Author's note: So, they're in Asgard! :D

The ground beneath his feet gleams and sparkles as he traipses after the red cape swirling a few steps ahead of him. Like coloured ice or shattered prisms it glitters, specks of light dancing across the bridge in that peculiar way that he has seen nowhere else but here.

Bifrost. He still remembers it so clearly, how he fell off it, or rather, how he just let go of all those childish notions and false pretence and let himself fall – unwanted and unneeded. A failure.

And so he fell from grace, from Asgard, from the realm that was no longer his. The realm he had once sought to rule, if only to finally surpass Thor in something, though he isn't quite so sure why anymore.

After all, the throne did become his, during a brief intermission lined with failure and disappointment, and he didn't get even one moment of satisfaction or joy from it. He should have felt delighted in the knowledge that Thor had been banished to Midgard, rendered powerless, and that he, Loki was now rightfully king, and yet, the anticipated elation had failed to present itself.

He isn't sure what he had expected to gain, really, expect for Gungnir and elevated seating arrangements. Because that seemed to be all he got from his new lot in life. Perhaps he had once been naïve to believe he would receive respect, deference, esteem, all that came so easily to Thor, but he soon realized that even as king, he would have no more of those things than he had had as a prince.

He well remembers the shocked and disbelieving looks from the Warriors Three and Sif when they understood that he had ascended to become ruler of Asgard. Their reluctance to kneel down – the slowness only a step short of open rebellion – the distrust shining in their eyes, the weak charade of loyalty that he didn't buy for a second. It was all too obvious, how they thought him a usurper who had no business sitting on that throne at all.

It should have come as no surprise, of course, that none of these loyal followers to Thor would take well to seeing him presiding there, his presence a blotch staining the supposed perfection of the royal office. No, someone like him could of course never be accepted as king. He had understood that as he sat there, watching the four Aesir in front of him reluctantly kneel down, making a mockery of his title and station, turning it into a flimsy pretence, a child's play at being king and ruler.

In the end, he was still as disliked as ever before. If anything, his ascent had only served to cement that opinion. The Warriors Three and Sif were not the only ones unable to come to terms with his new status; in fact, their reaction turned out to be the norm. The tension in the room, as newcomers just having found out about the transfer of the royal title looked to each other, hoping that someone braver than them would protest the outrageous state of things or that someone of a more lucid mind would laugh and tell them that this was only a mirage, one of the trickster's usual plays and games.

No, he knew there'd be no loyalty or devotion to be had; grudging, dutiful obedience the best he might hope for, if even that.

Of course, he should have expected it. And still, it had irked him like a sharp thorn plunged deep under the skin, prickled at him like a mattress made out of rusty nails.

No, there was not even one loyal face among the masses, not a single one who'd be willing to serve him as eagerly as they would have served Thor.

That abject dislike and distrust, and that was before the truth of his heritage became known.

How could he ever have hoped for anything else? The thought is ludicrous, preposterous. This realm is Thor's, the golden warrior, the beloved prince. Not his, the magic-wielding, argr-practicing monster.

And in the end, not even Midgard, the realm of the mortals, would be his. Of course, it would have been a weak substitute, had he succeeded in claiming it, but at least he would have been the king of something, had something that Thor didn't. A realm to call his own, even if he would have had no idea what to do with it, what satisfaction it would have given him in the end. Humans were, of course, weak and fragile, and being the ruler of such a world would have been a short-lived pleasure, but at least he would have been king where Thor wasn't, the Aesir who never wanted him as a ruler all far away, their opinions of no matter as he ascended his surrogate throne.

However, his way of revenge, of proving himself, had proved rash and ill-advised. But there had been a lot of time to think in that abyss. To let his bitterness and resentment fester, to let the desire to prove himself push all other thoughts and needs aside. And then the Chitauri came along, giving him an offer he couldn't refuse. It had made perfect sense, then – humans were small and insignificant, why shouldn't he be allowed to rule a race like that? The weak were made to be ruled, after all – that was how it had always been, hadn't it? What he had been taught his entire life – strength was all that mattered; just look at Thor, the embodiment of everything that was valued in Asgard: power, might, martial prowess. And if the humans couldn't defend their world, if they were beneath whoever came to conquer them, surely they didn't deserve the privilege of ruling for themselves, right? No, they'd be better off with someone stronger like him to take over, he had told himself.

But things had spiralled out of control, and in the end he had failed, had been brought to the end of his wits and strength by these supposedly weak and feeble creatures.

Cast out of Asgard, made a slave in Midgard; neither of the realms would have him as their king. Certainly, everyone here is glad to be rid of him, glad he's been given over to Midgard, where he could be expected to suffer an endless string of indignities and abuse and humiliation after his ill-fated attempt at taking over their world.

And now, he's been being brought back here in disgrace for a second time – then, chained and muzzled; now, a slave.

Though, there is still something different from last time, despite the degradation. Because back then, he had entertained no hope whatsoever as he walked behind Thor, as always one step behind, seeing the gilded spires and towering buildings of Asgard rising in the distance, implacably drawing closer, and with them his doom.

This time, however, the hope is tiny and small, only a flicker, and he really should know better than to allow its continued existence and instead extinguish the preposterous thing himself before Odin does.

But despite the degradation of coming back to his homeland as a lowly slave, that little glimmer of hope still shines just brightly enough to dispel the dark and dreary shadow that returning like this casts over him. Because maybe, just maybe, there might be the chance of… something.

Not like the utter bleakness he saw in his future last time, when he had expected death, execution, to follow after the humiliating and totally unnecessary spectacle of a trial. Because what point would there be in holding one, when the outcome was already ascertained, when his guilt was already unassailable, other than as a further humiliation, putting him up for display for everyone's amusement so everyone could point their fingers at the monster who fancied himself a king?

Though, he wonders how many would even recognize him this time, most people not expecting him to be here, and him not wearing his usual regal clothing. Thor, everyone would recognize no matter the situation, no matter what he'd be wearing, but not the second prince, the one that no one ever paid any attention to or ever noticed.

Well, not until his trial, that is, then all of a sudden it seemed like all of Asgard paid him all the attention he could have possibly wished for. All the interest and notice that had eluded him over the centuries suddenly came back in spades, as to make up for the previous negligence.

And he remembers it so well, the expectancy of the assembled rabble, the collective drawn breath, held in suspense, as his sentence was about to be pronounced. How the crowd had imperceptibly drifted closer to the stand, as not to miss one single word that the Allfather spoke.

But the one thing that had been first and foremost on his mind, then, burdening him with the weight of a thousand mountains, hadn't been the sentencing awaiting him, as he had already resigned himself to the outcome.

No, it had been the fact that during the long, arduous trial, nobody had spoken up in his defence. No one had stood up for him, no one had offered even a word in his favour.

Nobody.

Not that he had expected anyone to, of course. And why should they? He already knew what they thought of him before all this – his disgraceful preoccupation with magic, unfit for a prince and a dishonour to his royal station – to think nothing of what they must think of him now. Traitor. Usurper. Disgrace.

But it still hurt, though he hadn't wanted to acknowledge that sting of pain at the time. Because that would only be a weakness, a pitiful longing for things he couldn't have, that would never be his.

Still, he tries to comfort himself with the thought that Frigga would surely have spoken up for him if she had been permitted to, but of course, close kin isn't allowed to speak in the defence of criminals on trial, their judgement deemed biased and unreliable. So in the end, it was only him standing there before the assembled court, despite the throng of people so utterly alone. Unaided and without even the tiniest inkling of support to face the accusations, without anyone who'd reach out a hand to him.

No matter how pointless it would have been – his guilt was far too indisputable for it to make a difference – and no matter how much of a weakness it was to at all hope for and desire such a thing, he'd still wished that someone would have done that, if only a single word spoken up in that courtroom for his benefit. Not because it would have made a difference, but because…

But there was, of course, no one. Only a deafening silence. He was all alone. Just one word in his favour, even this little was too much for the good citizens of Asgard. Too much for someone like him to ask for.

He almost snorts in derision as he thinks back on it. So ridiculous, so preposterous to even imagine such a thing, no matter how briefly and secretly.

Still, he really would have liked for someone to speak up for him.

But no one in Asgard would stoop to such a thing. He already knew it, so it shouldn't have hurt as much as it actually did.

Swallowing down the bitter emptiness that's threatening to well up at the memory, he dismisses the silly notions, instead hastening his steps so that he won't fall too far behind.

Still, he had hoped that he would at least get to see Frigga again on his return here, but Thor had told him before their departure that she had left for Vanaheim on a personal errand some time ago. Hence she did not know that Loki would be coming to Asgard, or Thor was certain that she would immediately have cancelled her trip and stayed so she could see him.

Loki tries not to feel sad about that, or anything at all.

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