As had ever been his way, Thor rose early. It was pleasant, to be up before the majority of the palace, especially since, if no one else was awake, there was nothing for him to do. He disliked all the schedules and meetings. Having an hour or two of time without them in the morning was good.

Not finding his knife where it should have been, Thor went down to the dining hall, thinking that perhaps he had dropped it there.

He did not find his knife. What he did find, was his brother.

Thor was surprised to see him. Loki was never up at this hour. And, more than that, Thor had barely seen him these past few weeks. The light played unnervingly across the scars. Something bitter and, more than anything, sorry, churned in Thor's chest. He had been angry, but he had not expected…He had not expected Loki to be permanently hurt. He had to do something to fix it.

Besides, it was just the day before that his mother had mentioned to him in passing that it might be time to make good with his brother. When he had expressed reluctance, his mother had commented that she thought Loki unlikely to make the first move and had asked Thor to imagine himself in his brother's place.

Taking a breath, Thor decided now was as good a time as any. Better, in fact. With the eerie white light of the only just-risen sun playing beyond the walls, he felt he had a chance at anything, even conquering Loki's silence. Besides, nobody else was up but a few kitchen people and those few in the palace who looked after the horses. No one would bother them, for one thing, and for another, there would be no one for Loki to get distracted by.

Thor sat down beside him. At the motion of the bench, Loki gave a violent start, glanced at Thor, flushed, and looked away.

It was unlike Loki to be startled like that. Thor couldn't remember the last time he'd managed to sneak up on his brother. It unnerved him slightly. "You're up early," he ventured.

Loki's expression flickered, but – that was the way of their talks – Thor couldn't tell if it was a good or bad thing. Loki liked to keep his thoughts to himself, and it was maddening. Largely since, as was his habit, Loki often chose to take offense at nothing, and to do so violently, and without warning. Thor remembered all this, but did not allow it to sully his good humor.

"What are you up to, this fine morning?"

There was a plate of food in front of him, but Loki had barely touched it and he wasn't eating now. He looked at Thor like he wanted to say that it was a stupid question, but he thought it an amusing one, and Thor was encouraged.

"You'll never guess what happened last night," and he began to tell about the fight he and Vidar had almost gotten into, and how, instead, he and Fandral had gone to the Women's Quarters. Gerda had caught them before they could do anything, but the thrill had largely been in the fact that they snuck in, and she hadn't taken that when she tossed them out.

"You should have been there." In his exuberance, Thor threw out an arm and dropped it across Loki's shoulders, drawing his brother closer to him and shaking him a little to make his point.

Normally, Loki would have shoved him off, perhaps laughed, moved a little farther out of reach, smoothed his ruffled feathers like an angry hen, and moved on. Not this morning. His face went a sick white color and before Thor had a chance to react in any way, he had twisted himself out from under Thor's arm and was standing a little distance away, his back to Thor, breath coming raggedly.

"Loki?"

After a moment he turned. The white in his cheeks had gone violently scarlet, but Thor couldn't tell what that meant. With Loki he never knew. He opened his mouth like he meant to speak. A tear glittered as it caught the light, spilling down his cheek and, snapping his mouth shut, he turned on his heel. He strode out of the room and vanished down the hall.

Thor looked after him, confused and angry. Loki had been listening to him, had almost laughed at his story, then taken fright and fled as soon as he touched him.

Loki was afraid of him.

It made him feel sick and helpless. He shot to his feet, taking the table in his hands to turn it over, but let it go just before it would have fallen. Everything that had been left on it from the night before, as well as the plate Loki had been ignoring, went crashing to the ground. The table fell back into its old place and Thor sat heavily back down. The tears on his face were boiling hot.

~.~

Sif rose early. The horses needed tending. But today, she rose with new purpose. She went across the little room to the vanity she ignored – strictly these past weeks – and starred at herself in the mirror.

Her hair was dark, which still came as a bit of a shock to her. It was dark and hung down past her shoulders, thick and straight, just as it always had. But now black in place of gold.

People talked. She heard them. They talked and they told stories. They wondered about it. But no one would ask her straight out what had happened or what she felt about it. Which she supposed was just as well. She hadn't even known what she looked like until this morning.

She slid her fingers through the dark strands, hardly believing they were hers. She missed the way the light used to play on the gold. The black was oppressive and ugly. She drew it away from her face.

Standing like that, Sif came to a decision. She brushed the dreadful hair smooth and bound it behind her where she needn't see it. She meant to be a warrior. She would be strong and brave, and become the best warrior Asgard possessed. One didn't need hair to do that. To be a warrior, she didn't need to be beautiful. To be a warrior, all she needed to do was to train. Which was something she had been neglecting these past weeks. She didn't like the way the boys looked at her, now like they pitied her or were afraid she might bite them when they got too close. Especially Thor. He didn't look at her like he used to. And while she hadn't wanted his affections now, she sorely missed the assurance that he would wait until she did. But what did it matter? She didn't need affections, she didn't need friends, to become a warrior. They would hamper her training and tax what little time she had left for it. She wouldn't shun their company, but her life was different now. She wouldn't look for it to be what it had.

She stopped to look in the mirror one last time before she left. Her hair hardly bothered her with her new decision still fresh and gleaming before her. No, she'd never let her hair loose again, but what did it matter?

The stable hands noticed her good humor, but none of them asked, and she didn't choose to explain. She finished her tasks quickly, much more quickly than she had done recently, then washed her hands at the pump and made her way back to the kitchens.

Normally, she met a few people just getting up and setting out to do their work. But this morning she was earlier and expected to see no one. The last person she expected, was Loki.

Now he came whipping around a corner, much as he had that first day – so long ago! – when they had gone to find that passageway. This time, though, she checked her pace, recoiling a little, and he stopped completely.

Sif had been prepared to continue on her way, but the polite greeting died on her lips as she caught sight of his face. She had heard what had happened to him after she had fled Glashiem. She'd even caught fleeting glimpses of him since. It was horrible, but she'd told herself that he deserved it. Now, suddenly, seeing him, she wasn't quite sure. He was scarred, flushed, and she was unsure if he looked more angry, frightened, or ashamed. She didn't have time to sort it out either, because no sooner had he met her eyes, than all of it slipped behind a tensely held mask.

Even so, she'd never seen him more upset.

"Lady Sif," his voice was rough and he went to move past her. The light played eerily over the scars on his mouth and highlighted the dark smudges under his eyes.

She caught hold of his arm, "Loki, are you alright?"

The mask flickered, then hardened, proud and angry. He pulled his arm roughly away. His voice was barely more than a whisper, but she heard him clearly. "I fail to see how that is any of your concern."

They had been friends, and for a moment, she had forgotten what he had done to her. She was worried about him more than she was angry, now, seeing how he was. But if Loki would not have it so, then let him have his way. "Oh," she drew back, too fast to not show her surprise, "alright then."

Even in the shadows, she could see the tear that went jaggedly down his face. He knew and gave an exasperated breath, turned his head sharply away and passed her, leaving her to think what she would.

She did not turn to look after him.

For a moment, she had forgotten what he had done, and in his pain she had been willing to forgive him, willing to grant him a second chance. The scars were proof; he'd paid for his offense. But Loki was having none of it. Fine. So be it. He had no right to be angry with her. She was far from having wronged him.

She had already made up her own mind.

That's all they were after all, stories.

~.~

When Loki had woken up, it was still dark, and for a moment, he wondered where he was. The ground was hard beneath him and the shelf behind and he remembered what had happened.

He'd slept like he'd been drugged. Heavily, and with no dreams, but not long enough. Weariness still floated like cobwebs about his head. But it was no use trying to go back to sleep. He was unlikely to get that lucky twice, and he was too afraid of the dreams to attempt it.

The next thing he realized was that he was hungry.

He pushed himself aching off the floor and onto his feet. As he made for the door, he caught his shin against a table he must've toppled in his flight the night before. He hadn't remembered doing that.

He righted it.

Loki went to the kitchens, then sat down in the abandoned dining hall. It seemed huge, with no one in it. He found he liked it this way.

He didn't much feel like eating, now that the food was before him, but he had nowhere to go either, so he stayed where he was.

Then Thor had come in. He'd startled Loki, badly, but Loki tried to cover it and Thor didn't seem to notice, sitting down beside him and beginning one of his ridiculous tales. Every muscle in his body was drawn tight for absolutely no reason, but after a few minutes of Thor's familiar, jovial voice, he managed to relax a bit and actually listen to what it was Thor was telling him.

He'd missed his brother. He hadn't known that until just now.

Then Thor's arm had come across him and his mind went blank and wild and he was off the bench, trembling like a startled deer. He remembered the awl, and Thor's hands holding him down, holding him still. It was all he could do for a moment to not be sick.

"Loki?"

It passed, and all Loki was left with was the knowledge of how desperately afraid of his brother he was, and that Thor knew. When he turned around, Thor's face was twisted with worry and Loki wanted to slap him or shake him – make him stop looking at him like that – but he was too weak to do anything more than stand there. His throat ached and he didn't dare speak. Tears pooled in his eyes. One scorched his face and the shame burned him mercilessly. Thor opened his mouth like he was going to say something and Loki couldn't take it. He fled.

He knew better than to fly recklessly down the halls, no matter what time of day it was. And he paid for his folly in not obeying his own common sense. Of course it was Sif. The Norns favored him that much.

She nearly tripped, but managed to stop. He'd hardly seen her since Gladsheim. He had thought she was beautiful – stunning – then, with all her black hair shining. He still thought so. His heart leapt up and made him dizzy and stupid, throwing off all chances at anything remotely like equilibrium. He didn't remember suddenly if he could breathe.

This was nonsense and he needed to go before he made a fool of himself. He forced a greeting, but she caught his arm, peered at him with her grey eyes, really looked at him in that way that she had that was so unlike the manner anyone else used for him.

"Loki, are you alright?"

He had to try to remember, suddenly, that she hated him.

But she was looking at him now like none of it had happened. Her eyes were soft on him and it wrenched something in his chest. He pulled away from her. She had no right to pity him. She had no right to worry after him. She held no claim over him. He'd won her the blasted hair. He'd made good his debt.

"I fail to see how that is any of your concern."

Her hair, black and shinning.

It was all his fault.

Sif's face went blank, like he'd struck her, just like he'd struck his mother. "Oh," her entire manner changed, cold again, icy. "Alright then."

His breath strangled in his throat. She had to be able to see how he was struggling to keep himself in check. Barely daring to let his newly acquired breath out, he brushed past her and as soon as he was out of her line of sight, all but ran for the longest of the passages, the one that lead up onto the walls, over a part of the castle that was barely inhabited. It was beautiful there, and rather than looking over the city, the view from that wall laid out the distant mountains.

His hands were clenched and his heart beat high and angry, pounding in his chest. What right had Sif to do that? To pretend that she cared what was wrong? She hated him. Couldn't she see that it was hard enough? Why would she ask? Pretend that she cared? He didn't even know what was wrong with him. Everything was wrong. And if it hadn't been for Sif none of it would have happened. It was his own folly that had landed him as far as it did. If she hadn't encouraged him – And she needn't have hated him. Didn't she see that he was trying to set it right? Couldn't she tell that he was sorry? He'd struck his own mother. He'd asked her to leave him alone, to allow him to figure this out, and now… And what had possessed Thor to touch him? The last time Thor had touched him like that…didn't he know?

He came out into the air and shouted at the sky, hitting the wall with all the strength of his rage. It hurt his hands, but he didn't care.

He was broken. When his own brother touched him, he ran away.

He'd driven away the only real friend he'd ever had.

Thor held him down.

And Father had just watched. He'd just watched. He hadn't come to see if he was alright, he hadn't told to dwarf to take the gold and be off, he'd just watched.

At contact with the hard stone, all his anger fled and the tears he'd been too weary for during the night overwhelmed him. He dissolved against the wall, leaning his burning face into his arm.

The wind played with his hair.

The grief on him was like a lead weight and after some time it drove him down to a crumpled mess on the ground.

His head was all in a whirl. He was hurt. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to fix any of it, and didn't know if it was worth any of his effort to even try. It was his own fault. How could he be so inept? How could he be such a blasted fool? To think he'd thought it might turn out differently, that he might be able to fix anything. He wasn't going to try. It hurt too much to breathe. And he didn't want to care anymore. It wasn't worth it.

It was a long time before he raised his head.

He took stock of himself. He was sore and unsteady all through, like he'd been sick. His breath came in awful little jerks. His hands felt stiff. When he looked at them, he saw the darkening bruises from when he'd hit the rough stone. Leaning back against it, he raise his hand, pressing his hot palm trembling against his mouth, trying to comfort the deep, sharp ache.

The heat and pressure did help, somewhat, after a while.

His mind was a little more clear now, and he tried to think, but weeping had given him none of the answers. He was just as muddled as he had been. But by now his back was beginning to pain him, and he pushed himself up off of the ground. There was nothing in the nine that could make him head back into populated territory just yet, but maybe walking would do him good.

The walls surrounding the city were high, and, as is the case with all high walls, constantly pestered by the wind. The place in which Loki had been up till now was largely shielded from the stronger blasts.

The wind cooled his face, cutting through the places where it was still wet. He leaned wearily on the stone and looked out over the mountains.

The wind was toying with his hair, batting at the stray strands. Finally, it caught one and, the wind blowing against him, it lay against his cheek, then curved playfully across his mouth, pressing against the scars.

Heart skipping at the familiar pressure, Loki went to brush the hair back, but it remained caught against his lips. He panicked. He turned and dropped out of the wind, clawing the hair away from him. And when his mind came back from the appalling whiteness that had momentarily claimed it, that was how he discovered himself, panting, crouching behind the wall where the wind couldn't reach him, both hands clapped over his mouth.

This was ridiculous. He leaned back against the wall, prying his hands from his face. Was he really this damaged? To startle at the wind like it meant him harm? This was unfitting behavior for a son of Odin. Oh yes, he'd be a great one, afraid and flying from the wind in his own hair.

Hitting his injured knuckles against the ground wasn't a good idea, he knew that. And crying more wasn't about to help matters, but that didn't stop the tears from biting into his eyes.

Closing his eyes, he laid his head back against the wall.

He would heal. Just like the time he'd been thrown from Thor's horse when they'd tried to sneak it out of the stables. They'd been foolish little children. He remembered what an adventure it'd seemed, sneaking into the stable, distracting the guards, then creeping up on the huge animal. He'd broken several ribs when it threw him. No one ever knew. It had hurt him to breathe, to laugh, to talk, to run, to move. No one had ever known how hurt he was. And he had healed.

He smeared the heel of his palm against his eyes, forcing his breath slow and even.

He would heal. It would take its time, but he would heal.

He just had to survive until he did.