This second chapter is written entirely by myself - it takes place a bit before the last chapter and then it spans ahead of it. I mostly listened to Linda Ronstadt's, "Winter Light," while I wrote it and had many feels! - Many feels indeed!

Loki had contemplated for quite a while on what action to take when Thor had decided to bring him along on their quest for vengeance. There was no doubt he would escape, they must've all known that. That he'd do it in some way, somehow. The Allfather, even in all of his unparalleled power, could not keep him for long. Oh, Loki did not wonder at whether to help Thor or no – because it would never be about helping Thor: he wanted, he needed vengeance, even more so than the noble and true son of Odin could ever comprehend. Anger, fury, hate, rage, [heart-shattering, soul-crushing, maddening self-contempt]coursed through his veins – infused into his bloodstream. He would cut out Malekith's black heart [… he'd cut out his own, maybe].

No, Loki contemplated on what he'd do with his newfound freedom when he finally had it – where to go, what to devise. At one point he'd thought that maybe he really should die, maybe he deserved it. He did, he concluded. Odin was right, Death was his birthright; an old adversary he had eluded (time and time again) – and Loki decided that one day, on his own terms, he would resolve to meet him. But… not just yet. What he would do in its stead? Well, that certainly was the question, wasn't it?

He'd thought of traveling the realms; wandering them, perhaps, like his father – Not-Father – had once done in his youth. He'd be unknown – and there was a freedom in anonymity. But what then? Would he lead some trivial mortal life for a time? Get a job, perhaps? Acquire a place of power and rule subtly, quietly, underneath Midgard's protective force, SHIELD's, naïve nose? He laughed a little at the thought of cleverly, carefully taking over SHIELD – oh; he imagined that would be a fun game. But such attention was undesired…

"… there will be no realm, no barren moon, no crevice where he cannot find you …"

Loki cringed at the memory of him: a darkness he'd never encountered before. No, not even the dark elves were quite as dark as that World of Night and its Master of Shade. Yes, he would be forced to be nameless. He hadn't been contacted, not ever since New York, not ever since going into the Great and All-powerful Odin's custody. But how safe was he really? Even traveling Midgard, garbed as an old, homeless drunk – a perfect disguise: humility always was (and perhaps, it suited Loki best for now – humility… and drink) – he was not guaranteed safety. He'd never stopped wondering if it was a bluff. He was adept in weeding out lies, in picking apart poker faces, in defacing disguises – after all, he was the "god of lies," – the greatest deceiver to live, hm (and now die)? It was rare anything got past him. But as he gazed upon that terrible creature, "the Other," he could not discern truth from façade – it probably didn't help that his mind had been muddled with pain both physical and mental – with a madness so sinister and overwhelming he knew nothing else.

Whether yes or no, one thing was for certain, there was no way to ensure that he was entirely, completely safe – even without the threat of Thanos (the name alone caused a shiver to crawl down Loki's spine), he would not be safe from everything. But being a dead man – god, Asgardian, Frost Giant, what-have-you – was a somewhat safer status than a fallen prince on the run yet still capable of capturing. A little voice whispered to him, sounding not so different from that of a woman now gone forever and so familiar.

"What if you didn't have to be on the run?"

He scoffed at the thought. No, he wouldn't – could not return. Not alive, at any rate. It was better to be dead. His father – Not-Father – would rather him dead. He'd rather himself dead. Being dead was best. But perhaps… he could tell his father – Not-Father – himself before anyone else could. Maybe one last time he could look upon that face… the face of the man; the warrior; the legend; the god that he'd wanted to be ever since he could remember. But that was not his destiny. Could never be. He wasn't even the same race, let alone of Odin's noble blood.

Loki suddenly felt sick at the thought of seeing the Allfather again – resentment and betrayal boiled in the pit of his stomach, but he wasn't quite sure if it was because of the actions of the King of Asgard or if it was because of his own. Never mind if he could forgive Thor or Odin – could he forgive himself? Not even knowing that Malekith had paid for his mother's death could rid him of the self-loathing he felt now more than ever before. Maybe he should just wander – let someone else tell Odin of his brave and impressive death, let them feign their mourning, let them find the body of the dead dark elf he'd disguised to look like him, let them burn it, let them burn their memory of him away forever.

Either way, he'd need to make a decision soon – he'd hidden the body well, so it wasn't likely they'd find it very easily… but it also wasn't likely that they wouldn't find it at all. He had to either put it in plain sight or take it to them himself. But decisions were difficult and he found that the busy streets of Midgard helped him think. Its people were so peculiar, odd, truly ant-like things. Loki recalled Thor once accusing him of feeling like he was better than the mortals – he was, there was no doubt. But, there was something fascinating [and familiar] in their naiveté, in their constant confusion, in their mad scramble for power, in their lack of reason and common sense, even in their stupidity. He would've made a good king. A mad, broken king for a mad, broken world.

But there were good things in this world… refreshing, almost beautiful things.

"There are beautiful things about you, too." The voice spoke again, and Loki rolled his eyes at such a ridiculous notion. There were brilliant things about him – he was clever, sly, ingenious, cunning, and imaginative – but he was not beautiful. He was not a treasure – not a thing to be placed upon some pedestal and forgotten: he was a force to be reckoned with – a king. He was nothing like this poor, puerile realm.

This realm… which had fought so hard against him, which had won… which had, in fact, proved it was a force to be reckoned with. A smirk pulled at the corners of Loki's – the homeless man's chapped – lips. What a strange thought… to be in any way similar to this childish, foolish world. And what an even stranger thought… to learn something from one of its children. To let a child's opinion – a Midgardian child's no less – sway his opinions. To make him think that perhaps he really should pay his father – Not-Father – one last visit. The boy had touched his heart in a way very few had ever done. Perhaps it was that the boy looked so familiar to him. Bright, expressive blue eyes framed by golden locks. He'd looked, almost, like Thor had when he was a child.

Loki took a bite of one of the crackers – the food wasn't the best on Midgard, but he'd suffered worse. He would go to his father – Not-Father. He would tell Odin himself of his death. He would be forgotten, hopefully. He'd go to his chambers as well. Take a few things. Like a few of his favourite books. That boy was certain of one thing, books keep the mind busy – and Loki suspected he'd need his mind to be busy for quite a while. What a wise child – far wiser than he had ever been at that age. The boy couldn't have been more than – what? 11 or 12 in Midgardian years? But then again, sometimes it seemed that no matter what Loki did, he could never do the wise thing. Things always seemed to slip just past his fingers. He was always close, always nearly there, nearly right, nearly good. Nearly, nearly, nearly.

And as Loki gathered his strength and transformed into an Einherjar soldier, he prepared himself to face his Nearly-Father. He looked at himself in one of the mirrors in the palace, feeling a bit proud of how well he had disguised himself, feeling a bit thrilled at the small amount of mischief he was indulging himself in… allowing that feeling of excitement to dull out the feeling of pure, heart-stopping fear and anxiety. He thought of what the boy had said… how if he were a father, he would be glad to see his son no matter what. Even after he was the cause of your wife's death? Even after he'd tried to kill your true son? Even after he'd been stupid, idiotic, moronic time and time again? Even with the knowledge that your son is not even your son but an imposter – a monster?

"No, boy," Loki muttered, "He would not be glad to see me. And neither would you."

He made sure everything was in place and then swallowed – realizing the time was now or never. Little did Loki know that the King of Asgard and Protector of the Nine Realms had already been informed of Loki's "death" – little did he know, that they had already discovered the body of the dark elf – little did he know that Odin had already taken away the disguise – little did he know Odin had already figured Loki out the first time he'd come as the Einherjar to tell him he would survey Svartalfheim for Thor. See, he knew his son, knew him anywhere. And little did Loki know… that the Allfather awaited him even now, knew he had finally come home.

As the Einherjar Lieutenant, Loki flew open the doors of the throne room, nearly sprinting to the King. His face etched with concern as the words flew across his silver and sly tongue. Odin looked expectantly at the soldier, Loki assuming that he desired to hear his report.

"There's no sign of Thor or of the Aether," He started, taking in a breath. Staring up into the smoldering eye of the one who had raised him, who had read him bedtime stories, who had called him 'son,' who had been his Once-Father. The expression on the Allfather's face was unreadable – unsurprised as he turned away.

"However, we found a body…"

And then he turned, something strange flickering across his face. Was it – Loki anticipated, trying to keep from furrowing his brow in confusion as to not give anything away – recognition?

"Loki…" It was spoken so softly, as if his heart was breaking, and Loki felt his resolve crumbling as he watched his Once-Father's face.

"Yes." He replied – unsure to what exactly he was answering. He grew eager to take his leave. Perhaps he had been wrong; perhaps he shouldn't have done this. Oh yes, he greatly desired running now, sprinting, evaporating. But his legs would not budge. He could not move. He wondered if Odin had cast a spell on him, and anger seeped into him. How dare he? He screamed in his mind, before calming and realizing that Odin had no reason to do anything of the sort. He hadn't called him Loki, that'd be impossible… he was simply confirming that Loki was the body that he'd found on Svartalfheim. He couldn't move because fear was freezing him to this spot. Bracing himself, he forced a step forward. Feeling relieved at the ability to do so now.

Gently, with care, he spoke again to the King who looked so forlorn, "I am sorry, my King." He said, "There was nothing to be done. He was already dead by the time we… we brought him to the healing rooms."

A ghost of a smile crossed over Odin's features and this time Loki could not help but look absolutely bewildered.

"My King?"

But Odin said nothing in reply, he only moved forward, closer to Loki. And again Loki felt like running, his nerve breaking once more. His heartbeat sped up, fear closing his throat and making it difficult to breathe. His eyes were wild, and he knew he was losing control. Tears began to fill his eyes – oh, how he hated them. Hated them. Hated them. He'd always been so weak.

"I am sorry," The King spoke suddenly and placed two hands on Loki's shoulders, causing him to jump in surprise, "I regret to say that I have never been skilled in the art of comfort."

For a moment, Loki wondered if Odin just thought his display of emotion was simply for that of the fallen prince. Yes, let him think I am a subject brokenhearted over the loss of the wayward outcast that had once been in line to the throne – had once sat upon the throne. Who was lost and gave his life for the safety of the nine realms. Then I shall leave for the sake of an Einherjar's pride. But then, there was something about the way his Once-Father looked at him now… something that squeezed his heart and lungs.

"Sometimes I wonder…" And the King's voice was shaky – Loki had never heard his Once-Father speak in the way he did now. Even when… even when he had been dangling from Gungnir, over the edge of the Bifrost, his Once-Father had never spoken to him like that.

"I wonder… had I been more like… your mother in her tenderness, had I been softer… you would better know – no, you would know how much I truly loved you… how much I do love you."

And the breath in Loki's throat caught as Odin wrapped his great arms around him. Holding him tightly as if he were, in fact, dangling over the edge of the Bifrost once more.

"My son."

And Loki could not hold them back any longer. The tears rushed from his eyes, his eyes that now turned from their faux chocolate brown into the crystal blue. His body racked with sobs and he could not bring himself to move his arms or say a word. Had he been able to, he would've covered his face – he would've pushed Odin away – he would run… run so far, so, so, so far away. He had been such a fool to believe he could trick Odin: he who had given his right eye for the sake of foresight. Loki should have known.

"I – I should've known!" Loki wanted to sound angry, sound heartless… but the words only came out like a frightened child's who'd just woken up from a nightmare. They held more brokenness than anger, and they only elicited a tighter hug and soft chuckle from Odin. Oh, that chuckle infuriated Loki. Who was he to laugh at his pain?

"Don't – don't laugh at m-me!"

"My son, if I laugh, it is only because I am happy that you are finally here at last by my side, where you are needed, where you belong. I know I would be a fool to hope that you will stay… after all that I have done. But for once, Loki, my boy, I will not be so proud… for I am sure that I am the greatest fool to have ever lived."

And then Loki was laughing, laughing and weeping so fully – he dared himself to stay in his father's arms for this moment – to accept what had been so cruelly denied him. He struggled to respond – it was practically impossible, with all of his blubbering. Everything he had felt so angry about… his betrayal, his rejection, his fear, his failure, his mother's… his mother's death. He sobbed it. He sobbed it into his father's shoulder. All he ever wanted… all he ever wanted. It must be a dream, he thought.

That voice from before whispered again, "It's not, Loki."

"Why?" He finally choked out.