Loki may not have had Book's unwavering trust, but it seemed his ploy had been successful at least in undoing the damage. In fact, it may have moved him closer to gaining full control of the boy. He didn't require total trust to meet his needs, but the challenge appealed to him and helped pass the days in exile. It wouldn't have been the first time he set such a goal for himself to alleviate the monotony of the Realm Eternal, or simply to prove that he could.

He smiled a bit at the memory of one such challenge. He had once trained every hound in the kennels to treat Fandral like a hind—no magic involved. The kennel locks had also been mysteriously faulty that season. More than once the normally swaggering hero had needed to be rescued from a pack of snarling, baying dogs—or had to climb out a window because the pack was at his chamber door. Even Thor had found it funny. Odin, less so. Whether it had been through some strange fondness for Fandral or annoyance that his hounds had been so misappropriated was unclear. There was no Odin now to interrupt his diversions.

There were downsides, however, to inserting himself back into the boy's good graces. In patching up the breech, Loki was once more subjected to the full brunt of his curiosity. A distant, polite Book didn't give voice to every question that popped into his head, didn't wheedle, didn't dissect him with his eyes. But Loki's "apology" appeared to have been accepted. And now he was once more the apparent sum-total of the boy's social interaction.

That morning particularly, Book had been watching him closely. It was a look of thoughtful curiosity, but not suspicion. And yet, Loki was done being stared at. He whirled and threw his hands sharply in the air, What?!

"You don't shave, and there's not a hair on your face," Book leaned forward, features cinched together in concentration. "But, you are the definition of white. I'm trying to figure out where you're hiding it."

Giving a deep sigh, Loki turned to fully face Book and crossed his arms. Explain.

"Your Indian blood. I just can't see it in your face. But you don't grow facial hair, so it's got to be in there somewhere. Maybe the cheekbones."

A particularly nasty smile curled his lips. Oh no child, it's a completely different sort of blood altogether. As a young man in a culture of bearded warriors, Loki had been very aware of his lack thereof. Being a shapeshifter had given him an easy remedy, but hours before a mirror had only revealed that he disliked everything about hair on his face. He was just vain enough to deal with the teasing and yet another sign that he wasn't quite like everyone else.

It hadn't even been that difficult to stop the comments and jibes aimed his way. After Thor found himself with a beard that didn't stop growing until it trailed behind him on the floor, everyone suddenly lost interest in Loki's lack of facial hair and became incredibly polite to Odin's second son.

Now that Loki knew of his true parentage so many things began to make sense. He'd had little contact with actual Frost Giants, but he'd never seen one with a beard, even in his books. Perhaps they could not grow them. It hadn't seemed a pertinent question to ask when he and Thor had played at slaughtering Frost Giants and putting their heads on pikes as children.

An image of his own slack face skewered on Gungnir flashed through his mind. Cheers echoed in the background, and all was red. Red splattered down the golden shaft, red light dying in his demon eyes—red cloak draped across the meaty fist that hefted Gungnir aloft. Loki hurled the thought away, slowly unclenching his rigid jaw muscles as he came back to himself.

Book idly rolled a piece of charcoal around the inside of the fire barrel with a stick. Loki hadn't let anything show on his face that might have caused the boy alarm. The clawing madness still scuttled along his spine, nipping at the edges of his thoughts. The old rage seethed within his chest, the same rage that unfurled every time he thought of the Juton, inevitably because he could not evade the remembrance of his own monstrous nature.

"You're doing the thing," said Book. It was an attempt at casual nonchalance—a paltry attempt. His voice hitched between his words and there was a coiled readiness to his stance. "The thing where you're a million miles away, and it doesn't look like you're on vacation."

Loki blinked, wiping away all traces of his agitation. You tolerate the boy because he is clever, Loki thought, and yet because he is clever he sees more than he ought. Shrugging, he slid his bag over his shoulder, slowly becoming so used to its presence that he felt somewhat naked without it. He headed for the door without attempting an explanation. The image of his own impaled head still whispered before his eyes. And though he would not go so far to say it unnerved him, the sensation of precarious balance that followed the burst of rage threatened his ability to hide everything he would like. He was in no mood to twice repair a breach with Book. Better that he bleed these emotions dry in the lonely recesses of the forest or the abandoned backways of Greenville's crumbling industrial district.

Book's voice echoed after him as he emerged into the pale sunlight. "Feel free to bring food!"

The slam of the exterior door drowned out anything else the boy might have said. Loki immediately turned from their normal exit and circled the outskirts of the warehouse, occasional shards of glass grinding beneath his shoes. Leaping atop an abandoned dumpster allowed him to vault over the top of the chain-link fence and drop down on the other side. The jolt of bone meeting concrete through the thin soles of his shoes jarred up Loki's leg. Not for the first time he cursed the pitiful excuse for boots Book had scavenged for him. A seam along the left side had begun to tear free, allowing the slightest rain to completely drench his socks. The right boot fared little better, glints of silver duct tape keeping it together.

Weak morning sunlight glanced off grimy windows, illuminating "for sale," and "no trespassing" signs. Loki tried to focus on the way it slid across the pockmarked pavement and nosed its way into shadowy corners and alley mouths. He tried to think of anything but the lie of his own skin.

The pale scent of morning mingled with the wet-grit smell of brick and mortar and asphalt. The distant thrum of cars broke the stillness. And though he could hear the first movements of the day, Loki was alone in this forgotten section of town.

A craving for green spaces suddenly struck him. A hunger as real and biting as the clawing of an empty stomach. He turned his back on the hum of an awakening Greenville and set his face toward the forest. Cutting into an alley, he started toward the distant tuft of green hills that rose behind the town.

Wires crisscrossed above his head, gathering into clusters and then crawling down the alley wall to disappear into various buildings. The angled slope of patchwork concrete slanted toward the center of the passageway, supposedly to allow water to sluice down through a rusted metal grate. Instead, it dammed up in divots and pools dyked with last year's leaves and anything else that could wash off a disused street.

"Are you still so prideful?"

The words brought Loki up short. He caught the shimmering reflection in the slimy puddle at his feet. I am no one's pawn. He locked eyes with the wavering image of his patron. The black pits narrowed in annoyance.

"Why run from the inevitable? Did you not accept your fate long ago," murmured his benefactor.

Loki walked on. My fate is my own and I'll meet it on my own terms.

The image melted from puddle to puddle, ghosting along the rain-drenched alley. It settled in front of him, dark eyes an oil slick on the surface. "And how will you wreak the coming chaos from this patch of mortal soil?"

Loki crouched down before the stretch of water. Do not underestimate me. I don't require your aid to do what will be done.

"We shall see, little godling." The voice paused, calculating. "Strange that you would linger with this human child, playing at mortality when I could return you to your path of greatness."

Infamy is a word more suited. The vast unknowns of his patron gnawed at him. He did not know what she was or what her purpose was. What he did know was that She knew things she ought not and that there was far more to her plans than she had revealed. A veil of obscurity hung over the entire affair. Every question he posed brought only more questions.

A dry, brittle laugh cracked against the old bricks of the alley. "Very well, Liesmith. Play at what games you will. I am patient. The path unto your destiny may take many unexpected turnings—though your ultimate fate cannot be unwritten."

With a snarl of rage, Loki rushed to his feet and stomped through the puddle, shattering the image. The slowly awakening town blurred by him as he strode toward the trees. Today seemed to be conspiring against him. First Frost Giants and now Her. The festering rage ran through him like hot lead, threatening to boil over into action. He didn't trust himself not to do something that even Thor's thick friends were likely to notice. Granted without his strength or magic it would have been more difficult to really do anything spectacular. A slow, sick smile spread across Loki's lips as he passed into the dappled light of the forest. He'd still manage.

By late afternoon Loki felt that he had once more lashed himself to calm and sanity, the terrible unbalance of before fading away. The price had been pushing himself to the limits of this mortal frame. Dripping with sweat, he leaned against the trunk of a spreading maple, the rough bark pressing into his bare skin. He'd run through his single spear forms, a sharpened stick a sorry excuse for his usual training weapon. He'd thrust all of his rage and frustration into every strike. With each blow, he imagined plunging the weapon deep into Her flesh, into Laufey, into Odin. The finesse and subtlety for which he was known took on a savage edge as he had to blink sweat from his eyes. Thoughts faded beneath the throb of his own heart in his ears, muscles screaming for him to stop. His breath had hitched against the back of his throat in raw gasps.

As he had spun the stick in a final, arcing attack, he'd had to force himself to not simply collapse to the clearing's leaf-strewn floor. Blowing like a lathered horse, he'd walked the clearing, spear braced across his shoulders, until his heartbeat stopped pounding behind his eyes and he could hear something other than his own blood in his ears. Only then had he allowed his shaking legs to buckle and nearly drop him to the ground. Still, even as he sat against the tree, he took deep, measured breaths which pressed his ribs against his skin.

You've grown lax, he thought. At one time he had begun his mornings with weapons practice, followed by the magical equivalent. Not that this was uncommon among Asgardians—though perhaps the early hour had been. It was not for no reason that Asgard was known for her warriors. Even her common folk considered martial training a simple part of routine. Prepare breakfast, go to market, train with the sword, do the washing.

He imagined many had thought less of him because he frequented the training fields less than Thor. Bitterness crept into his fatigue. Just because they hadn't seen him there didn't mean he trained any less than Thor. On the contrary, he probably practiced more—he'd had to. But when anyone did see Loki on the fields, they wrongly assumed they'd seen him practicing. They saw only what he had already perfected in private.

Resting his forearms on his knees, he let himself slump forward. The comfort of drilling his magic might have been denied him, but now more than ever he needed to keep his skills sharp. This mortal frame couldn't take the punishment he was used to dealing out to his body. He needed to be honed, ready for whatever may come. It was time to get back into the routine he'd been forced to abandon after his fall and during his imprisonment.

Glancing up at the sun, he judged by the angle that it was several hours into the afternoon. That left him time enough to clean himself in the nearby stream and put his spear to more use than calming his agitated thoughts.

The shock of the cold water was enough to clench his teeth against the chattering, but at least he wasn't likely to smell like soured flesh and Volstagg's boots. He shrugged on his shirt, the fabric catching at his damp arms. He left his boots by the stream, not trusting their ill-fitting size to allow him to walk quietly through the dry bracken and fallen twigs of the forest.

It took nearly two hours, but his patience eventually snared him two fine rabbits. He skinned and butchered them in the forest, careful to keep from splattering blood on his clothes—that was something the local authorities were likely to notice. It also kept Book from gagging and complaining that the skinned conies looked like headless cats. Loki noticed it didn't keep the boy from eating the meat despite his protestations. But given that Book had suggested rummaging through dumpsters as a viable way to find food, Loki wasn't wholly surprised the boy could swallow his disgust.

Deciding to cook the rabbit in the woods rather than transport it raw, Loki set about creating a fire. He missed the ability to simply cause one to spring to life. It had been a hard won skill. Elemental magic had come easily enough to him—all but fire. Sitting back on his haunches, he shifted a twig to better catch the slowly spreading flame. As he stared at the creeping tongue of light and heat, he remembered how he had fought to make even the smallest flicker obey.

But you did submit, he thought, in the end. His triumph over it had been one of the greatest achievements of his youth. And now he was reduced to the techniques of a common woodsman. The growing light threw wavering shadows across the bitterness of his face.

Loki hunched forward, pressing his hand to his chest, the hollowness of his magic echoing within him. His eyes slid shut. Slow, angry breaths hissed between his teeth. I conquered the element which raged against my very nature and I can be reduced to this? He raised his shadowed gaze to the surrounding woods. From the dappled recesses he imagined Her eyes watching. Calm crept over him as his hand dropped to his side. Take what you will, play your games. He rose, tall and every inch a prince. I have conquered fire's will and seen the void. What are you to that?

Loki had long ago mastered all forms of elemental magic—all save one. Fire still escaped him. Even as he moved on to more advance forms, fire still stood beyond his grasp. He had mastered water first, something nearly unheard of in someone so young. Its mercurial nature seemed perfectly natural to him and he had never understood why others found it so difficult to control. He could draw water into twining serpents from the air around him, freeze them into icy daggers that vanished in a puff of mist on impact. But he couldn't so much as coax a candle flame to his palm.

He'd spent hours crouched before an oil lamp, weaving his will into spells that should have sent the little flame gauting toward the ceiling. His spells always shunted away, the flame laughing merrily at him. Many a night his mother had found him passed out in the middle of the floor, completely drained and the lamp still burning.

Though he didn't want to admit it, Loki was afraid. He hadn't been afraid when he'd first begun practicing teleportation spells—and they were more fraught with danger. He hadn't been afraid when he'd begun shapeshifting—even though he had some rather unpleasant splicing incidents when he got a bit too creative. But the thought of opening himself to fire's influence sent a roll of unease through his stomach. He respected the physical presence of fire, but that didn't frighten him. But every time he tried to blend his magic with the flames, to make its melody part of his song—he blanched. Then came the nightmares.

They slid into his dreams, erratically at first and then with startling regularity. Before long every night his sleep was broken with terror and he crept into his washroom to douse the remembered burning in a frigid plunge. Then, unable to return to his sweat-soaked sheets, he'd clamber up the wall adjacent to his balcony and wedged himself into the space where three spires met. On a good night he would drift back into a hazy slumber. On a bad one he would merely stare at the stars until Asgard's sun broke across the horizon.

His mother was growing suspicious, although he still smiled and laughed and tried to ever be the Loki she knew. The glamour over the dark smudges of sleeplessness likely wouldn't fool her for long—if it had at all. Frigga preferred her sons bring their troubles to her when they became too much for them, but she wasn't likely to let this continue much longer.

Loki knew he had to end it, but he was going to need help. Unfortunately.

"I don't understand what you're trying to do," said Thor as he crouched on his haunches outside a rather complex pattern of interlocking runes and lines.

Loki huffed as he knelt inside the circle, using a knife point to deepen one of the runes. "It's magic, Thor, did you really expect to?" He shifted on his hands and knees a bit to the side, scrutinizing the pattern.

"Who would need to? It's just magic." Thor frowned and hunched his shoulders.

"And it was 'just magic' that got us off Vanaheim last month and kept you from being a clowder of glis' first real meal. And what about that hammer you keep eying. It's magic too."

Picking at the gilt embroidery on his sleeve, Thor blew a puff of air through his teeth—a habit his mother had not quite managed to break him of. "But it's a hammer first."

"A magic one," retorted Loki.

Thor chucked the first thing that he could reach at Loki's head, his brother ducking as the candle sailed above him and clattered to the ground across the room, snapped in two places. Loki merely grinned at him, which made Thor grab for another projectile. His hand closed over a book. As he reared back to throw, Loki's hands shot up.

"No, no, no…not the book!" he said, suddenly on his feet.

Rolling his eyes, Thor ever-so-delicately set the book down. He then chucked the bag it had been in directly at his brother's face, the heavy wad of fabric connected with a dull thump. "Thank you," Loki mumbled as he peeled the bag off his head.

"Fine, I don't understand. So what good am I going to be?" asked Thor.

Loki sighed and brushed bits of stone dust from his trousers, only managing to smear the whitish dust across the black fabric. "You're here to close the circle. I won't be able to do it from inside." He strolled over to the book and tugged it away from Thor, rustling through pages until he found the one he wanted. A long finger tapped the page. "Carve that symbol into the gap I've left you, connecting it like the image shows."

Thor scrunched up his face as he eyed the symbol. "What's it do?"

"Magic, obviously," he said with an innocent smile. Thor groaned and looked like he was considering throwing the book again. Loki relented. "It's a bit like the shield charm around the citadel. Just more simplistic."

"But why are you sealing yourself in?" asked Thor.

"I'm not. I just want to practice this spell without any chance of it getting out and wrecking something." He swallowed deeply and shuddered. "I don't want a repeat of the Great Hall incident."

Nodding, Thor winced at the memory. "The hangings in the southeast corner still smell odd." He paused and narrowed his gaze. Strong arms folded over his chest. "Didn't mother forbid you to practice new spells unattended after that."

"Just like you're not supposed to be borrowing weapons from the Einherjar's weapon vault and practicing with them in the dead of night?" Loki looked up at his brother evenly.

Blustering, Thor stepped back. "How did you know?"

A small smile curled his pale lips as he went back to double checking the lines. "Honestly, Thor. I'm your brother. Let's just assume I know everything about you. Now, I really would like to try this sometime in the next hundred years."

"Fine. But this is blackmail." He glanced at the book and started carving in the rune.

"Of course it is. Now, place your palms against the circle to activate it and step back."

Thor did as he was told, startled as light erupted from the runes, creeping in a sheet toward the center of the circle before gathering into a pillar that speared toward the ceiling. As it nearly brushed the stone rafters the light began to fold back on itself, inching toward the ground like the spray of water from a fountain. Loki remained inside the circle carefully watching as the dome cascaded slowly toward the ground. When it was only a foot or so away from the floor, Loki waved his hands in a dismissive way and a glamour fell away from a second set of runes encircling the first. As the sheet of light came down, Loki's hands darted out under the falling wall and activated the exterior circle. He yanked his hands back before the golden light settled onto the ground.

"What was that?!" asked Thor, anger tingeing his words as he watched the second set of runes glow and merge together in a solid wall of magical energy that arced upwards to form a second dome enclosing the first.

Settling in the center of the two circles, Loki's image seemed to waver a bit as power coursed through the two shields. "I'm merely taking precautions. I can't have you interrupting until I'm finished…and I might need some motivation to see this through." The second part he added more quietly. He pointed at the inner circle. "Only you can break the inner circle, and only I can break the outer one, and yet neither of us can get to either."

Thor seemed somewhere between angry and confused. And, being Thor he quickly decided instead simply to be angry. "Loki, you fool! Now you're stuck in there. And you tricked me into helping you!"

"Yes, it would have been nice if I didn't have to trick you into helping me," said Loki dryly, "but I need to do this and you wouldn't understand."

"How are you planning on getting out of there!" Thor's eyes stretched wide with realization. "Loki, Loki, how are you going to eat. You'll starve!" Small fists slammed against the shield, only a slight crackling even evidence of it being struck.

Loki took pity on his brother. "Don't be so dramatic, Thor. Father or Mother could shatter these with little difficulty. It will just take someone with a lot of magic to do so, and while you're looking for someone like that, I can get to work."

With that, Loki turned his back on Thor and knelt in the center of the circle. He drew a deep breath and let it out less steadily than he would have liked. Digging in the pouch at his waist, he drew out a spark stone and set it against the wick of a candle. A flame leapt up.

It jumped merrily on the twist of cloth. Loki curled his fingers into his palms as he stared at the little light. It mocked him. Something hard and icy knotted in his chest as he reached out with his magic to touch the flame, to make it listen to him. He jerked away. It was wrong, wrong, wrong. A primal terror beyond thought or reason seeped through his bones. This thing was everything he was not. It was light and heat and burning and he was the cold dark of a moonless night, frigid and devoid of warmth. If he touched the fire he would burn away like snow before a pitiless sun.

He was so cold. It seemed his breath came in a fog before him and frost netted across his bone-white knuckles.

No! He was Loki Odinson, Prince of Asgard. He clenched his teeth so hard the muscles in his jaw jumped. He would best this fear. For a brief moment he glanced behind him at Thor—his brother watched him warily through the barriers. A pang of remorse spiked through him. He shouldn't have made Thor complicit in this—he ought to have been strong enough to do it himself.

"I can do this," he muttered, returning his full attention to the little flame. And he knew he could, he just needed the right motivation to bend the flame to his will. His eyes slid closed. No turning back now. He reached out with his magic and whispered a spell.

Fire erupted within the dome, swirling and gauting against the walls.

Thor stumbled back, tripping over his feet and hitting the ground hard. He stared in horror at the maelstrom of hell before him, the small dark form of his brother lost within it. "Loki!" he shouted, throwing himself at the shield with all his might. "Loki!"

Flames pounced like devils, licking around him and searing across his skin. He cried out, dropping to all fours as he grasped at the fire. It mocked him, tearing through his magic like kindling, feeding on the power and blackening his soul with its heat. He coughed. He couldn't open his eyes anymore and the boiling heat tore through his throat and lungs. He lunged for the shields but knew he wouldn't be able to break them. That was the whole point after all.

He was going to die. No one would come in time and he'd be nothing but a pile of ash. The firestorm made his tears boil. The fire latched onto his clothes and skin. He could feel it blistering, the cloth melting through skin toward bone. A small part of his mind sequestered away from the pain idly chided him for wearing anything metal, for he could feel that melting as well.

Vainly he snatched at the flames, threading his magic through them, trying to call them to heel like he had so many other powers. His magic recoiled, even now trying anything to avoid touching the burning death. Loki could feel himself fading, darkness creeping upon the edges of his consciousness. He lunged once more for the fire, folding his magic around it, pulling it into himself despite the way it struggled and fought. Its essence burned through his until it was left in little more than papery, blackened flakes. Fire snarled and roared around his magic, ravenous to devour all that he was.

No! Loki roared back. He imagined himself knotting all the fire into one white-hot coal, tearing its tendrils from his flesh and squeezing them into a single point. In his mind he gripped the coal, though his fingers began to steam and melt, and pressed it into his chest, gasping as it burned through to settle at his heart.

From what seemed like far away a shattering sound rocked the room and the fire whisked away in a gust of wind. Loki realized he was curled up on the floor, his eyes squeezed shut. As he peeled back his eyelids—they felt so brittle, like they'd nearly been stripped away—he gazed blearily up at the towering form of his mother. He had never seen her so angry before. She loomed over him, her rage thick about her. There was something about this anger he couldn't quite place, his pain-fogged mind muddling over the problem slowly. He glanced behind her to see Thor frozen by the wall, horror rooting him to the spot. Loki's gaze rolled back to his mother. Ah. That was what was hiding in his mother's anger.

Terror.

"Loki, oh Loki, what have you done," she whispered as she knelt by him. He could already feel her spells—cool water—brushing over his ruined skin.

He smiled, or at least he tried to. The muscles in his face weren't working quite right. He held out his hand and uncurled his fist. There, dancing in the blackened wreck of his palm, was a single, sickly flame.

Author's Note:

Well, this is a bit late, but it's here. It being finals season and pre-tech week for a show I'm directing has me barely able to catch my breath! Thank you for your patience.

This chapter begins to look at some of Loki's character traits/quirks that will be touched upon or developed further on in the story. I've always thought it interesting to explore Loki's feeling about his heritage and the self-loathing he must feel at being a "monster." Oddly, the movies have kind of forgotten that Loki is a Frost Giant, either for dramatic or plot purposes (seriously, a little ice magic here or there would probably be useful). Except for Ragnarok, which basically gave the middle finger to continuity and characterization and said, "sure, Loki is fine with announcing to all Asgard that he's part of a race of 'monsters,' he would totally want to be constantly reminded of that and have everyone know that about him." *sigh* I have so many issues with that movie.

On a more upbeat note, I revel in any chance I get to tell stories from Thor and Loki's childhood. It's just so much fun to imagine what they were getting up to as children and to follow their relationship from what I think was a truly good one to one that had somewhat begun to sour and fracture by the time we're introduced to them as adults.

And yes, I'm aware that Native Americans can actually grow facial hair (as is Book), but since some segments of that population are effectively beardless (through genetic lottery, or it being so wispy they plucked it into basic non-existence), it makes sense for Book to assume that is the reason he's never seen Loki shave.