So I think I should add here that part of this was at least partially inspired by Slazarfalcon's Truthfully, which is very good (but there is a lot of swearing...) and also probably a bit from Ordis' Drown. Both are very good. And if it seems familiar that's probably why, and I didn't want to steal their ideas totally.
...and here we go.
Loki had not slept in three days. He had quietly and slowly threaded his will into the barrier, like gently dipping a hand into a murky stream. It would splash and raise a great disturbance if you slammed your hand into the stream, but if you simply slipped it in, turning your hand so the water flowed past it with hardly any resistance, it was quiet.
Already he could sense what was going on in the city, for as the barrier was attached to the earth he felt all the earth felt. He could tell when Frigga walked in the gardens and when the few remaining horses galloped in their fields and when the guard changed and when a child made mud pies and he waited and he listened for what he dreaded.
His eyes closed, he sat cross-legged on the bed and every now and then he would stroke Frigga's blanket. He could find her easily now, almost as easily as he could find Thor when he had his magic.
Then the earth trembled and shook and he felt his control slipping. His eyes jerked open and he listened with his physical ears.
They had come.
He shook his head once, then concentrated on the barrier. He'd like to get the muzzle off, but it only impeded his speech and he didn't need that at the moment. The barrier would take a great deal of his power, however.
He'd had three days to weaken it.
He'd found where the stream was broken up, where Odin's magic lacked the skill to seal it and here he slipped his will and his determination in, widening the weak spots and strengthening the thin walls.
He heard, distantly, a dark elf horn and focused on the wall. He felt, distantly, death and blood and battle and he focused on the wall.
There!
The wall cracked. He widened it and pushed through. He drew a gasping breath as his magic, part of it, surged inside him and he rolled his shoulders with the feeling. He used what magic he had to prod at the other barriers.
He felt the death grow closer and sensed the dark elves were winning, surprise and…and something, something dark giving them a tremendous advantage.
He began to panic. Desperation fueled him and he stabbed at the barriers, smashing them all to bits. One would fall and it would hurt but he would gain more of his magic and with the new power he would crush the next one until there were no more.
At last, at very last, Loki had his magic back.
He opened his eyes. Oh, he could see and hear and feel and taste the world and he hadn't known just how much he'd missed until now. But that could wait.
He felt the battle grow closer and he felt Frigga weakening and he knew she was casting spells.
That would be useless against them. They were dark elves, masters of spells.
Loki's mouth slowly lifted in a feral grin. He was the master of magic. He'd outgrown them all long ago. He found a quiet spot just outside the city and with a blink he teleported himself there.
It was just as he had seen. They were winning. And he was growing late. He found what had been fueling the elves, a strange object anchored in the ground and for a moment he wondered what he should do first.
If his dream continued to be correct, it would already be too late for Frigga.
No. He changed himself into a raven—the muzzle changed with him, annoyingly-and flew towards the palace. He looked down and saw what he had seen in his dreams countless times.
Elves swarmed over Asgard. Their bodies littered the streets, but outnumbering them were those of the Aesir. The dark elves shouted their triumph as they ravaged the city. He could sense how fundamentally wrong the scene was, and he knew that it was not over yet. He saw, as though he were flying, the street leading up to the palace. It was choked with the bodies of the defenders and the attackers.
But this time he could sense the battle ahead of him and he sensed Frigga and he knew she wasn't, not yet—he grunted as his stomach clenched in pain and he felt his mother, his mother realize she had been mortally wounded as he saw a throng of dark elves surrounding her and one stabbing her.
Loki's raven form shrieked (but the muzzle did not cause him pain this time) and the elves flew back, thudding into the streets in sick crunching sounds that he ignored. He saw what he had seen in his dream again.
Curled on the stairs was a woman, with golden hair strewn across her face and obscuring her features. She clutched a sword in her hand and she was dressed for battle. Around her was a circle of dark elves, limbs bent awkwardly as though they had been thrown back by an explosion. There was a gaping hole in the woman's stomach, dripping with far too much red.
He saw her closer up, as though he had flown beside her and was now kneeling beside her. He knew—in a distant part of his mind—what he would find, because he had found it a thousand times before in his nightmares and his thoughts in the day, but he reached for her anyway and gently brushed her hair away from her face.
And he howled at the sky and the buildings shook and the very ground trembled as he screamed his outrage at the world, for there, lying dead on the steps of the palace, lay his mother Frigga.
Loki's rage found him the source of the dark elves' power and he smashed it utterly and entirely. They shrieked and began to burn but he was not satisfied and he scorched the sky and their vessels and their chariots and he drove them back.
And he knelt beside his mother—he was in his Aesir form now, as like her as possible—as the steps ran too red with blood that should have never been spilt.
Blood.
Loki caught his breath and looked at his mother again. She was bleeding. Still bleeding. Her heart had only ceased beating a few moments before.
He bent over her and found the wound with his magic. He pushed his hand against the wound, softly but firmly and he willed it, he ordered it to get better. He wove her skin together again and he sensed that she was not dead, not yet, though she was close, so close.
He pulled magic from the elves—what few that remained—and from the air and the water and the life of everything around himself and he pushed it, filled his mother with it. She gasped and jerked, but she wasn't healed. He felt her slipping away and that was unacceptable and he drew life from himself and poured it into her. He thought he felt something deep within him bend, or perhaps unbend, as he gave his own life for his mother's but he couldn't be sure.
Something gold and silver fell into view, clattering onto the steps by Frigga's hair. He frowned, for it had distracted him but he kept his attention focused on his mother.
"You will not die," he commanded, his mouth hoarse from lack of use and it was only then he realized the muzzle had fallen off, but he ignored it. He was focused at the world that dared to rob him of his mother, and he was focusing on her wound.
It healed and was broken and he healed it again. He pulled vitality from his magic, pouring everything he had into her and he felt himself fading.
But she was regaining her strength.
He allowed himself a smile as he fixed her, finally and completely and wholly.
Frigga opened her eyes and saw him, bent over and shaking from utter exhaustion but smiling at her. She smiled. "My son," she whispered.
"Mother," he whispered back, and everything fell dark.
Can I just take a moment to thank everyone who's reviewed or followed or favorited? It is really nice, and also makes me actually do this on time. So next week will be the last chapter/epilogue thing. ;) Thank you all again!