I'm so very, very pleased with the turnout in voting. As is, four people have voted for Thorki, two people have voted for Sorki, and none have voted for Sifki. If these numbers displease you, feel free to vote! I really do want to make my readers happy, as many of you as there may be.

Two months later...

Armed with Kybarrha's spell book and Frigga's covert assistance, Loki was certain that he could liberate his son. In the span of two months, with admittedly wonderful care, Sleipnir had grown four hands higher and packed on some incredible muscle. Under any other circumstances, Loki would have been beyond proud, thanking profusely those responsible for taking his near-stillborn son and making him so vital.

Instead, Loki found himself begging with the universe, each and every night, for his boy to remain slight and weak and small; for each night, Loki's mind plagued him with the wild, animal fear in Sleipnir's eyes as Odin pulled so roughly on that bit, the chafing on his mouth and throat and jaw, and he suffered weeks of sleeplessness for it. Those midnight vigils, insomnia burning the whites of his green eyes, Loki buried himself in spell books, looking for some ancient rite in some ancient tome that would deliver his boys from Odin's clutches, and three days prior, he'd found it in Frigga's library.

"Mumma, may I take this book tonight?" Loki had asked, doing his best not to betray his excitement as he waggled the blue leather-bound tome, thumb unconsciously stroking the gold embossing on the cover. Kybarrha had written a new book while he'd been in the woods, and her works had always been useful to him.

Frigga had risen from her chair, soft blue gown fluttering behind her as she glided to her son. Carefully, she weighed the book in hand before handing it back, kissing his cheek. "I remember, little one, when you stood but this high," she gestured at her thigh, midway between knee and hip. "You brought to me one of the oldest spell books in my possession, the weight of it too much for your little arms - and you dragged it along the floor, bumping over stone and wearing away the cover - and asked in that sweet, piping lisp of yours, 'Mumma, will you read to me?'"

Loki looked horrified at this tale, at his conduct. He remembered that book well; containing millions of spells, it was more valuable than the souls of every king to live and die before the Ragnarok combined. "How did you resist demolishing me for such casual destruction? That tome - "

"Was not as precious to me as the smile on your little face when I sat you in my lap and read it to you." Frigga cupped his cheek, fingers playing at a loose curl. "You grew so quickly, Loki, but I was blessed enough to witness it. I want only for you to be able to tell Sleipnir a story like this one day. You will raise a child, and you will raise him well."

Loki blinked, gobsmacked, before lifting Frigga up in a bone-crushing hug. "Oh, Mumma! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Gently, Loki set her down, a little shocked at his own conduct; so joyously he had not reacted in years, that instinctive, tactile delight tamped into the emptiest corners of him by all the years of wear he had not earned. Restraining himself, he stooped to kiss her cheek in return before asking quietly, "May I sit and read here?"

The room was warm, filled with honey-gold sunlight and shimmering silk tapestries and the thick smell of worn paper and leather, and Loki had passed many a happy hour in Frigga's chambers when the world outside its walls became too much - too cruel, too loud, too lonely - for him to handle. Now, mourning and fighting at once, that same packed-down part of him that had tackled Frigga into a hug craved the quiet, affectionate simplicity of reading an old book with the silk-clad curve of his mother's knee against his neck as he leaned into her warmth.

Loki stared at his toes, fidgeting. Perhaps he had overstepped, overstayed; perhaps she did not want him there any longer.

Frigga smiled, looping her arm through his, and guided him to a sofa, pushing him into a seat and setting the book, open, in his hands. "Read, my son. You are always welcome here."

And there, in the shining golden hideaway of his mother's study, Loki had found the answer to his problem.

There was an old elven spell, one used in times of distress. Until one event came to pass, determined by the caster, the entire population of a Realm would be frozen, save those the caster deemed exempt.

A plan wove itself like a basket in Loki's mind - freeze the Realm, pardon my boys, flee through the Bifrost and find somewhere safe and hidden - and, with a sly smile, he bundled his foal and his stud into that basket, carrying them to safety under his arm in his mind's eye.

And so, carefully, Loki cloistered his books away and awaited the perfect moment. It had taken three days, but when Frigga had approached him that clear chilled morning, he'd known.

"He is Sleeping," she said calmly. "I do not know when he shall wake, but you have at least a day. Be careful." With a flash, she was gone, disappeared back to her post at Odin's side. Loki understood; she needed to maintain her apparent innocence. There was no safety in Asgard outside the appearance of total obedience, total loyalty.

"Thank you," he whispered, quickly clothing himself and chanting the verse.

For a moment, he felt nothing. The world continued on; the sun rose in its usual path and warmed the lilac dawn to a soft marigold, the wind carried a slight nip through the Realm, and the faintest sounds of life still hushed through the palace's halls.

Then, suddenly, all was quiet - the sun glared off the peak of one mountain without shifting, the wind ceased its whistle, and the palace's occupants were still and silent.

Swiftly, Loki made his way through the petrified masses and found his way to the stables. "Sleipnir?"

A whinny.

Mumma, what's going on? I'm frightened. Everyone has stopped.

"They'll start again once I've freed you and Papa." Loki dashed to Sleipnir's stall, tearing the door off its hinges when the lock wouldn't give fast enough. "We'll be happy, little one. Odin won't mistreat you any longer."

Sleipnir shifted his weight anxiously. Mumma... Mumma, I don't want to go.

Loki froze, as still as the rest of Asgard, eyes wide and wet as he looked up at his son. "Little one, why? Wh-why would you want to stay?"

We are safe here. The one-eyed man does not beat me any more than any other horse, and I am fed and cared for. Mumma, why would we ever want to leave this place?

Loki felt, with sickening realism, as if he was plummeting through the earth below him, crashing into the chill and the emptiness of the Void between the Realms. "You needn't - "

Sleipnir stomped, once, tantrumatic. Mumma didn't understand; if Sleipnir left, far worse fates would befall his parents than being imprisoned in this gilded city. I don't want to go, Mumma, and you can't make me!

Loki closed his eyes, stifling the wellspring of discordant emotional noise bubbling up within him. "I... I will not make you do anything against your will, my baby. I do not understand your choice, but I want only your happiness and health."

So I will stay here. Sleipnir nosed at Loki's wet cheek, smiling softly. Fret not, Mumma. We will see each other everyday.

Svaðilfari snorted, and Loki slipped over to his stall. "What is it?"

I cannot stay here. I cannot watch as we fall apart, fall away from each other. If your offer stands, I would be freed by your hand rather than rot here and watch Sleipnir suffer the same.

Loki threw his arms around the black stallion's neck, hugging him tight. "You have always been my friend, Svaðilfari. I will free you. No creature in all the Realms deserves forced bondage under my father." With a flick of the wrist, Svaðilfari was unbound and free, legs stretching and flank twitching at the sudden increase in mobility. "Say goodbye to our son."

He is not our son. Svaðilfari sounded desperate at that, hollow and mournful, but Loki wanted to slap him. He was once our boy, Sir, as you were once my beloved, but in these walls you have both forgotten yourselves. I cannot sully my memories of my family by allowing impostors in their skin to replace them.

Strangely enough, that was a sentiment Loki understood. It was impossible to retain one's sanity and one's self under Odin's thumb, and Loki had borne the mantle of madness before. Its weight sat poorly on his shoulders; he was not fond of taking it on once more, and so he let himself forget. "Be safe. I hope... I hope you find all you seek."

If you can remember yourself, I will seek only you. With a deep bow, Svaðilfari departed, flying over petrified soil faster than sound, and Loki turned back towards his son.

"Little one? You are certain of this choice?" Loki raked his fingers through Sleipnir's mane, watching fondly as he whinnied in delight.

As sure as any soul has been.

"Then I will leave you be on this subject. I love you, little one." Loki stood, the knees of his leggings soaked and stained with rich, wet, black soil. "Never forget that."

I love you, too, Mumma. More than you can understand.

Loki nearly offered to take on the form of a horse, just for the sake of communicative ease, but the words died on his tongue. It was clear that Sleipnir meant nothing so simple as that. With heavy, dragging feet, Loki returned to his room and undid the spell, lip caught between his teeth. A knock came at the door, and with the flick of his hand, Loki opened it.

With all the grace of an ox, Thor flung himself onto Loki's bed, rubbing he knotted, bony surface of his back. "Brother, you are disheartened."

Loki rested his head against Thor's shoulder. "Do you think... Am I different to how, in past, I have been? Have I forgotten myself?"

The thunderer combed his fingers through Loki's curls, humming quietly and bundling his little brother in close. "Oh, my Loki... I have always seen you for exactly who you are inside, and to me, you look exactly the same as you always have."

Loki wasn't much lightened by Thor's words, but he did not shatter as once he would have. Rather, he held himself in tight, composed poses, careful not to drop anything, to let the slightest hint of tumult show. For hours, he sat pressed into Thor's broad, warm chest, one hand tugging loosely at his hair; not once did he realize the sacrifice his little son had made.

If even one other soul had known - perhaps, even, the blond whose arms held Loki together - they would have remarked on how much like his Mumma the colt was.

I hope you enjoyed that somewhat, because I got a little wiffley at the end.

Please review, and remember to vote!