A/N: Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter. I just got to a thousand views and I'm kind of in awe over that. This chapter is definitely one of my favorites, so far. If you have a minute, let me what you think. Thanks again!


Chapter Five

The theater had not changed but, without an audience, it felt almost like a new building. Its oceanic frescoes remained magnificent and its gleaming stage demanded attention, even without actors upon it. Still, Loki felt a palpable change in the room's atmosphere. It was no longer marked by the rapt attention of six hundred spectators; hidden in the shadows, he witnessed the informal, the animated, the tenacious. It was a side of the theater he'd never seen and, in the midst of it all, he saw another side of Dagny.

She had not changed physically but, like the theater, her demeanor was undeniably altered. The girl he'd met last night had been reticent, tentative in every mood she made. She'd shone moments of fire - dragging him from the theater, whirling on him in the street - but, more often than not, she'd seemed afraid of being burned. This new person was just as careful, just as quiet, but she flowed through the Lapis with a practiced comfort. It became clear that she was not just a cog in the troupe's machine. She was an authority.

"Dagny, I made some last-minute alterations to the cloak, would you mind checking it?"

"Hey Dag, I might need to go over the accent real quick."

"I'm not trying to stress you out, Dagny, but I read online that my character carried a pike and I was wondering..."

The questions echoed through the vast, empty space, spoken by actors and assistants, alike. There were times when he watched her reply, addressing some half-costumed player in the midst of rehearsing a sword fight. Other times, he heard only voices, his attention caught by the mention of her name or her voice's soft melody. Every query was answered with intelligent politeness, given without superiority or presumption. One of the actors, the muscular blond who played Thor, followed her like a lost gosling; his requests for coaching came fast and often yet she showed no sign of annoyance. It was more than Loki could say for himself.

As the hours passed, the troupe grew more and more frantic. One group raised sheets of painted wood onstage while another lowered the velvet curtain. Dagny exited through one of the side doors and a number of people complained about "static." Finally, the lights dimmed and the room went quiet. The audience filed in.

Few of them noticed Loki, seated comfortably in a corner chair, eyes fixed on the theater's third door. Despite their sightlessness, he was no longer hidden by magic; he relied instead on the shadowy darkness that bathed his seat. Waves of humans passed for nearly ten minutes before a man with glasses approached him. The man held a white pamphlet and, when he saw Loki, his lips formed into a gentle smile. "Excuse me," he said. "I think you're in my seat."

"You must be mistaken," Loki answered, quickly. "Your ticket is for tomorrow night."

The man's cheeks turned pink. "Oh god, you're right. That's embarrassing."

"Not to worry." Loki shrugged, about to turn away when his eyes landed on the pamphlet. It was stamped with a colorful portrait, the same as the picture on the doors. "Sir?" he prompted.

The man looked up.

"Since you'll be returning to the theater tomorrow, I don't think you'll be needing that."

"You're right." The man looked at him thoughtfully before stepping closer. "Why don't you take it?"

Loki took the booklet without looking up.

He found what he was looking for as the man hurried off; there, on the second page, was a list of troupe members. The first name was one he remembered, not only from its presence on the poster, but from last night's events: Marcus de la Rocque had confronted Dagny in the lobby. There was another familiar name farther down the page; Claire Robinson was the small girl, the one with the beaded hair.

The name he sought was third from the bottom. "Dagny Tate," it read. "Dramaturge."

Dramaturge?

Before he could puzzle long over its meaning, the theater went black all around him. The pamphlet became little more than a blur in his lap, so he turned his attention on the stage. The first scene had begun, just as he remembered, with Odin and Frigga arguing.

"He is not ready!" The queen's actress announced. "You must understand, my husband! Thor is not ready to lead."

You were always the sensible one, Mother. He'd had the same thought the night before.

"He will have to be!" The man meant to portray his father was merely a fool in a goat-horned helm. It was impossible to act as the Allfather - no man, especially not a human man, could equal his power and grace - but this actor, he thought, was less suited than most. Last night, the disparity had made him quake with laughter, but now, clearheaded as he was, they just made him think of home.

He will have to be. The words echoed in his mind, blocking out the lines that followed. Had Thor finally proven himself, taught humility by his children's tale of a banishment? Had his idiotic destruction of the Bridge shown Odin how ready he was to rule? Was he sitting, even now, upon the throne of Asgard with Father's hand upon his shoulder?

Loki felt a breeze against his neck and realized, with a start, that he had created it.

He felt himself whisked away to a different hall, a memory, that nearly blocked out the humans around him. They were visible if he squinted but, as the colors of Asgard grew brighter, his reality on Earth turned dim. He was left standing in the midst of a familiar scene, still the spectator, watching its story unfold. One play was traded for another and, suddenly, Loki's memory began to speak.

"Thor, what will you do when you're king?" The question came from a female child, balanced precariously on the edge of an enormous staircase. She took one fearless step after the other, looking ridiculous in a gaudy dress and the mail of a grown man. Her hair was tied up with a boot-strap, attempting to hide her girlishness, but two perfect coifs stuck out from the back of her head.

Sif.

Loki felt himself swallow.

He realized that he was a child as well, peering out from behind a pillar as his brother considered the question. Thor's handsome face was thoughtful - as thoughtful as it ever was - and marked by the same careless confidence that defined his older self. His golden waves glistened in the firelight as he stood, plunging a fist into the air.

"I shall defeat the realm's enemies and never lose a battle!" he cried.

Sif's green eyes turned doubtful and she spun a graceful pirouette before commenting, "Every man must lose some battles."

"Not I!" Thor laughed. "Nor my father. I will be as strong a king as he is and twice as brave."

A smile lit the girl's features as Loki crept forward, dodging through the shadows, to a pillar nearer the stairs. "What of justice?" she asked. "How will you deliver that?"

"I will reward those who do right and send all others to their deaths." Thor grinned as he said it, stalking towards her with playful malice. She stood her ground as he pulled an imaginary sword from his belt. "And you, Sif?" he asked, brandishing the weapon at her. "Will you be loyal to me?"

There was a flash of movement, so quick that Loki barely caught it, and then the girl stood behind Thor. She held a very real dagger in her fist and its silver sheath was pressed into his back. Loki almost laughed aloud before she leaned forward and whispered into his brother's ear. "Always," she breathed.

Loki's smile faded.

"If I were the queen," she continued, hiding the knife in the folds of her dress, "I would not concern myself with strength and bravery, as you do. I already know I'm brave and my strength -" She dodged around Thor again and turned three quick cartwheels on the step "- would be something my subjects knew well. But I would not want to be remembered as brave or strong. I would create equality in the realm, so that everyone could be treated fairly, be they Frost Giant or Midgardian. Be they king or kitchen maid." Her eyes narrowed. "Be they man or woman."

The pair of blue eyes, watching from the bottom of the staircase, had not blinked once during her speech. They were trained on Sif's face, watching it shift between defiance and sincerity, drinking her words like nectar. You would make a fine queen, Loki wanted to tell her. He wanted her to ask him, not Thor, what he would do if he were king.

If, his thoughts repeated. She asked Thor what he would do when he was king.

Thor's sword arm had long since dropped and he did not watch his friend as her voice filled the throne room. There was a moment of silence when she finished speaking and Loki realized, suddenly, that his brother had not been listening. Still, the other boy's face broke into a smile.

"You would make a fine queen," he said.

Sif blushed and Loki tasted something bitter beneath his tongue.

"Answer me one thing, though," Thor continued, unaware of the angry flush creeping up his brother's neck. "Do you really think the Frost Giants deserve equality?"

The girl nodded. "We warred with Laufey over four hundred years ago and, since then there have been no -"

"Four hundred years does not make them innocent!" Thor interrupted. "The fear of Odin's wrath is all that keeps them from attacking again!"

"How do you know that?" Sif fired back. "Jotunheim has given us no reason -"

Again, Thor silenced her. "They scorned Father once and they will do it again. They're monsters, Sif, every one of them. You must know that."

The flush had climbed up Loki's chin now and was making its way towards his cheeks. He could feel it there, burning with a rage he did not quite understand. The Frost Giants meant little to him and, given the chance, he was not sure if even he would grant them true equality. Still, his brother's words sent a fiery poison coursing through his veins. He felt himself step forward until the candlelight brushed his face.

"I guess you're right." The girl's legs folded and she dropped, hard, onto the top step. Thor crouched too, leaning forward to meet her gaze.

"That does not mean you should fear them," he told her. "I will be king one day and I will kill them all, I swear it."

"That's not -"

"And then I will return from that icy Hell to my beautiful queen." He took her hand. "And, together, we will complete her dream of equality in all the realms."

"Thor," Sif started to say. Her expression stayed distraught for just a moment before, at the same time as Loki, she grasped the implication of his words. "Thor!" she repeated and her eyes grew soft. "That is...are you...do you mean..."

What exactly Thor meant was never clear because, at that moment, a deafening boom shook the throne room. Furious bolts of lightning crackled against the ceiling, forking down within inches of the staircase, and the shape of a man appeared inches from the children. It grew to ten feet, twenty feet, thirty feet, brighter and brighter, until it solidified into a blinding figure, encased in light.

Sif shrieked.

"Thor, son of Odin!" The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, both at once. It was deep as a cavern, echoing off the walls, reverberating through the children's minds as if it spoke from within them, as well. The man shape turned to address the boy, flaming suns where its eyes should've been.

"Y-yes?" Thor stuttered, beginning to step backwards before he remembered himself.

"It is I, Odin, King of Asgard, in my natural form." A burning crown winked into existence on his forehead. "And you have displeased me greatly, my son."

There came another cacophonous boom and, this time, Sif's dagger clattered to the floor. Its song joined the pounding echos and the hiss of the lightning and, when the girl backed away, Thor stepped in front of her.

"Father," he pleaded. His attempt to sound mature was obvious, but a crack in his voice betrayed him on the second syllable. "Whatever I have done to wrong you, I swear I -"

"You may not apologize!" The god returned. "You speak falsely of our loyal subjects. You plot to murder them when you become king. You must be punished!"

Behind the pillar, Loki's heart hammered. Beads of sweat dripped down his face as he stared, without blinking, at the fiery king. His hands rose and fell in complicated patterns, glowing faintly in the blanket of darkness.

"You are not fit to be king!" Odin shouted and, at the root of the great rumbling, there was a small voice that sounded like Loki's.

"Father," Thor repeated, oblivious. His tone was now colored by a crippling despair and all traces of confidence had gone. He was a broken boy, a begging dog, a mewling baby. "Father, I don't understand. I only spoke in jest, I did not mean -"

"Silence!" The king shouted and Thor was silent.

Inky clouds began to swirl against the ceiling, turning gray with each flash of lightning. Terrifying noises escaped them, adding maniacal laughter and desperate wailing to the evil symphony of the storm. A scarlet funnel of wind escaped from its center and began to drop, sinking lower and lower, until it was inches from Thor's face...

"What is going on in here?"

The abrupt shout startled Loki and, suddenly, the room was quiet. The blood-stained wind disappeared, followed by the flickering lightning, and then the blazing king faded to nothing. At the top of the staircase, Thor turned to face his friend, failing in the attempt to hide his fear. This was the last thing Loki saw before locking eyes with his mother.

"Loki!" Her exclamation rang through the hall, not as loud as the false Odin's, but infinitely more threatening. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I..." His tongue turned to lead in his mouth and his lips felt rubbery; despite all the noise he'd just made, he was not strong enough to answer her.

The queen found meaning in his silence, though, and nodded before wrapping her hand around his shoulder. Her fingers were firm but gentle as she dragged him into the light.

"Loki?" Thor remained at the top of the stairs, looking confused; when he caught sight of his brother, he seemed at even more of a loss. "What's going on?" he asked, dumbly. "Where has Father gone?"

But Sif understood. Her eyes narrowed into a glare as she looked down at him, pointedly reaching for her dagger.

"The King is with his councillors," Frigga explained to her eldest. "What you saw was a false idol, a magical concoction, a creation of -"

"Loki." Thor's face finally brightened, replacing terror and ignorance with a myriad of new emotions. Surprise was first, then betrayal, then hurt; shame came next as he remembered his reaction to the storm. There was a brief flash of something thoughtful - awe, perhaps - and then he settled on anger. "Brother," he demanded. "Why did you do this?"

The throne room held its breath but, once again, Loki was without a reply. He did not understand his actions any more than Thor did and, if he could not explain them to himself, he doubted he could explain them to anyone else. He wondered if it was better not to try or if refusing to answer would just make everything worse. Before he could come to a decision, the queen made one for him.

"Come, my son," she commanded.

She kept her hand on his shoulder as they walked through the throne room's gilded doors, then into the courtyard beyond. They passed beneath a cloudless sky, but Loki's thoughts still stormed. He wondered where his mother would take him; perhaps the dungeon would be an appropriate punishment but, if he was to be thrown in a dark cell, would he have to face his father first? He hoped not. He dared not imagine what King Odin would say.

Why did you do this? Thor's voice echoed in his ears.

He still did not know.

It was a long time before the queen's grip halted him and, even then, she kept her face blank. He'd been stealing glances at her for some time, but the mask did not slip; be it anger, shame, or compassion, no emotion was hidden in her eyes. A large, wooden door stood before them and, still, she did not react. The only indication that she'd noticed was the tiny twitch of her fingers, the slight increase in pressure that bid him stop.

Loki did not recognize the entrance, but that fact meant little to him. There were many doors in the palace, many of them as plain and black as this one, and some existed only once or twice a year. He'd explored some of them - more than Thor ever had, to be sure - but he had not lived long enough to open them all. If his father stood behind this one, he was not sure he ever would.

"Open it," his mother urged.

He took a breath...

Why did you do this? Thor asked.

...and opened the door.

It swung forward with barely a whisper and he found himself in a modest, stone chamber. A single candle glowed in its center, brightening the walls with a tiny, yellow flame. Droplets of wax pooled onto a sandstone table; this was the room's only decoration and looked so much like the walls and floor that he almost didn't notice it. There were no windows or chairs, nor any scattered items to indicate the room's purpose. Loki didn't mind this, though: it did not contain his father and that was all that mattered.

He breathed a sigh of relief. "Is this to be my cell, Mother?"

The queen remained behind him, still gripping his shoulder, but, as he turned toward her, a twinge of emotion crossed her face. Her lips parted slightly and her eyes widened in surprise; it was the same look Thor had when he was confused. "Your what?" she asked, after a moment.

"My prison cell," Loki clarified, patiently. "Is this where I'll be imprisoned?"

Now that he faced the stone room, empty of his father, he felt a strange calm sweep over him. He had attacked his elder brother and used powerful magic without permission; it was obvious that he would be punished, but at least he would never need to explain.

Why did you do this?

Perhaps it would never matter.

But his mother's mask had finally cracked and the thoughts written on her face told him otherwise. He could see that she understood now, was no longer confused by his question, but there was a more complicated emotion in her glistening, blue eyes. Empathy, he realized.

"Loki." The queen's voice was gentle as she finally released her hold on him. With the heel of her palm, she urged him deeper into the room. "Please sit down."

"But there are no..." He trailed off when he saw the two sandstone chairs, positioned on either side of the table.

"I admit," Frigga began, passing him to take the farthest seat, "That I am hardly your equal at conjuring. A simple room in an empty wing of the castle, a pair of rough chairs - I cannot begin to imagine how much power it takes to create a whole person." She waited for him to sit before adding, "It was very impressive. I'm sure your father would agree."

It was all Loki could do to keep from squirming beneath her gaze. He did not understand his mother's actions and he did not understand her words; all he knew was that, for some reason, he had not yet been punished. Did that mean that Odin was coming, after all?

"Are you going to tell Father?" he asked.

"Would you like me to?"

He shook his head.

"Then no, I won't tell him."

The queen was silent for a time, regarding his expression over the tips of her fingers. There were several moments in which she seemed about to speak but, each time, she stopped herself and simply smiled at him. He was about to beg her forgiveness, just to break the silence, when she finally opened her mouth. "Loki," she said. "I'm going to tell you a story and I want you to listen very carefully. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Good." She took a breath before beginning and, for a moment, he was worried that they would lapse into quiet again. Then she started to speak:

"Once, long before you were born, there was a great war between the realms. There were many battles and many lives were lost but, after the war was over, there was a time of great peace. It was during this time that a soldier and his wife bore a son named Egill.

Egill was only a boy, but he was one of the greatest swordsmen the realm had ever known. He defeated anyone who dared to challenge him, even men triple his age, and it was not long before powerful men took notice."

Loki's mind swam with memories but he did not interrupt his mother.

"Since Egill was born during peacetime, he could not use his skills in true battle. Instead, he took part in tournaments, where he competed with other young swordsmen. Those who hosted the tournaments did so under the belief that warriors should keep ever prepared and that the glory of war should be kept from no one, even during peace.

Many of the boys fought with sharp, beautiful weapons, believing that their swords, not their hands, won them tourneys. These blades were sharp enough to shave a man's beard and they gleamed in the sunlight, like ice. Egill, however, had only the sword his father left him. It was chipped and dulled from use in war but, with it, he defeated all others. Still, he lusted after their blades.

One day, he won a large sum of money and, with it, decided to forge the greatest sword in all existence. He acquired a master blacksmith and demanded a weapon of nine elements, one from each of the nine realms. The blacksmith worked tirelessly for three years, using jötunn ice, Midgardian steel, and seven other materials, before he strengthened the creation in the Sea of All Seas. Finally, the weapon was made and presented to Egill."

The queen's eyes remained on the candle as she spoke but Loki's drifted about the empty room. He knew this story, had heard it a thousand times, and he knew what was coming next.

"If he was unstoppable with his father's blade, Egill was pure magic with the new sword. He was told to fight fifty challengers at once and came through without a scratch. He brought down a fifty-foot giant with a single strike. The lords of the realm began to create new tasks just for him - fighting bilgesnipe, trolls, even krakens. The sword defeated many monsters but, even so, it began to cause trouble for its master."

Loki began to squirm in his chair and the motion drew his mother's eye.

"Is something wrong?" she asked him.

He paused before speaking, worried that his interruption would anger her. "It's just that I know this story," he said.

"Tell me the rest, then."

Loki frowned, suddenly embarrassed. "Well," he started. "Thieves never wanted the old sword because it was so dull and ugly. It was safe for Egill to leave it unattended and he did so many times, without consequence. The new blade was said to be magical, though, and men crept into his room at night, trying to steal it. Eventually, he could not sleep at all, for fear that they would succeed."

"What next?" the queen asked.

"His father's blade was dull enough that a man could hold it in hand without being cut. The master sword was not so. When he returned to his village, his young niece reached for it and, hardly touching the surface, lost three of her fingers."

Why does she bid me speak fairytales? he wondered as he recounted the story. When will I learn of my punishment?

His discomfort did not seem to phase the queen "What, last of all?" she asked, pointedly.

"While attending a tournament in a distant realm, Egill fell in love with an elfin princess. He promised to marry her upon his return but, once his new sword was made, he was bid to perform in a hundred tourneys. Finally, after winning them all, he travelled the many worlds to see her. When he looked on her face, though, he found it to be less beautiful than the face of his sword. He refused to wed her and she fell into such despair that the grief of it killed her. Her royal father was so furious that he used Egill's own sword to slay him. After he was dead, his weapon was tossed into the Sea of All Seas. It was thought to be cursed." He paused. "That's all, I think."

Queen Frigga raised her eyebrows at him in a silent question that he did not understand. He felt as if he should say something else, as if he should have learned some lesson, but he could not imagine what. The tale meant little enough in consideration of his crime. He was quiet for a full minute before his mother asked, "What does the story tells us?"

He swallowed. "That we should accept what we have and not be prideful?"

Frigga nodded. "It does tell us that, yes. But it has another message." She leaned forward, her long curls brushing the candle wax, peering carefully into his eyes. "It was not so much a fault that Egill made the sword, for many great weapons have gone on to do many great things. The story tells us that the wielder of such power must be vigilant, careful, and humble. The wielder of great power must also wield great responsibility. Do you understand?"

Immediately, Loki nodded. Then, at a look from his mother, he shook his head.

"The way you used your magic today was very irresponsible," the queen explained, smiling grimly. "You possess great power, Loki - far greater than most - but that does not give you the right to hurt others." She held up a hand at his protest. "Or to scare them," she amended, "Because, in truth, terror is a form of pain."

"I'm sorry, Mother," Loki replied. He thought about the words after he spoke and realized that he meant them. He was beginning to understand why she'd told him the story.

"It is not me who deserves your apology." The queen did not look wholly satisfied and seemed no closer to revealing his punishment. "Do you know why you would want to attack Thor?"

Why did you do this? His brother's words leapt back into his mind but it occurred to him that this was not what she'd asked.

"No," he told her, truthfully. "I don't know why."

"Are you jealous of your brother, Loki?"

The question was so sudden, asked so gently, that he had no time to consider an answer before one bubbled from his throat. He might have told her that, as a royal prince, it was his duty to be proud of his elder brother; he might have spoken of the times he'd cheered for Thor or about the 'brotherly bond' that would always connect them. These ideas, though, were not the ones that escaped his lips. It was just one word, his reply, and it took more effort to speak than a thousand lies.

"Yes," he admitted. And then, "But that's not why I did it, not really. I was angry, Mother. He spoke of his future as king and it made me angry."

"What was it that he said?"

Loki frowned, thinking. "He said that he would defeat all of his enemies," he remembered. "And that he would never lose a battle. He said that he would be as strong as Father and twice as brave." He said that he would marry Sif. "He said that he would make all the realms equal." He swallowed. "And that he would...that he would kill all the Frost Giants."

There was a sharp intake of breath and, at first, Loki thought that he'd made the sound. One glance at across the table, though, and he realized that the noise had come from the queen. He watched her smother her shock, noticed the spasm of pain that she couldn't quite hide, and it seemed to him that she was as affected by the statement as he'd been. In that moment, he finally understood his actions.

Why did you do this?

"I did not act out of jealousy." He explained slowly, finally, to himself as much as to her. "I was angered by Thor's words and thought that he would be an unfit king. I wanted him to understand that. I was trying to tell him."

Queen Frigga's pain dissolved into a sad smile.

"My son," she said. "I am proud of you. It is a wise and brave prince who understands his own mind. Your actions were irresponsible but, above all, you acted out of love for the realm. For that, I cannot punish you."

His jaw fell open before he could stop it. He did not dare believe his ears, nor the thrill of hope that rushed through his veins. It was impossible, unbelievable, too good to be true. No punishment? He tried to find the lie in her eyes.

"Loki." He heard nothing false in the way she spoke his name, though, nor in the question that followed. "Do you want to be king?"

"No," he told her. "I don't think I do."

"Then what is it you want?"

"I want Father to be proud of me" was the first desire he listed. The others came slower, after some reflection, but Frigga didn't seem to mind. "I want to be responsible with my power. I want Thor to be a just king, who brings peace to the realm without destroying Jotunheim. I want to help him do it. And..." He paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. "I want to be Thor's equal." That wish, it seemed, made everything feel final.

"Sometimes," his mother told him. "Magic is not the best way to get what we want."


An unfamiliar scene was taking place on the stage and Loki had forgotten where he was. The chair beneath him was velvet, not sandstone, and the room he sat in was lavishly ornate; there was no sign of his mother or childhood self, but there were six hundred humans in their places. His eyes were dry and stinging and he felt power-weary, weak, as if he'd used too much magic at once. Had he used magic at all?

A different sort of magic, he realized. I've been dreaming.

He wasn't sure when mere memory had turned into slumber but he recognized it now, this strange sluggishness that made his thoughts run together and his eyelids feel heavy. The remaining tendrils of sleep kept their hold on him, diverting his attention, until the performance ended and the humans began to applaud. The sound made him remember.

Dagny.

Members of the crowd rose all around him, gathering pamphlets and coats into their arms. They squeezed past his seat with many apologies, though some did not address him at all; he hardly noticed their passing, so focused was he on the third door and the figure beside it. He watched her hair light up again and again, turning red in the glow from the lobby, before the stream of humans dwindled and she slipped out after them. An idea entered his mind, then. Perhaps it had always been there.

Deafening chatter filled the Lapis, hundreds of conversations that twisted themselves into a jumble of meaningless words. He waited for a lull before leaving his seat; when he finally entered the lobby, he found only a dozen groups, conversing softly in their scattered corners. The group nearest him had started to disband and, with immense pleasure, Loki realized that he knew one of its members. The man stood just yards away, waving farewell to the others as they made for the doors.

"It was nice to see you, Marcus!" one of them called.

Well, Loki thought. That was simple.

A command readied itself on his lips and he took a step towards the director. Words, he reminded himself. He would preform one final trick, one minor act of influence, and then Marcus would summon the girl. It would be words, not magic, that unburied her secrets.

The director turned to face him. "Can I help you with something?

"Actually," Loki replied. "You can."


Did you like the flashback? What do you think Loki's plan is? Feel free to comment and let me know. Much love!