Castles are large. It's a truth. Not a lie. Castles are large.

One person makes all the difference. They say that and sometimes it's the truth, other times it's not.
So one would think that one person missing (such a small thing that can make some or no difference) in a castle (such a huge and mighty building) would not give any effect. A servant could be there one day and fired the next and life would go on. But this was not just a castle and the person missing was not just a servant. The castle was a house hold and the person was family.

The loss echoed through the halls and in every being.

The Queen, regal in her robes, walked through the corridors to make sure her son (sons) were awake. There were civic duties that he (they) needed to attend to. Thor had been sleeping , she had woken him up and he had started to prepare. Habit lead her to the bedroom of her youngest son. Without thinking, she opened the door, knowing he would be awake.

It was empty.

Messy as it had been since he last walked in there, last slept in there. Last breathed in here.

He always left it messy, refused to tidy. He told her it was his duty as he had been given the title of the 'god of chaos'. She had told him that was no excuse and tidied it for him anyway. The next day when she had came to find him awake and reading, it would look even messier. Her eyes strayed to a small corner, tidy. She had started tidying the day after he had fallen. Odin had come in to find her and had to gently lead her away. Every day it didn't get messier.

The Warriors Three feasted. They enjoyed a good party. Frandral with a girl (or two or three) on his lap, Volstagg surrounded by his brood of young children and Hogun the Grim in the corner as usual. The two princes who often feasted with them were not here. And it was one that they felt the loss most heavily.

Fandral was alone (despite the girls on his lap), a certain raven haired man who had only been too keen to join in the games with the hearts of women was absent. It was easy for the warrior to recall how many girls he had lost to him. Every night, the prince would pour honeyed words from his mouth and the girls would lap it up like the finest brewed mead.

Volstagg told stories and his voice grew sore as the hours rode on and his children clamoured for more and more. The tale of the Great Bilgesnipe, the Adventures in Jotunheim, his Trip to Midgard. He put a twist on them for the children, the danger gone. But the stories went on and on and on. There was no trickster to suddenly come in and take their attention from him with feats of magic that would leave the father feeling jealous.

Hogun sat. Neglected. No one liked a grim face at a party but he merely enjoyed the merry company. He would sit in his silence and soak in the atmosphere but was never included.
Why Hogun, surely you must need another round of ale to put a smile on your face and get you to join in with the merriment.
That voice had always known what to say to get the smallest of smiles (and by that, a small spark of joy in the eyes only) to his face and the company would part and welcome hm. But that voice was gone. He sat alone.
The king was never allowed to show a sign of weakness. All must remain hidden. The kingdom needed the throne. But even kings have feelings. Each day he sat on the throne, waiting to hear the next case that was brought to him. Each hour he expected to hear his gallant sons arguing. About some woman that the youngest had treated badly, or whether the Battle of Vanaheim was won because of stealth or strength, or perhaps where the two should go hunting (if one even wanted to). Not a sound came.

Each evening as he prepared for bed (for despite the Odinsleep, he did need his rest), he remembered that before he was to descend into the realms of dreams, the two sons had rushed towards him, fighting to get there first, anxious faces peering at him as they wished him a good rest and insisted that they would see him in the morning. (They never got used to seeing him like that. In the Odinsleep.) And each evening he wondered if things would have turned out differently if he had gone to them to give them his promise that he would see them in the morning.

Sif sat in her room, brushing her black hair. Her hair was black. It once had been gold. She remembered that time. He had cut it off... the prince! And then given her this net of hair that turned jet black in little time. The past could never change. The past was only ever to present. But it had been his actions that had taken her vanity and lead her here. And she wouldn't change it for all the world. She had hated him for his actions yet she had never offered a single word of thanks for the future he gave her. And now she never would.

The crowned prince sparred to keep his mind from wondering. He trained with sword, he trained with hammer and he trained with mace. No weapon would escape his mastery. But the blade was always too close and delicate. No matter how hard he tried, he never could manage it.

Come on, brother, The voice would say in his head, over and over again as he tried and tried to master the weapon. It would grow louder and louder and eventually he would throw the knife away in frustration before pausing and rushing to pick the blade up.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," He would mutter to the blade that glistened with the salt water that fell on it. He hadn't meant to throw his brother into the abyss.

You're a fool, he expected the voice to say but it never did come. There was just silence. So he spoke for the empty voice.

"I'm a fool, I'm a fool,"

His brother had often practiced with the bow. He had insisted that it would be kept a secret and never showed off this skill. It was another weapon that the blonde prince struggled with. But every few days, in secret like they had done as boys, he would set up a target and take aim. The arrows would miss at first. But eventually they hit the target. And finally the red centre.

Damn. The voice would whisper and Thor would set down the bow.

Castles are large. Realms are larger. It's the truth. Not a lie. Perhaps someone could convince you otherwise. But he fell. Shadows cast from broken bridges swallowed him up, stole him away. The Bridge of Family, the Bridge of Peace between two Realms, the Bridge of Trust and yes, the shadow cast from the Rainbow Bridge. The Bifrost.

Say what you like. He planned this, his actions had caught up with him, he lost the love of his family. But the truth is this. He fell. It cannot be denied.

Just like castles and realms. One is larger than the other.

And a realm mourned the death of a god.

A Prince.

A friend.

A Family member.

A son.

And a brother.

A.N.: I don't usually do one-shots but I felt like this needed some exploring as I haven't really read anything about what the family had to deal with when Loki was supposedly 'dead'. And I know how strange a household can feel when someone is missing (my younger brother went away for the week and it was so strange) and I wanted to capture what would feel like for those left behind. I hope you have enjoyed this story.