A/N: This is a repost of an old fic. I was challenged to write a kid-fic, and this is what I came up with. Many thanks to hvittsalt for help with Norwegian! (Translations in the end notes)

BOY OF THE STARS

It's cold tonight. Probably too cold to be out on the roof, but the sky is so clear and the stars… There are so many of them, like someone took a bucket of diamonds and scattered them across the void. Living in the city, I never get to see anything but the most determined stars shining through the—what's it called again?—light pollution. Here in the mountains of Norway, though, they're everywhere. I feel as though I can touch them, if I just stretch my hand far enough.

Maybe I can touch Dad too.

Of course, he would laugh at the idea and call it ridiculous—not in so many words. Or actually, in lots of words. Big, science-y words explaining how the cosmos work and how there's no such thing as gods or heaven. It always sounded so logical—until he died.

I hug my knees to my chest as a shudder washes over me. I don't want to think about him, but it seems like that's all I ever do anymore. He was larger than life, insanely smart and so passionate about things—his work, his friends, me. As the cancer leeched away his life, it leeched away all of the color from the universe. Everything is grey without Dad. And I hate that it was all so senseless. Why did such a good man have to die when there are so many others who aren't fit to live like terrorists and murderers?

Stupid questions without any answers.

I scrub the back of my hand across my cheeks, wiping away the tears I don't want to cry. With a sigh, I pick up the heavy binoculars hanging from my neck and bring them to my eyes. Uncle Erik has a telescope, though he doesn't like me to use it without his supervision—so these will have to do. I'm not really supposed to be up, anyway, but I kind of don't care.

The stars are clearer through the binoculars, but still frustratingly far away. I remember when I was five or six years old, my dad took me stargazing for the first time. He showed me Saturn, and I was floored. I could see the rings around the planet. It was tiny and white, unlike the huge colorful photos in my astronomy books, but still amazing. Space became a real thing to me that night—not just some abstract concept. I knew then that I would be just like him when I grew up. An astrophysicist. And I want that dream even more now.

A flash of light crosses my sightline, and for a second, I think it's just a shooting star. It's too close, though. Way too close. And getting closer by the second. I follow it through the binoculars until it crashes on the edge of the property in a silent explosion of searing white. I curse under my breath as I hurry inside through the window, blinking away the blind spots in my vision. I'm vaguely aware of the books I'm knocking off my desk in my scramble over it to get at my shoes and flashlight.

I want to run down the stairs, but I'm afraid of waking up Uncle Erik. He's an astrophysicist too, and probably would appreciate seeing whatever landed out there, but I weirdly want to keep it to myself. Just for a little while. It's silly, but a part of me wants to believe that it's actually meant for me alone. Like fate or something. Or maybe a message from my dad.

The bottom stair creaks loudly in the quiet house and I cringe, my heart thumping in my chest as I listen for any hint of Uncle Erik stirring. I prepare a dozen lies just in case his door opens and he asks what I'm doing up in the middle of the night. When a minute passes and then another with no sign of him, I blow out a sigh of relief.

Once outside, I practically trip over my feet as I dash toward the landing sight, giddy excitement pulling the corners of my mouth into a huge smile. Is it a meteorite? Will I get credit for discovering it? Will I get to name it? If so, I'm naming it after my dad. No question.

I reach the clearing and stop short. There isn't a crater like I expect. Other than the flattened grass, there is no sign of the blast I witnessed. Disappointment settles over me like a familiar blanket. Did I fall asleep on the roof and dream the whole thing up? That kind of sucks. No, it really sucks.

I'm about to head back to the house in defeat when I hear a voice.

"Heimdall! Heimdall!"

I turn off my flashlight and hide behind a tree. My gut tells me that it's probably not the safest time to meet someone who is practically screaming at the sky in the middle of the night. I peek around the trunk and see a figure pacing in circles as he continues to yell the same word—or is it a name?—over and over again. The starlight is just bright enough to make the boy out. He's probably not much older than me, despite being pretty tall. His clothes are weird, like the stuff I've seen at Renaissance Fairs. He's really pale with hair so dark it seems to absorb the pale light completely.

He growls and kicks at a tuft of grass before turning his gaze heavenward again. "Heimdall! Åpne brua!" He seems thoroughly pissed. "Jeg vet at du kan se meg! Ta meg hjem!"

I have no clue what he's saying, but that doesn't surprise me. This is Norway, after all. I haven't been able to learn the language yet, despite Uncle Erik's best attempts to teach me. After watching this guy rant for another minute, I decide it's probably best to let him have his psychotic break in peace. I inch back, keeping a wary eye on him as I make my getaway. My heel snags on a root, and I squeak as I fall on my butt in a tangle of arms and legs.

Everything around me becomes terrifyingly quiet. My heart is practically pounding out my chest as I hold my breath.

"Hvem er det?" The boy walks in my direction, head tilted. I don't think he can see me, but I shrink back anyway, hoping he'll think that noise he heard was just his imagination. I'm not that lucky, though, as he continues to advance toward me.

"Kom ut av skyggene." His tone is gentle, as if he's coaxing a skittish animal—which, if I'm being honest, isn't that far from the truth. "Kom ut av skyggene."

He's close enough now that if I try to make a break for it, he'd overtake me in seconds with those long legs. Taking a shaky breath, I stand up, praying that he won't go all The Shining on me.

He stares at me for what seems like forever as I nervously dust off my clothes. "Hvem er du?" he asks finally.

I say the only Norwegian I've managed to pick up: "Forstår ikke norsk."

"Norsk?" He shakes his head as if I've said something dumb. "Jeg snakker ikke norsk. Jeg snakker æsene."

I hold up my hands helplessly. "English—engelsk."

He takes a step forward, reaching a hand toward me. I retreat, which earns me an exasperated sigh. "Jeg kommer ikke til å skade deg," he says, pinning me with pale eyes too large for his angular face. "Stå stille."

That last part sounds almost like "stay still" or "stand still." And I do against my better judgment.

Satisfied that I understood him well enough, he raises a hand and brushes a slender finger against my forehead, murmuring something indecipherable under his breath. Chills prickle from my head to my toes as if someone doused me with cold water. I don't know if he's actually doing something, or if it's just my overactive imagination.

"Well? Better?" he asks, withdrawing his hand.

My jaw drops open. "You can speak English?"

He laughs. "No. You understand Aesir now." If I hadn't heard him speaking fluent Norwegian just a minute ago, I would swear he was born and raised in England.

"If you say so." I don't hide my doubt, even if he makes me more than a little nervous.

"I do."

He glances around, hands on hips, giving me a chance to get a good look at him. This close, I can see his tunic is green with elaborate gold embroidery on the collar and the bottom of his sleeves. His dark trousers are tucked into calf-high black boots. There's an ornate dagger hanging from the belt on his waist, and I remind myself not to say or do anything to anger him.

"Where am I?" he asks, turning back to me.

I frown. Is this a trick question? "Um, Norway?"

"No," he says as if I should have understood what he meant. "What realm is this?" When I give him a blank look, he clarifies, "World. What world is this?"

Considering that he was yelling at the sky just moments ago, I shouldn't be unsettled by his question, but I am. "Earth."

"Earth," he repeats slowly. "Midgard. Of course, it would be Midgard."

I stare at him as he mutters to himself. "Do you really think you're from another planet?" I regret the question as soon as it leaves my mouth.

He laughs. It sounds normal enough. "I am Loki of Asgard, son of Odin, brother of Thor, prince of the Realm Eternal."

I recognize some of that from the old Scandinavian myths Uncle Erik used to tell me about when I was little. Asgard and Odin. "So, if your dad is supposed to be a Norse god, does that make you—?"

"A god, as well?" He grins. "But of course. I am the God of Mischief." He straightens his back and spreads his arms like I'm supposed to be wowed.

"I've never heard of you."

He raises a brow and then laughs again. "You don't believe me."

I shake my head. "Nope."

"Shall I prove it to you, then?" There's a little spark in his eyes, and my gut tells me that crazy or not, this boy is trouble. With a capital T.

"That's okay," I say, worried about how a self-proclaimed God of Mischief would prove who he is. "You don't have—"

"Oh, but I insist." I really don't like the grin he's giving me now.

Before I can protest further, he takes my hand and cups it between both of his. His brow furrows and at first nothing happens. A second later a flower blossoms in my palm and I gasp. I've never seen anything like it before. It's as if a lotus and an iris were gene-spliced to create something otherworldly. The petals are a red with golden tips—realshining, sparkling gold, not just the orange-yellow that poets call gold.

"Wow," I whisper.

Loki beams at me, clearly proud of his handiwork. "Behold the Lady of Asgard."

"It's so beautiful." I bring my free hand up to touch the delicate petals.

As soon as I do, though, the blossom transforms into a hissing snake that slithers into my jacket. Screaming at the top of my lungs, I flail wildly until it falls out of my sleeve and vanishes in a puff of green smoke.

Loki is doubled over, laughing. "You—" He laughs harder. "You…should…have seen your…face!"

"You're mean and I don't like you!" I return, my cheeks burning in anger.

"Oh, don't be petulant," he says with a smirk. "It was only a bit of fun."

My temper getting the best of me, I shove him hard. Only when he snatches my wrist as he's falling do I realize what a monumental mistake I just made. He took me with him as he tumbled to the ground, and he flipped me on my back.

"Careful, mortal," he warns in a soft voice as he hovers over me.

I want to apologize, but fear has tightened my throat. He stares down at me for several shaking heartbeats and a hundred different scenarios flash across my mind of what he's going to do in retaliation.

He does none of them.

Instead he leans down and presses his lips over mine. The contact unleashes a hoard of butterflies in my stomach. I've never been kissed before—not if I don't count that time in Kindergarten when Mary Ellen dared me to kiss Tommy, who had peanut butter in the corner of his mouth. This was different, more…natural. More… I don't know. But I'm beginning to understand why girls my age are suddenly anxious about having boyfriends.

He ends the kiss as abruptly as he began it and rolls over to sit next to me, folding his lanky arms over his knees. I stare after him in shock as I replay everything. The kiss. His magic. The fact that I actually believe he's from another world—maybe another time. The kiss. My first kiss. And he seems completely unaffected by it. Maybe he kisses strange girls all the time. Maybe it's the standard greeting where he's from. Maybe he didn't like it as much as he thought he would. Maybe I should follow his lead and pretend it didn't happen.

"What'd you do that for?" I ask as I sit up. My mouth and my brain are not always on the same team.

He glances at me with a shrug. "I wanted to kiss you, so I did." He changes the subject before telling me whether or not he regrets locking lips with me. "What's your name?"

"Jane," I answer. "Jane Foster. Are you trapped here?" The question comes out in a rush. I'm desperately trying not to be aware all of a sudden of how handsome he is. (Stupid kiss.) This entire encounter is weird enough.

His jaw clenches. "I shouldn't be. I don't know why Heimdall is ignoring me."

"Heimdall?" I remember the word—name—Loki had been yelling at the sky when I found him.

He nods, turning to me. "The all-knowing Gatekeeper of the Bifrost—the bridge between worlds." He snorts, and adds, "He can't be very all-knowing if he's left me stranded here!" The last part was aimed at the sky.

I frown. "Why don't you just go back the way you came?"

"If I could, would I be sitting here?" he answers, rolling his eyes.

"How'd you get here, then?"

He smiles that trouble-with-a-capital-T grin. "I cast a spell that made the Lady Sif's hair fall out. She swore in her wrath that she would have my head, so I ran. There were these caves and, well, here I am."

By his toothy smile, I'm guessing that the spell wasn't an accident. "Maybe you deserved it."

"Ha!" He scoffs. "She laughed at my magic and called it useless trickery. I am a prince of Asgard!" He leaps to his feet and points at me. "She will give me the respect I am due or face the consequences!" Is he still talking about Lady Sif? Or is that meant for me?

"You think she's going to respect you more because you made her bald?" I raise an eyebrow.

"She'll think twice before she mocks me." He waves a hand dismissively. "There's no real harm done. Her hair will be restored, though I'm not entirely certain that it will still be the flaxen locks my brother writes bad poetry about."

He winks at me and I snicker. I shouldn't. It's a mean trick to play on a girl—woman?—but it does seem like a pretty mild prank.

Loki plops to the ground next to me. "I like your laugh."

I look away to hide the heat rising to my face. I don't know if I'm supposed to thank him or ignore that comment. "What happens if Hamdale doesn't come for you?"

"Heimdall," Loki corrects me with an amused chuckle. "They'll come for me eventually."

"Right." I nod. "Because you're a prince."

"A god to you." He waggles his eyebrows, and I laugh again. His answering smile is…beatific. That was one of the vocabulary words for my advanced language arts class last year, but I don't think I really understood what it meant until now. I almost wish he would kiss me again.

I push away these strange new feelings. "Does that mean you're immortal—like you can't die?"

"I'll live for thousands and thousands of your years." He picks at the grass, suddenly sober. "But I can die. I will die someday—a warrior's death worthy of the halls of Valhalla."

I try to remember what Valhalla is supposed to be. It's like a heaven for Vikings, isn't it? Another belief my father would have called silly—antiquated. But then, he hadn't believed in gods either, and I was sitting next to one. Does that mean that he was wrong about an afterlife, too?

"You're weeping." Loki studies me with a frown. "Why?"

I touch my cheek, surprised at the wetness I find there. "I don't know," I say. "I guess I was thinking about my dad. He died last month."

"Oh." Loki glances away as if uncomfortable with my revelation. I don't blame him. Dead dads are a pretty effective conversation killer.

"Was he a warrior?" Loki asks.

That's not what I expect him to say. I thought he would apologize for my loss or tell me he feels my pain, even if he doesn't. I actually like him more because he doesn't offer me empty condolences.

"Like with a sword and shield?" I shake my head. "No, he wasn't."

Loki seems to ponder this for a moment. "Mother says that being a warrior isn't always about brute strength." He brings his eyes to mine. "It's about having passion—unwavering commitment to your ideals, no matter the opposition."

I think of the times my father took me to the planetarium. His eyes lit up as he explained to me the wonders of space—and how much we still didn't know. I remember when he would lose funding for a project or another. It never fazed him. He would apply for other grants, seek out new private sponsors. It took cancer to slow him down, but only in the final stages.

My dad was a warrior. Maybe he's earned a place in Valhalla—or someplace like it. Even if it's not true, if there's no such place, the idea gives me peace.

I open my mouth to tell Loki as much when a pillar of multi-colored light shoots down from the night sky like a flash of lightening. It passes as suddenly as it appeared, and I scramble to my feet. The grass in the clearing glows with an intricate circular pattern and in the center stands a huge man. If Loki is tall, this guy is a giant—and beefy. His clothes are similar to Loki's, and his long blond hair billows in the aftermath of whatever that light thing is. As my eyes readjust to the darkness, I realize that he's not quite as old as I originally thought. More like a senior in high school.

"Whoa." I don't mean to say it out loud, but he looks like a god, unlike Loki.

Loki huffs exasperatedly, rolling his eyes at me before turning to the new visitor. "It took you long enough, brother." Brother? What did he say his brother's name was, again? Thor.

"You're fortunate Heimdall sent for me instead of Father," Thor returns. His voice is like thunder—deep and beautiful and terrible. "Your mischief is going to put you into real danger one day, and I won't be able to save you."

Loki gives him an indifferent shrug. "But today is not that day, is it?"

"Loki—" Thor begins but then cuts off when he finally sees me. "Who is this? A mortal?"

I want to shrink back into the shadows, but Loki steps closer to me. "Well, yes," he says flippantly.

"You know Father forbade us—"

"Yes, yes. Father forbids anything remotely entertaining." Loki waves his hand with a scowl. "It's not as if I intended to leave Asgard, let alone end up stranded on Midgard. And she sought me out." He points at me like all of this is my fault. I start to protest, but he talks over me. "I'm glad she did. The wait would have been intolerable otherwise."

I blush as Thor scrutinizes me with piercing blue eyes. "My brother behaved himself, then?" he asks.

"I… He… He made a snake crawl up my arm," I say lamely. My cheeks burn even hotter.

Thor throws back his head and lets out a rich laugh that I swear shakes the trees. "It's his favorite trick." He shakes his head with a smile as he steps back toward the center of the clearing. "Say your goodbyes, Loki. We must return."

Loki turns to me. "Thank you, Jane Foster."

"Will I ever see you again?" I wish I could go with them.

The corner of his mouth turns up in a lopsided grin as if my question pleased him. "Perhaps." Without warning, he plants his lips on mine. This kiss is longer than the first, and I feel like I might burst into a million tingling molecules. I definitely understand the allure of having a boyfriend. Though, a little voice in my head points out clinically that he's no ordinary boy, and therefore, kissing might not actually be this amazing.

He sucks in a deep breath after we break apart. "Farewell, my little mortal. Don't forget me."

"I won't," I say with a big, stupid grin on my face.

"You had better not." He backs away to his brother's side.

"This is folly, Loki," Thor says in a disapproving tone.

Loki flashes a brilliant smile at me. "I know. That's what makes it so fun."

They vanish in another bolt of blinding light. I almost think that I hallucinated the entire exchange, except the strange pattern is still glowing in the flattened grass. I met a god. I met a god and he kissed me. Twice! I laugh as I run back to the house. I am going to find every book on Norse mythology that Uncle Erik has.

And then someday, I'm going to find a way to Loki's world.

~FIN~

TRANSLATIONS:

Heimdall! Åpne brua! Jeg vet at du kan se meg! Ta meg hjem!: Heimdall! Open the bridge! I know you can see me! Bring me home!

Hvem er det? Kom ut av skyggene!: Who is it? Come out of the shadows!

Hvem er du?: Who are you?

Forstår ikke norsk: Do not understand Norwegian

Norsk? Jeg snakker ikke norsk. Jeg snakker æsene.: Norwegian? I do not speak Norwegian. I speak Aesir.

Engelsk: English

Jeg kommer ikke til å skade deg. Stå stille.: I am not going to hurt you. Stay still.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts! XD