Disclaimer: I still neither own this characters or a copy of Thor.
A/N: Whoops, I kind of forgot I had another part of this to put up. :P Sorry, everyone! Hope you enjoy, and reviews are always appreciated. :)
The uncertainty of war never failed to strike fear into Frigga's heart, no matter how powerful the one who waged it was.
After centuries of marriage to the Allfather, Frigga had no doubt in his might and strength. She kept a strong appearance and a clear head, for her people's and her son's sake, but the feeling was impossible to ignore completely.
They were at war.
She knew her husband tried to reassure her that everything would be fine, that he would be fine, that he would return soon. But still she worried. They had the upper hand in the war against Jotunheim, but all it would take was one fatal injury for her son to become fatherless.
Eventually, Frigga grew used to the tension that had quickly escalated to full-fledged war. She knew her husband would do everything in his power to return to her and their son.
That was all she had to hold on to.
When rumour came that Jotunheim was close to surrendering, Frigga thought little of it. But a week after, when she saw the light and dome of the Bifrost twist, she felt a flicker of bare, daring hope.
The Allfather – her husband – had returned.
She found herself running to the stables, where she swung up on a horse that she didn't allow the startled stablehand to take time to saddle. She galloped across the city, towards the rainbow bridge.
Possibilities that were too dreadful to consider ran through her mind, like weeds attempting to strangle the fragile, blossoming hope struggling within her heart. Possibilities that army returned without King, or with a body, or that he had failed and Jotunheim now reigned supreme.
That was why, when she saw the figure in the doorway of the Bifrost observatory, she nearly did not believe it.
Because Odin Allfather, King of the Nine Realms and of her heart, could not possibly have returned safely.
But he had.
Frigga nearly wept with joy as she slipped off her mount, running across the rainbow bridge towards him.
Her husband saw her immediately, and he came towards her with swift, long strides, meeting her halfway.
Her breath caught as she saw the bandages covering his right eye, but she was too relieved that he was here, he was alive, that they could be a family again, that they could possibly be alright – and this time she could believe it.
And then, when she looked down at a bundle held in his arms, she could see the bare bulge of a tiny limb pressing against the roughness of the fabric, accompanied by a pitiful wail.
Not sure what to think, she pulled back the cloth to reveal a tiny face. An infant's face, with wide eyes of emerald and the faintest traces of hair that would someday come in full ebony crowning his head.
Frigga had never doubted, nor gave him reason to doubt, her husband's devotion or faithfulness to her, nor hers to him. As Odin explained that the child was Laufey's , left abandoned to die in the cold and rock of a Jountar temple, she felt an inflamed pity, a sense of love and the sudden need to comfort the poor child.
Odin told her it was her choice, whether to take in the child themselves, or to offer him up to another Asgardian family. The choice was simple, really. The child, Loki, would be raised as a brother alongside Thor.
It was not a choice either of them regretted.
If anyone ever said motherhood was an easy journey, Frigga was certain they were lying, insane or confused.
But every worry-stricken moment, every night spent sleepless at an ill son's bedside, every inconvenience brought from rearing two children, every time she wanted to tear her hair out or dissolve into tears was worth it.
Her sons were the pride of Asgard. But no one loved them, hurt with them, felt more joy and pride for them as much as their mother did.
When a few centuries passed, Frigga looked forward with pride for Thor to ascend to the throne. But it did not happen.
Things went wrong – everything went wrong – and her secure life was suddenly unraveling around her. Her eldest son banished, her husband in a sleep from which he may never awaken, and her youngest son having discovered the truth behind his heritage feeling confused, betrayed and unloved.
It was one night, when the Frost Giants attacked, and Loki saved his father, only moments before Thor returned. For a minute, she thought her life had returned to its safe state of before.
But then, Thor pushed past her, and words, dark words were exchanged between her sons that she didn't understand. They fought, leaving the room. With a pain that was far too sharp in her heart, she gripped her unconscious husband's arm, whispering in fear that something was wrong, very, very wrong.
The Allfather awoke, he left her behind to wait in a panicked and desperate state.
He returned with their eldest son, and the news that Loki was no longer living.
Frigga thought she should have wept at the news, when Thor placed the cold, golden helm in her arms. But all she could feel was a numbness, a shock that seized her and refused to let go.
Loki's body was gone, fallen into the burning, whirling remnants of the destroyed Bifrost. He had let go, despite his grieving brother's desperate plea to hold on. But despite what he had done, he was a Prince of Asgard nonetheless, and he would be given a funeral proper for one.
Odin oversaw the ceremony that would have carried their son over the water, tears glinting in his eyes.
Frigga herself, could not quite believe it.
She watched with dull eyes as the ship that bore her son – who had been both her pride and joy, had made her laugh and cry, had brought light and darkness into her life – away from her.
The celebration that took place afterwards for the safe return of the son of Odin and the Allfather's awakening seemed wrong to her. The flames that burned along the walls of the feast hall flickered in echoing the hungry blaze that had devoured her son's funeral pyre. They should not have been rejoicing with tankards of ale, they should be mourning the loss of part of her heart.
She remained strong and composed long after the festivities had ended and the people dispersed.
She could not weep.
It was not until she was back in the refuge of her chambers, when she could let her illusion of composure fall did she let her true devastation over what had happened show.
She wept. Harder than she had before, harder than she had even over Baldr, until she knew her heart had broken with each shuddering, gasping sob that tore itself from her chest.
Where had she gone wrong? What had she done, or said, that had driven her son away from her, to the point of desperation that he would take his own life?
She could not stop.
For she was a mother who had lost a child.
Again.