He hadn't expected the cold. It hit him with a blast the instant his feet touched the ground. He shivered; the temperature must have been well into the negatives. Loki reached deep within himself, felt the icy burning and his body shifting. The cold made the transformation easier. He could still feel it, but now it felt pleasant, good, right.

He ought to have expected this, he supposed. She had been trying so desperately to conceal, but the secret was out now. There was nothing more to conceal. But this…

Loki looked around, getting his bearings. He was on a mountain, that much was clear, and a remarkably high one at that. Arendelle, or at least the part of it he had seen, was out of sight.

"Heimdallr," he said under his breath, "if you have sent me to the middle of nowhere just to keep me away from—"

At that moment he turned fully around and saw it. A palace, made entirely from ice, standing near the mountain's peak and reached by an icy staircase. The work was flawless, magnificent, too pure to have been made by any human tools. This was magic. And that could only mean one thing: the people of Arendelle had cast out their ice queen and forced her to build a home for herself alone in the snow.

Loki watched the red light of the sunset filter through the ice. It was beautiful. He had never seen power like this; no jötunn could create such perfect loveliness. Had she known, before, what she was capable of? If she had always kept her powers so closely controlled as she had tried to that night, then probably not.

Is it enough? he wondered. Can ice and power be enough to satisfy, even when one is all alone?

It was as though all the weeks of anxious wondering had been bringing him to this question. He had not dared to use his own ice powers yet—beyond the frost on the mirror, that once—for fear someone would discover him. But he knew he could do it; he could feel it. And he knew that it meant power. But to embrace it would be to leave a part of himself behind, as Elsa had done. Now, only she could tell him whether it was worth it.

He began to climb. Within moments, he had reached the staircase; his jötunn body was perfectly suited for climbing in these conditions. That disgusted him as much as anything else about his jötunn self. He was made for the cold, made never to feel the freshness of a spring breeze or the summer sun on his face. Made to be trapped forever in the dreariness of winter.

But one thing was undeniable: Queen Elsa made winter beautiful. Her ice was clear as glass, interwoven with patterns of snowflakes. The palace in Asgard had nothing to compare with this. Loki walked slowly, lingering, examining the pristine work and enjoying the feel of the smooth ice beneath his fingertips. When at last he reached the great doors, he paused. He slowly raised his hands to push them apart—and instantly jerked his hands away. In all of this beauty, he had momentarily forgotten his own ugliness. Those iron grey hands did not deserve to touch Elsa's perfect ice.

Never mind, he thought, summoning again the mask that was his Asgardian form and watching his skin fade to pale. Wouldn't want to frighten the poor girl anyway, coming in as a monster. He laughed bitterly and raised his hands to the doors again. Then again, is a lie any more worthy than a jötunn? he asked himself. He shook the thought off and pushed the doors open.

"Get it together," Elsa ordered herself. "Control it. Don't feel. Don't feel. Don't feel!"

There was a cracking sound. Elsa looked up with a gasp. Icy spines, as thick as a man's arm, were growing out from the walls. It wasn't working. She wasn't trying hard enough.

She started again. "Control it. Conceal. Don't feel." Don't feel the desperation because you can't get it right. Don't feel the guilt that the people of Arendelle are freezing to death because of you. Don't feel the fear that Anna—

"No!" she screamed, twisting in agonized fear. She felt the power escape again. It was all out of control.

She heard a groan.

Elsa whirled. There was a man in the doorway. He was reeling back against the door, his hands clutching his chest, his skin rapidly turning to blue-grey. She ran toward him without thinking, as though there were anything she could do…

No! Anguish ripped through her soul. She recognized him. It was Loki, the one who had shown her kindness and understanding. And she had destroyed him. He was kneeling now, one hand on the ground, the other on his chest, panting.

"Loki!" she cried. She burst into tears. "Loki, I'm so sorry, I'm so terribly sorry, I didn't mean to…"

He looked up at her. A puzzled look passed over his face, and then sudden understanding.

"It's okay, Elsa. I'm fine, truly." He got to his feet and took a step toward her.

She jerked back. "Stay away!"

"Elsa. I'm not hurt. I promise."

It was that same gentle tone, just like when he had taken her glove away. She couldn't bear it. He shouldn't be so gentle with her after what she had just done to him. "I'm so sorry," she whispered again.

"Elsa, listen to me." She felt his fingers under her chin, lifting her head up. She saw the red eyes again, the hard iron skin. It was just like on the balcony. "You made me change form. That's all. It burns. It was sudden; I was startled. But you didn't hurt me, I promise. You cannot hurt me. I, too, am a creature of ice. Remember?"

Elsa felt weak. He's all right, she thought. I haven't killed him. For some reason, it only made her cry harder. Her sobs became uncontrollable, her breathing rapid and shallow. Suddenly she felt strong arms around her. She tried to push Loki away, but her strength and her will both seemed to have dissolved. At last, exhausted, she leaned against him and let him stroke her hair and murmur comforting things that meant absolutely nothing. She was too tired to fight anymore.

So that was the answer. It wasn't enough. Elsa had tried embracing who she was and living alone with her power, and it had driven her nearly mad. Loki held her, whispering he knew not what into her hair. Comfort was useless, and he himself had none now, nor hope for the future either. It was as he had told her that night they met: there was no escape from the storm inside of them.

Gently, he lifted her up and carried her toward the stairs leading to the upper levels of the castle. She offered no resistance. She was worn out, physically and emotionally. She needed rest. She had been here several days; there must be a bed somewhere.

The interior of the palace was beautiful, but it was obvious that Elsa had lost control. Jagged spikes jutted out from the walls, and what had from the outside looked like slanting rays of the sunset in here turned the ice a glaring, angry red. Loki almost felt threatened, as though a hostile eye was watching him at every step. Small wonder that such an unwholesome environment had driven her mad.

There was a bedroom, tucked away in a tower. He laid her down. She did not stir; she might have already been asleep. He backed out and closed the door.

Now what am I going to do? he wondered, staring at her through the door's distorted image. He looked down at his hands, still stony grey. Then slowly, he pressed them against the ice and let the power he'd been restraining go. Within moments, the door was covered with a thin layer of crusty white ice. It was far from beautiful, but at least it would give her some privacy.