Asgard's Dungeons

Frigga watches her son sleep. It is a rare thing, to be able to stand in the presence of Loki, shamed prince of Asgard, without him aware of it.

The Queen moves closer to the prison cell's translucent barrier that separates her from her beloved adopted son. The barrier gives off an almost imperceptible background hum, its vibrating energy laced with ancient, powerful runes which keep the prison cells of the whole dungeon, and Asgard, secure from malevolence. Seeing her son captive like beast in this cage stirs a place in her heart Frigga has guarded well for too long.

Loki's chest rises and falls softly, his eyes shut. She can see the purplish dark circles underneath, blemishing the otherwise handsome, serene profile. His black hair is swept beneath his head, and her sharp maternal gaze can tell it's longer than he normally keeps it—a result of his imprisonment, no doubt.

His statuesque body is stretched out on an elegant carved bed, unusually still. Even in rest, she thinks with frown, Loki's rigid control remains. It must be exhausting.

Frigga tears her gaze away from her son's sleeping form, her eyes closed. How much can a mother bear? Her soul is weighed down by a hurt she cannot hope to conquer. The strife within her family has claimed the lives of so many. Her sons—her beautiful, strong sons—are so lost in their endless quarrel. Frigga looks up. In the silence of this wretched place, removed from the sage gaze of her husband, she can acknowledge that while she loves both her sons, she only cherishes the one.

Beside her, a projection shimmers into life, revealing the images so vividly circulating in her memory. It's a bittersweet torture, this gift of illusion, and yet, with wet eyes, the queen watches the moments of her life replay with solemn acceptance. Unbearably lifelike, the image materializes of the child Loki huddling in her arms after one of his many nightmares. He doesn't cry. He never cried, even as she sensed he was tormented by things she could never soothe.

Frigga holds her breath.

The image flickers and transforms into one from later years, where she gently encourages Loki to reveal his newest mastery of the magical realm to Odin. The projection shifts to the moment where she watches, horrified, as the King smiles not for Loki, but for young Thor as he drags a prize Bilgesnipe carcass into the throne room with a triumphant arm raised. Loki backs away into the shadows, casting a pained look at his beloved brother. Frigga cried for Loki that day.

The projection alters further into the future. Frigga stands before her son, dressed in his resplendent silver armor, his horned helmet held under one arm. They both await the coronation of Thor in the silence, interrupted only by the crackle of flames from the ceremonial pyre behind them. For once, Frigga can't read her son's face, his expression a model of practiced tranquility, though the queen knows better. She reaches up to touch his cheek, expressing the sentiment neither of them has the will to put into words. With a bowed head, Loki smiles for her and her alone. He stoops and kisses his adoptive mother on the forehead.

"How touching."

Higga stiffens, and the projections vanish. Loki hasn't moved, but his eyes are open, staring at the white ceiling above.

"I did not want to disturb you," Frigga laments, her voice quiet. She has to tilt her chin up to see him, as the level of his cell sits higher than the cold floor she stands on.

Loki releases a long breath and rises to his feet in a fluid motion. Even in captivity, his black, green, and silver trimmed clothing remain pristine, a reflection of the spotless interior of his cell filled with rich furniture and an impressive number of stacked books. Frigga's brow rises. While he was ever the talented protégé, she sees through Loki's sophisticated displays of indifference and normalcy, as though his imprisonment was just a leisurely sojourn.

"Your skills impress me, mother," Loki taunts as he looks down on her, his voice dripping with venom. His fists are clenched, and Frigga knows he recalls the displayed memories as well as she. He moves the center of the cell with cat-like grace, his gaze never leaving her.

Asgard's queen refuses to take the bait. Her voice is gentle when she speaks. "It is I, who is ever impressed, Loki." Frigga motions at his cell. She doesn't mean to flatter, and her son takes her meaning for what it is—a confirmation of her shrewdness. The corner of Loki's mouth quirks upwards. In an instant, the opulent furnishings vanish, replaced by the bleak, white nothingness seen throughout the rest of the dungeon cells. His immaculate uniform is gone, revealing the filthy vestiges of his once impressive princely attire, while his black hair, no longer neatly swept back, hangs in matted tangles around a gaunt face. Reality is bitter truth for them both.

His doesn't allow her to dwell long on his true condition before asking, with false civility, "To what do I owe the pleasure?" He places his arms behind his back.

"Can't a mother miss her son?" Frigga moves a step closer to Loki. The energy barrier hums louder as she nears. She fights tears, seeing him like this.

Loki's eyes are cold, void of emotion. "I doubt anyone in the whole of Asgard mourns my departure."

She looks up at him plaintively. "Loki, that's not true. Your father—"

The renounced prince leans forward, his loathing radiating from every pore. "My true father," he seethes, "abandoned me as a worthless sacrifice, allowed me to be stolen away by a sworn enemy, raised up and then cast aside. That Jotun wretch," he snarls, "is dead, as he deserves, and by my own hand."

Frigga absorbs Loki's words. They ring true enough. The actions of his Jotun family were shameful, and she did not mourn the passing of the slain Jotun king. But she knows the heart of Asgard's.

"Odin is misguided," the queen counters, "and his wrath for you runs deep. But there is still hope. You are better than this, Loki."

He stalks closer to the edge of the cell. "But not better than Thor, am I?"

She lowers her gaze. It is pointless. Odin insists the Loki cannot be reached, that the prince's resentment and fury has driven him into unshakable madness, and she hates to admit the legitimacy in Odin's words, now visible before her.

As if reading her mind, Loki's vehement stare gleams with rage. Frigga releases a long breath. She has only one card left to play, and it is weak, shameful one, at that. Even so, every instinct in her cries out to tell him the truth.

Suddenly, she appears in the cell beside him, a mere arm's length apart. Frigga regards the tall, lean form of her son. She's not sure if either of them breathe. She longs to reach for him, but she cannot hold him as she once did long ago.

"Loki," she says softly, looking into his impossibly green eyes, "you are my beloved son…despite everything."

Loki turns away from her. "Another illusion, mother?" He senses as the queen's projection wavers and then disappears, and once again, she's trapped outside the prison cell.

"And they call me the god of lies," he says, his voice bitter.

Frigga looks away. Her greatest and most shameful truth is exposed to her son's derision. She can't bring herself to be in his presence anymore.

"Farewell, Loki," she whispers, and turns to leave. She had not moved more than a few paces when—

"Wait!" he calls.

Against her better judgment, the queen stops and looks back at him. Her heart pounds in her chest. Loki's stance is somewhat diminished. Shoulders hunched forward, skin even more ashen and sickly than before, his wary gaze lacks the contempt she saw moments earlier. When she's standing before him again, he kneels so his eyes are level with hers, and places his left palm flat against the cell barrier. It shimmers and sparks at his touch, but he doesn't remove it. A muscle tightens in his jaw, the only indication of the intense shock that must be radiating throughout his body.

"Loki, stop this!" Frigga urges, and futilely moves to stop him, an instinctual response to remove her child from danger. Her elegant fingers stop just short of the rippling barrier and her son's extended palm. Just out of her reach, the finality of their separation hits her like a swing from Mjölnir.

Something in Loki's eyes change. In one horrifying moment, she watches as her son's hand pushes through the impregnable energy field. His fingers snap around her extended hand. The guards shout somewhere in the distance, and she can register their footfalls as they come running to her aid.

Frigga's eyes widen, as she tries to pull away. "Loki, no!" she cries.

His teeth grit as the pain intensifies. Loki's fingers press harder, desperately into his mother's flesh as the barrier arcs and spits around his breach. His skin burns, first shades of angry red, then black, then blue that spreads down his fingers and up his arm. He takes no notice. Frigga can see nothing but desolation in Loki's gaze, a horror that speaks of terrible things seen and unseen. It is this, not his grip, which makes her gasp in pain.

Just as the guards are upon them, he releases his hold and steps back, hands raised at his side in a defeated manner.

"My queen, are you well?" a guard questions, pulling her away from the prison cell. Frigga holds her hand into her chest, her breathing ragged. She allows herself be escorted away.

A remaining guard looks up at Loki. The prince's arms are still raised in mock innocence, and he has reverted back to his regal, dark appearance. A dangerous smile erupts on his face.

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A/N If you don't feel like complete sh#t after this chapter, then I didn't do my job. Let me know what you think.