A/N: Hello again, fair readers! Some of you will recognize this first chapter as my Loki one-shot, "Quicksilver Boy." But you'll also notice that I've left out the first scene with Frigga, and extended the last scene...and that's because I'm running with this story. I may like The Dark World's Loki more than I've previously cared to admit, and since one of my great hopes in life is to see him redeemed, I'm currently writing what I WISH would happen to him in the next few movies. (Note I said "wish" and not "think" or "suspect." Because my imagination is going above and beyond what I suspect Marvel has planned for Loki and the Asgard storyline in general. Although it would be really awesome if Marvel concedes to Tom Hiddleston's obvious wishes and gives Loki a full redemptive arc. Hint hint, Feige and Company.)

Obligatory disclaimer: I do not own Thor, Loki, or any of the Marvel characters. If I did, Pietro would be driving around on Clint Barton's John Deere at this very moment.

Have I fallen so far,

And is the hour so late

That nothing remains but the cry of my hate,

The cries in the dark that nobody hears,

Here where I stand at the turning of the years?

—Les Miserables, "Valjean's Soliloquy"

One, two, three, side-step, thrust! The steady, calm, consistent instructions of the old swordmasters in the Asgardian court came back to Loki as he ducked and parried and attacked the Dark Elves. The exertion, the sheer excitement of it brought a slight smile to his face. He hadn't been in a battle like this since that episode on Midgard a year ago.

And all he had was the tiny knife Thor had given him.

See how I can make the most out of even the smallest weapon, Brother?

The gleaming little blade sank deep into a Dark Elf's side and the creature crumpled. Another one just behind him drew its arm back, curved blade ready for the deathblow. Loki whirled on his heel. The Elf thrust his blade forward. Loki ducked and plunged the knife into its stomach.

That was the last one. All three Elves that had come at him lay dead at his feet. Loki drew a deep breath and tossed his knife lightly, catching it again by the hilt.

Jane. Where's Jane?

The sudden alarm that seized him was a bit surprising, given that he'd thought of Thor's mortal with little more than contempt only a few hours ago. Last he'd seen Jane, she'd cowered—at his order—behind a huge boulder where the Elves couldn't see her.

Loki whirled. A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye brought his gaze upward—and his mouth fell open in shock.

Jane, looking smaller and more fragile than ever against the stark landscape, darted down the slag hill towards the two figures battling at the bottom. "Battling" might be a generous word. One figure appeared to be pummelling the other into the grou—

Thor.

Loki's heart leaped into his throat. The bestial creature that had killed Frigga—Mumma—ram-med its huge fists into his brother over and over again. Thor tried to prop himself up on his elbows. BAM! went the Kursed against his head. Thor tried to roll over onto his side. THUD! went the Kursed against his shoulder, pinning him back to the ground.

"Thor!" Jane screamed over the wind. "Thor!"

Loki let out a frustrated sigh. He could see it now. The stupid girl would rush to the scene and try to attack the Kursed—probably by tossing a pebble at his head, or something equally unhelpful—in her admittedly valiant attempt to distract it. As a reward, she would receive his full wrath and promptly get herself killed. And what would Thor do then?

Doesn't matter. Thor will be dead before she ever gets there if you don't act quickly.

Loki set his teeth, clenched his hand over the hilt of his knife, and set one foot in front of the other. His stride lengthened. He was jogging. Running. Running like the wind. Like he'd been trained to run in Asgard alongside Sif and Fandral and Volstagg and Thor.

"Jane!" he shouted, grabbing her arm and jerking her back. She whirled and looked ready to slap him for the second time that day in her panic. He looked her in the eye before she could make a move.

"Don't—be—a fool," he hissed. "Stay back. I'll take care of him."

The wild terror in Jane's eyes turned to pleading desperation. Loki didn't wait to hear her give him thanks. He gave her a slight push to the side and ran.

Run, Silvertongue, run.

The Kursed delivered another stunning blow. Thor groaned—but like the stubborn, headstrong boy he still was, he lifted his bleeding head with an effort and shot a defiant glare up at his attacker. Where Mjölnir was, Loki had no idea. Thor clearly wasn't capable of summoning it.

A discarded Elven scimitar lay on the ground; Loki slipped his knife into his belt and snatched it up, grasping its hilt with both of his clever, strong hands. As he did so, something attached to the Kursed's belt caught his eye. Another one of those grenades. Loki reached out, but the beast's violent movements kept him from getting too close. He gritted his teeth.

The Kursed drew both arms back this time for another blow. It was too consumed with beating the life out of Thor to notice Loki jerk the grenade pin loose.

But in the time it would take for the grenade to actually explode, the Kursed could easily continue attacking Thor. And if his brother's bloody, bruised face and dazed expression were any indication, Loki suspected Thor couldn't afford the delay.

I…will not…lose him too…

No time to stop and puzzle over this sudden change of heart. Loki pushed the scimitar up and forward as hard and as fast as he could. The blade smashed through armor, muscle, bone, and organs with a sickening noise and a spurt of black blood.

Loki let go of the hilt and stepped back as the Kursed stiffened. Thor narrowed his pained eyes in disbelief. Loki shot him a glance, and against his will his thin lips turned up in a smile. He suddenly heard himself as a child, squealing from some reckless perch in their mother's garden.

See what I can do, Brother? Watch me, Thor, watch me!

And then Thor's excited reply…I see you, Loki!

The Kursed staggered backwards and Loki found himself face-to-face with the creature. Finally. This demonic thing killed. His. Mother. The black, beady eyes fixed on him in murderous rage. Loki drew himself up to his full height and returned the glare.

I've seen worse. I've been in Thanos' court. And I will not quaver before my mother's mur—

Strong, beastly hands clamped on his upper arms and pulled him forward. Before Loki had time to panic, the blade protruding from the Kursed's chest plunged through his own.

"NO!" Thor cried.

For a moment, Loki was totally numb except for a blinding pressure in his sternum. The pain came quickly enough—blinding, suffocating. The blood pounded in his ears as his heart tried desperately to continue its beat around the blade.

The Kursed growled and jerked him off. Loki fell flat on his back, gasping and yet failing to draw in a full breath.

Heavy footsteps moved ever closer. If the beast attacked him now as it had done Thor, he was finished. Loki's shaking hands moved against his will to his chest. He felt something warm and sticky.

Oh gods…

He forced himself to lift his head and look his enemy full in the face. The Kursed growled with pleasure. But the grenade glowed, red and blinking fast, fast, faster.

Talk…talk, you fool, don't give him this satisfaction!

"See you in Hel, monster," Loki hissed.

The Kursed blinked. Loki forced himself to raise an eyebrow and nodded, subtly, towards its belt.

Immediately the creature panicked. It grabbed for the belt—but too late. The grenade exploded, consuming the Kursed in a ball of fire. The beast craned its neck back and bellowed like a dying bull until the ground shook.

BOOM! The wormhole tore open and shut again before Loki had time to blink, taking the Kursed with it.

And Svartalfheim went dead-silent.

Loki fell back, exhausted. He couldn't catch his breath; it was like Thor had dropped Mjolnir on his chest again. The pain blinded him. A thick metallic taste filled the back of his throat. And he was cold—icy cold. Like the Jotun he was and always had been…

"Oh, you fool, you didn't listen!"

The deep, resonant voice enveloped him like a warm blanket and he suddenly felt himself being lifted up in a pair of massive arms. Loki opened his eyes. His brother cradled him. Cradled. There was no anger or cold frustration in Thor's deep blue eyes this time, either…only desperate pleading and anxious horror.

Even the way he said "you fool" held no real condemnation in it.

"I kn-know," Loki stammered. "I'm a fool. I'm a fool—"

"Stay with me, stay with me." Thor cupped his hand around the side of Loki's head. "It's all right…"

It's all right? After all I've done? You shouldn't even be here, you shouldn't even be touching me!

At the thought, Loki's eyes filled with tears; he tried to blink them away and hardly had the strength even for that. The past two years filled his brain. The way he'd manuevered Thor to Jotunheim, only to realize that the Frost Giants they battled were his own kin. His embittered outrage against Odin. His orders to the Destroyer to kill his brother. His alliance with Thanos. The way he'd speared the gentle Midgardian and tried to kill Thor a second time.

And the worst one: "You might want to take the stairs to the left."

"Then am I not your mother?"

"You are not."

"I'm sorry." The words came out choked and breathless. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

"It's all right," Thor said again, trying to sound firm and failing miserably. He looked Loki in the eye and forced a smile to his face, though it didn't quite reach his own brimming eyes. "It's all right, little brother. I'll tell Father what you did here today."

For a moment, Loki could hardly string the words together. The pain cleared just long enough for them to finally penetrate and hold meaning—and even when they did, they still confused him. He blinked with an effort. The weight crushed his chest now. Ice-cold darkness closed in around the edges of his vision.

"I didn't do it for him," he whispered.

You…Mumma…

Thor swallowed, tried to smile again, pressed his hand against the side of Loki's face and ran his thumb around his brother's cheekbone. Suddenly he wasn't a grown Æsir anymore. He'd turned into a golden-haired little boy in a red-and-gold tunic, and they weren't in Svartalfheim. This was Mumma's garden in spring, the soft green grass wet with morning dew and the smells of honeysuckle and roses and lilies competing for supremacy.

Loki, cradled in his brother's arms, drifted off to sleep. And far away he could hear Mumma calling his name.

The first thing he felt was a somewhat prickly sensation all over his face. Almost as if someone had thrown him face-down on a bed of…grass? Leaves?

It certainly smelled earthy. But no, it was too fresh to be old leaves.

Too wet.

He shifted uncomfortably. The earthy smell intensified and whatever was beneath him rustled. Slowly, carefully, Loki turned his head to one side and opened one eyelid just a crack.

Blades of emerald grass rose up mere cenimeters from his face.

What? Where am I?

Valhalla?

Loki actually let out a soft, skeptical snort. No, Valhalla was certainly not for him. Not with…how had the Midgardian spy described it? The "red in her ledger."

If her ledger dripped with red, mine is soaked clean through.

Loki opened his eye just a little wider. Silver-barked trees surrounded him, their golden leaves parting in a soft, springtime wind to let in a sunlight far too white to be natural. The air smelled clean, almost sweet. Like some delectable fruit waited for him somewhere nearby.

His arms lay flat, pressed against his sides. Loki curled them up underneath him, half expecting the stabbing pain to start again in his chest—but to his surprise, there was no pain. Not only that, but his head felt clearer than it had in two years. The raw nervousness that had plagued him and that he'd tried so hard to hide ever since Thanos and the Other took him captive was gone.

He felt light. Clean.

Clean.

He lifted his head with a slight, tired groan and turned it this way and that, taking in his otherwordly surroundings. It certainly didn't look the way Valhalla had always been described to him. No massive banqueting hall, no proud, outrageously beautiful Valkyries on their fine steeds. This place was so quiet, except for the wind rustling in the gold-leafed trees, that all he heard was his own breathing.

"Loki."

He froze. The voice was familiar. Very familiar. Gentle, feminine, with just a hint of underlying sternness.

"Look at me, Loki."

No. No, it can't be.

Loki glanced fearfully over his shoulder. His breath caught in his throat. There she stood, clad in a dress so white it was almost blinding, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders and down to her waist. Her blue-green eyes rested lovingly on him. Even her mouth curved in a soft, motherly smile.

Frigga Allmother. Queen of Asgard.

The woman who had raised him.

Nursed him.

Kissed his scraped knees.

Taught him all his tricks.

Begged the Allfather's mercy on his behalf.

Loved him.

Died for Thor's mortal.

Never had Loki been so totally robbed of speech in all his life. He scrambled to his knees—he didn't trust his legs to hold up his own weight—and faced her. Frigga's smile widened and she cocked her head to one side, her eyes simultaneously welling up and brightening as she did so.

"My little Quicksilver Boy," she whispered. "How proud I am of you."

"Hello, Mother. Have I made you proud?"

Loki winced at the memory. He narrowed his eyes to keep their sudden stinging at bay.

"I…have done…nothing…worthy of your pride," he whispered, and ducked his head. The nagging feeling of guilt that had tormented him the moment he and Thor started to argue in the Asgardian boat on Svartalfheim came back to haunt him now.

"You think you alone were loved of Mother? You had her tricks but I had her trust!"

"Trust?" Loki had snapped, feeling the color rush to his face. "Was that her last expression?"

"And what help were you in your cell?" Thor retorted.

Loki suddenly felt as if his brother had struck him on the side of the head with Mjölnir. His hands had clenched convulsively in his restraints and he'd gritted his teeth. "And who put me there?"

Thor said nothing, merely glowered down at him with his jaw tight and his blue eyes glinting. Loki's chest tightened. Completely forgetting the girl sleeping in the stern of the boat, he lunged at his brother. "Who put me there?!"

"You know damn well!" Thor roared, grabbing him by the shoulder and throwing him backwards against the boat. THUD! went Loki's backbone against the sturdy, polished wood. "You know damn well who!"

He drew back his fist, ready to strike. Loki knew that if Thor wanted to beat his brains out, he could. But for once, he didn't even think about that. His mind had fixated, with harrowing intensity, on his older brother's words.

Who put me there?

You know damn well who. You put yourself there, Loki. You with all your lies and schemes and bitterness and rage—YOU are the cause of every misfortune that has ever befallen you and your family and Asgard.

If you hadn't tried to get Thor in trouble on Jotunheim…

If you hadn't lashed out at the Allfather…

If you hadn't tried to harness the Bifrost…

If you hadn't sworn allegiance to Thanos…

If you hadn't killed the man on the Midgardian vessel…

If you hadn't told the Kursed to take the stairs to the left…

Loki lifted his head. Frigga still watched him, worry replacing her smile by this point. He gritted his teeth. There he went again, worrying her needlessly. How many hours and days had she spent in an agony of fear for him and he'd simply thrown it back in her face?

If he didn't seize control of his emotions, they were going to burst forth like a flood. He lowered his eyes again and focused on a single blade of grass a few inches in front of him.

"I am not even worthy for you to look upon me," he whispered hoarsely. "I'm a murderer and a traitor. I really am the monster parents tell their children about at night after all…"

So much for detaching himself from his emotions. He choked on his words and squeezed his eyes shut tight. His fingernails dug into his skin. He wobbled on his knees, planted his palms in the dewy grass, and let out a groaning, shuddering breath.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I am so, so sorry…"

And with that, Loki of Asgard—or Jotunheim, he himself didn't even know which—began to weep.

The forest echoed with the deep, gut-wrenching sobs until even the otherwordly birds ceased their songs. Loki covered his face with his hands, curled his body forward, and rocked back and forth with a pain that went far beyond any careless words spoken by his brother before Thor's remarkable transformation, further even than the marked favoritism their father had shown his golden-haired, blue-eyed son.

This was a pain that went all the way back to the knowledge that he was rejected even at birth. It was something he'd thought about before, but he'd never realized how much it hurt. And to think he'd spent the past two years either trying to take his revenge against his birth nation for the slight, or trying to prove to the rest of the universe that he was more than capable of the title "Odinson," in spite of the fact that he was really just a worthless Jotun.

And in the name of both revenge and pride, he had killed and lied and cheated and stolen.

Was it worth it in the end, Liesmith? Was it?! To betray the man you called "Father," to be the cause of the death of the woman who nursed you—to bring endless miseries to the only truly good man you've ever known? Thor is a far, far greater man than you will ever be, you monster!

A pair of cool hands slipped over either side of his face as Loki's sobs grew even more broken and weary. He leaned into them, stopping himself before he could reach out and touch her. He didn't want to touch her, didn't want to sully her with his filthy, bloody hands.

But she drew him even closer until his head rested against her abdomen. Loki drew a shuddering, groaning breath as she took his hands and pressed them against her hips. Instinctively, he wrapped his fingers around the white silk of her gown—and then, throwing off all restraint, he threw his arms tight around her waist and buried his face in her stomach

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry! It was my fault. I told it where to go, I never thought—"

"Hush, little one," Frigga whispered. "Hush."

"No, you don't understand!" Loki screamed, throwing his head back. "I told the monster where to go! It was because of me that he got to the palace! Oh gods, I'm so sorry—"

"Do you mean that, Loki?" Frigga asked gently.

He looked at her like she'd just stabbed him through the heart. "Do you doubt me, too?"

Frigga raised her eyebrows the same way she used to do whenever he and Thor tried to talk their way out of a childhood escapade. "Answer my question, Loki."

He swallowed and blinked hard. "Yes. I am truly sorry."

Frigga's face softened. She stroked his hair back.

"Then live as though you were," she whispered.

He frowned slightly, puzzled—but she didn't give him a chance to prod her about it. She wi-ped away a tear that ran down his cheekbone and smiled gently.

"Am I not your mother, Loki?"

Another sword-thrust through the heart. His face screwed up as he tried hard not to lose composure again.

"Yes," he choked. "Yes, you are."

"Are you not my son?"

He hesitated. There was something harder about saying "I am Frigga's son" than "Frigga is my mother." Everything he'd told himself over the past two years flared against it. He was a Jotun, he was a monster, he was the one no one could claim and he would claim no one in return.

Frigga didn't raise her eyebrows this time. She didn't smile. Her face took on a new expression: stern, unyielding, with all the authority and majesty of a queen. She cupped his face in both of her hands. Loki kept his eyes down.

"Look at me," she ordered.

He obeyed. Reluctantly. He could hardly bear her gaze.

"If I am your mother, then you are my son. You must own that. And you must live as though you believed it with all your heart."

He squeezed his eyes shut again; tears leaked out and ran down his face. Frigga bent and pressed her lips to his forehead.

"Don't leave me," he whispered hoarsely. "Please don't leave me, Mumma…"

"I will never leave you. But you must leave this place…at least for a while. Look."

He opened his eyes and pulled in a shuddering breath. Frigga motioned towards a clearing in the wood and a faint image shimmering in the opening. Loki staggered to his feet and took a step closer as he recognized two figures—one very small and feminine, in an ash-blue gown and shabby jacket, the other much taller and broader and clad in a crimson cape. There was no mistaking them as they crept over the wastelands of Svartalfheim and into what looked like a cave.

"Thor," he murmured, wiping his eyes. "And Jane."

"Yes," Frigga said. She pressed his long, strong fingers. "You must follow them. Even if you can't find them, Loki, you must help them in any way you can."

"But…but how?" He looked down at her, bewildered. "How are they going to get out of Svartalfheim? Thor certainly doesn't know the passages between worlds. Now, if he'd spent more time in the libraries as a boy…"

Frigga smirked. "Come now, Loki."

In spite of himself, he smiled back at her. It was just a wisp of a smile, but it was gentler and calmer than any of the wildly triumphant or cruel, mocking grins that had marked his keen, handsome features over the past two years. He wiped his reddened eyes with the ball of his hand and took another deep, cleansing breath of this pure, sweet-smelling air.

"I'll do what I can," he said. "I promise."

Frigga's smile softened. "Good boy. On your knee now."

He obeyed, keeping his eyes on her face as he lowered himself to one knee. She cupped his face in her hands. "Close your eyes."

Again he obeyed. His heartbeat quickened a little—he had an idea of what was coming—and he had to swallow hard when he heard her next words. Still…they gave him a strange, peaceful sort of courage he'd never felt before. Something that seemed to promise that his ledger could be wiped clean.

"Goodbye, my son," his mother whispered. "Never doubt that I love you…with all my heart. And never doubt that we will meet again."

Loki grasped her wrists lightly and she kissed his forehead again. As she did so, the soft light intensified and enveloped him. The last thing he knew was a sudden breath of that clean, sweet air in his face and the sound of the wind rustling in the trees.

And since this was mostly stuff from "Quicksilver Boy," I'll go ahead and post the second chapter so you can see where I'm going with this...