping for air, not knowing where he was headed, or if anyone pursued. But he found himself climbing the cliffs encircling Utgard, stumbling over rocks, slipping, climbing, until he reached a cave at the summit.


"And they lived very happily for the rest of their days," said Frigga softly, closing the book. "The end."

It was late. She could see that the boys were drifting off to sleep: Loki could barely keep his eyes open, and Thor stretched and yawned every few minutes. They were both curled up on Loki's bed, listening to her bedtime story, though she had made a barricade of blankets and pillows between them to ensure they did not accidentally touch.

She had not really stayed faithful to the storybook she held, but had embellished the tale for each of them—adding in more swordfights and daring rescues for Thor, and a clever hero that saves the day by solving a riddle for Loki. And instead of beheading the wicked king at the end, Frigga had the hero convince him to make amends for his crimes.

It was not a typical Asgardian tale, but Norns knew real life held enough death and vengeance of late. The imaginary world could stand to be a little more forgiving.

She shook Thor back to wakefulness. "I think it's time to go back to your room, dear."

"But I'm not sleepy, Mother," he insisted through a yawn.

She chuckled. "Is that so? It doesn't seem that way."

"Can I not stay here tonight? Please?"

"No, Thor, I don't want you up late talking. We have General Geir's funeral early in the morning."

Thor groaned, but he pulled himself grudgingly out of bed and trudged to the door. Loki sat up, rubbing the drowsiness from his crimson eyes.

"Did someone die?" Loki asked in a small voice.

"Yes, Loki," Frigga sighed. "Both sides have lost many. It happens in war."

As much as she yearned to shield him from the ugliness of this reality, she also wanted to be honest with him. The Jotun casualties were probably higher than the Æsir ones, but she knew that would not exactly be comforting information.

"But…someone you knew?" he said, looking back and forth between Frigga and Thor.

His small hands were clenched in the silk sheets, and his forehead was wrinkled with distress. He looked almost guilty. She did not know what to make of his tendency to take the blame for every misfortune, but it broke her heart to witness. She sat on the edge of the bed closest to him and used her most reassuring tone.

"Yes, people have died—Asgardians and Frost Giants—and it is very sad. But you boys have nothing to do with that, and there is nobody to blame for it. It is simply the nature of war."

If I only I could wrap my arms around him, she thought ruefully. It was not easy to comfort a child she could not touch. She fluffed up his pillow and smoothed the sheets for him.

"I want you to have happy dreams tonight, Loki. Understood?"

He did not return her smile, but slowly his head sank back onto the pillow, his eyes never leaving her face.

"Goodnight, My Lady," he whispered.

"Goodnight, Loki. Sleep well."

Before she shut the door, she heard Loki cough so hard that the bed shook. She peered back into the room.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, My Lady. Please don't worry," he said quickly.


There had been many funerals in Asgard over the past few months. Thor had not attended any of them until today, but he had been able to see the ships burning on the water from his window. Tradition stipulated that fallen warriors be burned as quickly as possible, so that their souls could find Valhalla. Therefore, it was a simple ceremony, to guide the dead on their journey.

Geir, as the highest-ranking soldier, was laid in the most ornate frigate, one with a snarling dragonhead prow, his body arrayed in ceremonial armor and clutching the sword that Odin had gifted him with upon his appointment as general. Other warriors—at least a dozen smaller skiffs—were sent into the water after him. Archers from the shore set the ships ablaze.

No one spoke a word. It was expected that everyone remain stoic and silent for this rite. Asgardian funerals were solemn affairs; tears were discouraged.

Thor watched the flames consume the silhouettes of men, though everyone else's eyes seemed drawn to the smoke mingling with the sunrise.

He wasn't grieving, exactly, but he felt very strange. This was someone he had known. Not particularly well, of course, but he remembered Geir's deep laugh, the way he used to pick Sif up and twirl her around. He remembered Geir as talking, breathing, living, but now he was suddenly gone. Thor understood death as a concept, but he had never been truly confronted with it—loss had never had a face or a name until now.

After the funeral, there was a feast to honor the lives of the fallen, to tell tales of their deeds. To remember gladly.

Thor saw Frigga across the room, expressing her condolences to Lady Brynja, Sif's mother. How does Mother always know the right thing to say to make someone feel better? he wondered.

He found Sif and tried to recall what his mother had told him to say.

"I'm sorry about your father," he mumbled.

Sif nodded jerkily. She was dressed in a gown for once, a dull grey, and her long hair was tied back into a sleek knot. Thor almost blurted out that she looked unusually pretty—but he felt guilty even thinking that when she was so sad and her eyes were rimmed with red. They stood there in awkward silence for a moment.

Thor pulled her into a tight embrace—it was the only way he could find to express what he felt. Sif said nothing, but she held on fiercely for a moment. When she extricated herself, Thor was startled to see that Sif was scowling. The tears that now spilled onto her cheeks seemed more of rage than of sorrow.

"You were right, Thor," she said in a low, shaking voice. "Killing Frost Giants is not a fun game anymore."

He wanted to be relieved at her conclusion, but there was something in her tone that made Thor feel cold and unnerved.

"I want you to witness my vow," Sif said, her gaze intense. "I will avenge my father."

Thor blanched. "But Sif—"

"It's a warrior's sacred duty to avenge his kin. And I mean to."

Struggling for a response, Thor found himself protesting, "But you are not a warrior, Sif."

"I will be someday," she said hotly, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest. "When I am grown, I'll repay the Frost Giants for what they have done."

Thor knew it was not the time for arguing with his friend—her loss was still a fresh wound—but he had to bite his tongue to prevent himself. At least he would have a long time to try to change her mind.


Loki knew he was not well.

His head felt hazy and his hearing was muffled, as if someone had stuffed his ears with cotton. It was impossible to concentrate on his library books. He was starting to shiver, though it made no sense for a Jotun to feel cold in Asgard, and when he put a hand to his forehead, he realized it was beaded with sweat.

Most unbearable, however, was the wheezing that made his chest feel tight every time he took a breath. Truthfully, that had started a few days before, as much as he had tried to ignore it and convince himself it would pass. Every time he got into a coughing fit, it was difficult not to panic—nothing frightened him more than feeling like he could not breathe, but his anxiety only made the attack worse.

Nonetheless, when Frigga arrived to check on him later that day, he tried to maintain a polite façade. The queen looked so tired, and surely she had enough troubles without adding his own to them.

She saw right through his charade.

"Loki, something is clearly wrong, so will you please tell me?" she asked, searching his face with a piercing stare. "The truth, not what you think I want to hear."

"Please don't fret, My Lady, I—"

He could not finish his sentence, could not prevent the coughing fit he was seized with. When he pulled his sleeve away from his mouth, it was speckled with red. He tried to hide it from the queen, but she noticed anyway.

She stared at him for a brief instant, aghast.

"Loki is this…is this blood?"

Loki didn't know what to say, but he felt as if he had done something wrong.

Frigga stood, her manner firm and businesslike, though her voice trembled slightly. "I'm fetching a healer this instant. I want you to lie on the bed, very still, until I return. Understood?"

Gasping for breath between coughs, Loki could not argue with her.