Author's Note: Greetings! I would just like to mention that this fanfic takes place entirely in movieverse. Also, although it's unclear if this is going to be stated in Thor: The Dark World, for the sake of this fic, Frigga is not Thor's birthmother. Also, there will be no references to external mythology or comic books. I like to keep things simple.

Disclaimer: I do not own any Marvel characters, storylines, names, locations, etc.

…

When I gaze into my son's cold, hard eyes, it is the first time I have ever felt so old.

As a queen, I am highly discouraged from showing my weariness. At all times, I am expected to hold my head high. In the face of war, disease, and famine, a queen must stand tall – to remain unflinching in the face of life's volleys. If the queen – who stands to support her realm – should crumble, her realm will fall as well.

No, I knew from the moment I became the queen of Asgard that I would have to forgo fear and doubt, worry and weakness. Yet I feel no peace in this moment. I do not feel brave or bold or fearless. I am afraid – I can admit that much to myself, at least.

A question whirls about inside my head like a bird beating its wings against the bars of a cage. It is a question I have overheard in the castle in various forms and phrasings. The question is never directed at me – no, that would be most improper – but voiced nonetheless.

"How did Queen Frigga fail to realize her own son was so evil?"

I can only imagine the hurt and confusion my people must feel to realize their righteous queen helped nurture the seed that blossomed this wickedness. How hard it must be for them to understand that even now, despite all that has happened, I love him. They have never been nor ever will be put in a position in which they must care for something that is, at first, so vile. How many of them will care for anything but their own children, or a child adopted willingly out of love? How many of them will ever have to care for a babe that burns their flesh?

I may be an old woman, but my memories are strong. I can still remember my son's desperate cries as I fearfully abandoned him his first night in Asgard. It was a cruel thing I did – so uncharacteristic and childish and cowardly of me. I was a young woman at the time – not yet wise or wearied, and without the knowledge of the many years I now possess. It has been a lifetime since I have thought back on that day, yet now, as I stare into my son's green eyes – searching mine with all the intensity of a wounded animal – I cannot help but recall that long and painful first night.

/

"Would you care for another cup of honeyed tea, my queen?"

I flinch, lost in a reverie of dark worries and fears. My thoughts broken, I look up from the hands folded in my lap and smile at the serving woman beside me.

"No, Inge, thank you," I murmur.

At my feet, Thor is curled against my leg, examining a small, wooden sword. He is still too young to understand why his father is gone, or why the castle is so wary and quiet. Nonetheless, he senses the heavy atmosphere in the nursery and stays close to my side. He is unusually subdued for such a late hour – normally he would be running about, toddling after servants and tripping them underfoot. Instead, he sits quietly at my feet, turning the sword about in his hands with his brows furrowed in an expression that seems far too old for a child who has yet to speak.

A fire crackles in the hearth, where a servant sits quietly knitting new bedclothes for Thor. He has already outgrown his bedclothes, and soon he will need new shoes. The old basket he once slept in sits alone near the fire, for we have already moved Thor to his own room and a crib. He is far too large for his old basket, though he still attempts to climb into it from time to time. I smile gently at the top of his head as the flames reflect in his golden hair. He is a good child, for all his rambunctious behavior. He will need to be tamed as he grows older, of that I am sure, but if all goes well, his father will –

A knife of fear lances through my thoughts. I clench my fists tighter in my lap, and Thor gazes up at me with curious, blue eyes. I try to give him a reassuring smile, though I worry he sees through my mask. Thor looks so much like his father – and so much like his true birthmother as well. He will make a handsome man.

Inge fidgets nervously by my side. She is not the queen, and I would not ask her to hide her fear as I do – though, for Thor's sake, it would be ideal. Thor is far too impressionable, and he seems to absorb the emotions of those around him like a bath towel. He knows something is amiss. The Allfather has been gone for far too long. Laufey is a fierce opponent – a savage beast with blood in his eyes – and I fear this conflict will never end. My husband has vowed to put an end to this war. The Frost Giants have pushed the boundaries too many times, and their attack on Midgard is a step beyond the Allfather's limits of mercy. He has declared this war to be the last, whether by his death, or Laufey's. Our armies marched seven turns ago, and with each new passing, I can feel the cold creep of a Frost Giant's fingers over my shoulder. My mind goes to dark places – images of those icy savages breaching Asgard like a swarm, spreading chaos and darkness with every step.

No, I cannot bear it. The Frost Giants are a plague upon the Nine Realms – a wound – and not a single Frost Giant can be allowed into Asgard.

Though the sun shines and Asgard thrives, it is as though a dark shadow has crept across our land in the Allfather's absence. I know something is wrong – something has gone awry. My mind is flooded with waking nightmares of Frost Giant spears thrusting through my husband's armor – of vicious Frost Giants lifting men from the snow and tearing their bodies in two. The Frost Giants loom at the dark edges of my mind – towering shadows with blood-red eyes that glow in the night. I wish, in that moment, that I could share Heimdall's eyes, that I might see what has transpired. I consider running to Heimdall to beg an update, but I remind myself that our gatekeeper would bring word the moment word was needed. I mustn't upset Thor by running off now. Asgard needs stability – a heavy rock on which to cling in the raging sea.

Asgard needs a queen.

"Mother?"

Thor's voice breaks through my thoughts like a beam of golden light through the clouds. I meet his blue eyes, which sparkle with innocent worry. He senses my fear and grows uneasy. With a gentle smile, I reach down and lift him up under the arms to set him on my lap. He nestles back against me, a tangle of limbs and unruly blond hair.

"No need to worry," I tell him. "Everything is alright."

It is not the truth, but the truth does not become a lie until word reaches us otherwise.

It is at that moment that a guard rushes into the room, panting with exertion with his helmet askew. The shadows seem to swoop into the chamber along with him. I stand up abruptly, the blood draining from my face, and clutch Thor tightly in my arms.

"What news?" I demand before the guard has a chance to speak. The servants in the room are frozen with tension, and Thor gives me a curious look as he chews his thumb.

The guard takes several deep breaths before he speaks. "It is the Allfather," he declares.

"Yes?" I prompt. "Is he…" Alright? Returned home?

Alive…?

"He has returned," says the guard, his eyes glowing with barely-restrained relief.

I voice the question every person in the room is thinking but dares not ask. "And the battle? Is it won?"

"It is won," the guard whispers, trying to keep a small smile breaking out across his face.

The tension in the room drains away like plug has been pulled from beneath our feet. I sway for a moment in the sudden tide of emotion, even as Inge gasps and the servant by the fire rises to her feet.

"It is won," she whispers.

My mind is so rocked by this news that I can hardly find my voice.

The battle is won. It is over. My husband lives – he lives! – and the Frost Giants are defeated! The plague upon our Nine Realms is at an end! I clutch Thor to my chest suddenly – fiercely – and kiss his soft brow. He squirms to get away – he is at the age where a mother's affection is stifling rather than desired – but I hold him tight. I could burst from joy. Seven turns of fear and nightmares are released from my body like the tightened strings of a lute snapping free.

If I were anything but a queen, I would cry.

"The Allfather wishes to speak with you here in the nursery," says the guard, his eyes flickering towards Inge and the servant by the fire. "Alone," he adds in a low voice.

I cannot help but frown at what seems a strange request after so important a victory. "He does not wish to gather the court?" I query.

"He was most insistent on the matter," says the guard warily. "He wishes to declare victory in Asgard on the morrow, but asks first that he speak with his queen alone."

I realize, then, that my ominous premonitions are true. I had felt it in my heart – had wished not to believe – but now I realize something has, indeed, gone awry. My heart sinks with worry. Is there some lingering threat my husband must warn me of? Some danger? I never believed for a moment that our victory could be without compromise or loss, but I cannot help but fret at the thought that the problem is so serious, the Allfather would speak of it privately with his queen before alerting his council.

Taking a deep breath to settle my nerves, I say, "Inge, please take Thor back to his room and put him to bed. Everyone else, please leave so that I may speak with my husband alone."

The servants are quick to comply, and Inge gently pulls my son from my arms and whispers comforting words to him as she hurries from the room. The guard claps a fist to his chest and inclines his head as he backs away, whirling to follow the servants out the door.

As I stand there, alone, I can feel Thor's lingering warmth against my skin, though it does little to banish the cold dread I feel in my body. It seems strange – eerie, even – that the Allfather would ask to speak with me privately in the nursery. It is a room of comfort, not a room to discuss politics and war. No, something is wrong… Something is definitely wrong…

It feels as though a millennium passes, and I want so desperately to sink into the chair by the fire. But I know I must stand tall when my husband enters the nursery. He fought tirelessly for many turns to take down the despicable Frost Giants. If he can stand and fight against wave after wave of monsters to protect our people, then I can do him the honor of standing to greet him as he returns from battle.

When the door finally opens, I am so overwhelmed with relief that I nearly run to my husband like a maiden in the throes of first love. Something draws me back, however. Odin is stooped – weary from battle – with a bloody bandage across his right eye. He holds something concealed in a blanket in his arms, though I cannot see what it might be. Odin's face is grim and dirty, and there is a slump to his walk that I have never seen in him before. When my husband looks up to see me, there is no victory in his eye – only a haunted exhaustion that freezes me in place.

"Odin…" I murmur, drawing my eyebrows together and reaching one hand towards him.

"Frigga," he acknowledges, shuffling quietly into the room. "My dear, it is over. We have driven the Frost Giants back to Jotunheim."

"Then why do you look so sad…?" I ask him worriedly. I want only to hold him – to feel his body alive in my arms – but the ominous shadows in the room draw me back. The room feels strangely cold, as though the Allfather has brought the tundra of Jotunheim into Asgard with him.

Odin swallows, closing his one eye. With a chill, I wonder what lies beneath the bloodied cloth across his forehead.

"The cost of war grows higher with every battle," Odin says. "I have taken the Casket of Ancient Winters from the Frost Giants to punish them for their crimes. They are powerless; their land is stripped and barren, and there, in banishment, shall they remain."

"You have taken the Casket…" I echo, breathless. Without the Casket of Ancient Winters, the Frost Giants are almost as defenseless as the mortals of Midgard. They would become prisoners in their own icy realm. The thought is strangely discomforting to me. It is unlike my husband to strip a realm of every leg it stands on. Such is the wrath the Frost Giants have driven the Allfather to.

"What of Laufey?" I ask, clenching my hands at my sides. "Was he slain?" I cannot contain the hopeful breathlessness in my voice. I cannot envision any victory in which King Laufey survives. The brutal war-king would bleed himself across the land before surrender. To my surprise, however, Odin shakes his head and gazes quietly at whatever he shields in his arms.

"Laufey yet lives. He has been driven back to repent on his cold throne. I have taken his Casket and all his strength along with it."

My eyes fall towards the blanket and I feel a strange prickle of fear trace up my spine. "But the Casket is not the only thing you have taken from Jotunheim…"

"No," Odin agrees sadly, clutching the bundle a little tighter. "And that is why we must talk."

I brace myself, because I know I will not like what I hear. Already, I am forced to accept that the King of the Frost Giants yet lives, and now I must accept that the conditions for the battle's end have not been ideal. I cannot even fathom what might be wrapped in the Allfather's arms.

"Odin… what more have you brought here…?"

"I have brought peace," says my husband, though his voice wavers. "A permanent peace between Asgard and Jotunheim."

Such a thing is not possible, I know this in my heart. Our realms are as fire and ice, and neither can truly thrive while the other holds power. Every battle ends with the promise of future conflict.

"You have managed to wrap peace in a ragged blanket?" I ask my husband, trying to hide the skepticism in my voice.

"I had hoped the nursery would offer a softer one," says Odin, reaching up and gently pulling the cloth aside.

A rush of surprised breath bursts from my lips. Burrowed in the Allfather's arms is a baby – too young to yet lift its own head. It is a tiny thing, sickly pale, with a few tufts of dark, black hair and startling, green eyes. The child moves little, as though caught in a daze. I move closer, reaching out towards the tiny creature.

"My dear, whose child is this?!"

I gently lay a hand on the baby's forehead and it wriggles weakly beneath my touch. My mothering instincts overwhelm my previous apprehension. The baby seems so vulnerable and small, and I feel an overpowering desire to wrap it in my arms and shield it from life's cruel thorns as I did for Thor when he was but a babe. I reach my hands beneath the child's frail body to lift it, but Odin's words freeze me in my tracks.

"This is Laufey's son."

I pull back as though struck, the sudden movement jolting the child into full awareness. It cries out, surprised, and scrunches its face as the tears begin to fall. To my disbelief and horror, my husband draws the baby closer, cradling it as he does his own flesh and blood. The baby's sobs fade to sniffles as Odin rubs a calloused thumb gently across its cheek.

"Laufey's son!" I cry in disbelief, pressing a hand against my lips. "Laufey's son!"

"Yes. He is a Frost Giant, Frigga." The fond smile never leaves Odin's lips as he caresses the baby's temple. "I have put a spell upon him to make him appear Asgardian, but this is his true form."

The chill begins gently at first, then sweeps across the room like a living beast. It breathes ice into every corner and creeps along the walls. The fire in the hearth extinguishes suddenly, as though clapped down by an icy hand. I can see my breath puffing fearfully in the air before me. The child in Odin's arms fades from gray to blue as though strangled of life. Its watery, green eyes melt into bloody pools of red in its sockets. Strange scars cut across its flesh in indecipherable patterns. I fall back, horrified, as I see the monster emerge in my husband's arms.

"You've brought a Frost Giant into our castle!" I cry, clutching my arms about myself to stave off the fangs of cold. It feels as though the ice sinks down into my bones, freezing my marrow and eating away at my flesh.

"He is just a child," says Odin softly. "Only a babe. He is not yet old enough to sin."

"A wolf pup still grows to be a beast! By the Norns, what do you mean to do with this monster?!"

"I mean to raise him," says Odin, his tone serious as he turns his one eye upon me. "When he is of age, we will forge a permanent alliance with the Frost Giants. He will be a bridge between our realms."

"You will raise him?!" I cry. "You cannot raise a Frost Giant in Asgard! They are our enemies! He is the son of the enemy king!"

"He is a child," says Odin once more. "He is not responsible for the crimes of his father committed before his birth."

"He is a monster!"

I step away, mortified, unable to comprehend how my husband can speak of this creature as though it is innocent – as though it is anything more than a frozen abomination of savagery and sin. The child is so hideous – malformed and drained of color, with bloody eyes and scars upon its flesh. Even for a Frost Giant it is twisted – barely half the size it should be with its face wrinkled in despair.

And then, just as suddenly as it transformed, the child's flesh ripens pink and the scars fade. The red sheen recedes to reveal the green eyes sparkling beneath it. The cold retreats from the room, ruffling my skirts and stealing the breath from my throat. The child seems unaware of the transformation and continues to whimper in my husband's arms.

"Do you see now?" Odin demands, lifting the baby towards me. "He is a child, like any other child of Asgard – too young for blood to stain his hands."

"So you mean to tell me that the Frost Giants are no different from Asgardians? That they have not trampled innocent realms, crushed skulls in their bare hands, and impaled icy spears through the hearts of our sons and brothers?!"

"And we them," says Odin softly. "With this child, we might bring an end to the violence – find common ground at last. A Frost Giant's offspring is as innocent as an Asgardian's until a spear is thrust in its hands. This child is no more capable of violence than Thor was at his age."

It feels as though I swallow a jagged lump of ice. The realization dawns on me like a dagger through my heart. "You… you love this child…" I whisper.

"He is to be a living symbol of peace, Frigga," says Odin. "A bridge to settle our differences, and nothing more."

I would be a terrible wife if I could not detect the tremble in my husband's voice that betrays his lie. "You love him…" I repeat, my traitorous body trembling with horror. "You love Laufey's son."

"You love another's son as well," says Odin, staring deep into my eyes in a way that makes me feel nude and embarrassed before him.

"Thor is not a monster," I object, horrified by the insulting comparison. "He may not be my true son, but he does not burn flesh with his touch, nor will he grow to wish death upon our realm."

"A Frost Giant will no more wish death upon us than an Asgardian, if he is raised as such. This boy is malformed and small – he is unlikely to grow any larger than an Asgardian. He was abandoned in Laufey's temple to die alone. His own people have forsaken him. His cries could be heard far across the wasteland."

"So you take him?" I demand, trying to keep the tears of anger from my voice. "You steal a malformed, dying, enemy child from the snow and bring him into our home?! You would raise him with your son?! You would have Thor share a nursery with this monster?!"

Odin closes his eye and slumps with weariness. He seems old in that moment – so old – though he is not yet an aged man.

"When I placed Thor in your arms, I did not ask you to love him, yet you did. But I shall not ask anything of you in concerns with the Frost Giant child. I will not ask that you care for him, or even look upon him if you so choose. The nursemaids can raise him, our tutors can teach him, and I will not ask you to treat him as anything more than a prisoner of war."

I stare at Odin, shocked silent by his speech. In his arms, the baby closes its eyes and whimpers. I take a step back, closing my hands into fists at my sides. More than anything, I prayed for my husband's safe return – to hold him once more in my arms and feel the comfort of his protective warmth against my body. Instead, he brings me this – a cold, malicious Frost Giant's whelp. Laufey's son. The king of the nightmares that make Asgardian children weep in the night. I may be a woman, but I am not the queen of Asgard without reason. I stare fiercely into Odin's one eye, and with all the venom I can muster, I tell him:

"I would sooner throw Laufey's son into the void beyond the Bifrost than raise him as my own."

Without another word, I rush past Odin, my heart clanging in my ears. I retreat to my own chambers next door, that I may hide away from this nightmare. It is within Odin's powers to stop me – to draw me back – but he does not follow.

I check on Thor and hug him fiercely to my chest before settling him into his crib. Thor squirms in my grip, and I smile gently into his warm hair. The servant who lingers in the room is smart enough not to ask of Odin's return or question the shuddering breath that bursts from my lungs when I lower my son into his crib. If the servant were to ask what was wrong, I do not think I could answer. Not as a queen.

I return to my own chambers and struggle desperately for sleep, yet it seems to evade my grasp like a leaf tossed in the wind. My body is electrified as though a storm brews inside it. Odin does not come to speak with me, and I panic to think where he may have left the monster child. I can feel the cold seeping through the floor and dragging its icy fingers across my bed. I can feel a timeless hatred thrumming inside the walls – an ancient fury that blows through my chambers and freezes my skin. I bury my face in my arms and try desperately not to think of my golden Thor playing swords with the son of Laufey – the son of the man who burned thousands of Asgardian soldiers, slaughtered hundreds of Midgardian mortals, and plunged our lands into generations of grief.

Laufey's son sitting beside me without consequence or chains.

No. I could not bear it. Not Laufey's son. Not a Frost Giant. I am a kind woman – this is something I am prideful of – but there are limits to my mercy. I may not have brought Thor into the world with my body, but I love him as my own. I have never raised a hand to a servant, nor wounded any man with an unkind word. I am a kind woman, and it is not in me to hate. But this war is meant to be over, and Laufey was to be slain. No mercy was to be given to his children, who could rise up to take his icy shadow-throne. My husband muzzles a wild wolf and calls it tame. He chooses to raise a Frost Giant who will only grow in strength as it grows older. The Frost Giant's power cannot be contained, even with the Casket of Ancient Winters locked away. The whelp will be imbued with an ancient hatred spawning generations before its birth. When it discovers what it is, surely it will condemn us. The Frost Giant will lash out like a wolf freed of its fetters and cover our realm in chaos and death.

As I bury my face in my arms, I hear a soft wailing through the wall. I sit up suddenly, fearful, believing Thor is crying. For a moment, the room spins in confusion and I feel as though I am caught in a dream. Thor has not cried like this in many turns – he has long outgrown such tears. After a moment, however, I realize the cries do not come from the direction of Thor's room. I clutch a fist near my chest as the horrible realization crashes down upon me.

The Frost Giant's whelp.

The crying comes from the nursery. I swallow my fear and lay slowly back on the bed, drawing the covers over my ears to block out the sound. Many moments pass, but the wailing does not cease. It rattles my bones and jangles my nerves and I clap my hands over my ears to try and shield myself from the dreadful noise. The cries only increase in pitch. I realize, then, that neither servant nor nursemaid has been sent to silence the child. Most likely, Odin has not yet informed the castle's staff, and instead leaves the baby in the nursery to cry until morn. I fear what would happen if a servant entered the nursery and stumbled upon a cold, blue beast.

Terror strikes me suddenly, and I scramble from my bed. The baby continues to scream and I cannot – I cannot bear it any longer. The creature will wake the entire castle! The servants will not understand; they will ask questions, and the cries will wake Thor!

I have to silence the monster; it is the only way. I will never sleep – I cannot bear this incessant wailing!

When I throw open the door to the nursery, I am nearly thrown back by the force of the baby's cries. Clutching a candle in my hand, I spill the light across the room to see the Frost Giant curled in Thor's basket, tossing its head from side to side. Indignation clutches at my body to realize Odin placed a Frost Giant in the cradle of his own son. I feel an indescribable urge to wrench the child from the basket and – and what?

I cast the light across the baby's face and my body floods with relief to see a pair of green eyes staring up at me from a gray, tear-streaked face. No cold emanates from the child. He has been returned to his false Asgardian skin by whatever magic Odin has placed upon him. It matters not how the baby's skin appears, however, because I know what lurks beneath it: cold and shadows and death.

"Silence," I hiss, leaning over the basket. "You must cease these tears!"

To my surprise, the wailing fades. The baby looks up at me with wet, round eyes that dance in the soft firelight. It is both eerie and unsettling how similar the baby appears to an Asgardian child. It stares up at me, sniffling lightly, and tears stream silently down its cheeks. I reel back in horror.

Laufey's son is staring into my eyes.

Laufey's son, born of ice and storms and war.

Laufey's son.

"You will be quiet," I insist, gathering up a warrior's courage in the hopes that the anger in my voice will silence the creature.

The baby blinks up at me for a moment, then a fresh wave of tears pours from its eyes. Its tiny face crumples in misery. The baby's cries are so loud – so jarring and terrifying and awful – that I forget myself in a moment of panic and set down the candle to drag the child from its nest. I intend to stifles its cries with my hand but, to my surprise, the child falls silent in my arms. It continues to sob, its face wet and tears threatening to erupt at any moment, but it no longer wails or screams. I suddenly realize what I hold in my arms and nearly drop it into the basket with a gasp. I step away, horrified, and my arms feel as though they have been licked by poison.

I have touched a Frost Giant.

Whatever spell Odin cast upon the baby, my skin does not burn. Nonetheless, a lifetime of nightmarish stories surface unbidden in my mind. I have watched our healers strap thrashing soldiers into bed as their frostbitten flesh rots from their bones. I clutch my arms to my body, shuddering, and wait for my skin to harden and crackle away. Instead, I feel a lingering tingle of warmth where the child was pressed against my body.

The baby screams. I want to collapse to the floor and bury my face away from this nightmare. I pull my arms away from my body and gaze down at them in relief. I am untouched – unharmed. Perhaps I can risk lifting the beast to silence it. Perhaps I can put an end to this nightmare until morning. Trying to still the trembling in my arms, I reach down slowly and burrow a hand beneath the baby's soft skull. It is strangely hot. My other hand reaches beneath the child's backside to lift it from the basket. It weeps softly – though it no longer screams – as I press it hesitantly against my chest.

"Silence," I repeat, trying to calm my heart.

A Frost Giant.

I am holding a Frost Giant against my body.

It is disgusting – vile. It is a monster born of nightmares and ice, sewn from the seeds of the man who condemned our realm to a mortal's millennium of grief and suffering. It is a monster. A cold monster with no heart or warmth.

The baby whimpers and grows still.

"Silence."

I hold it for several moments, waiting for the sniffling to cease. The baby is light in my arms – lighter than Thor ever was – and it burns hot. The child is sick, I realize. Frost Giants can have fevers? It is such a preposterous thought that I would have laughed if I weren't so scared. I realize, finally, that the baby has been crying because it is ill. I recall Odin's words about finding the baby abandoned, alone in the temple. But what does it matter to a Frost Giant to be naked in the cold? They do not feel the bite of ice as Asgardians do. They are content to wear loincloths in the snow.

"Why do you cry?" I demand of the child. "Is this Asgardian form so unbearable that it burns you? Is this skin fire upon your true flesh?"

The baby blinks its green eyes slowly, dazed with fever. One hand reaches feebly to clench a lock of my hair in a small fist.

"Stop it," I chide, fear curling inside me. For a terrible moment, I am sure the baby will rend the hair from my head. Scalping is not an uncommon practice among Frost Giants. The baby clutches my hair but does not pull. Its hand is so tiny, even for an Asgardian. I wonder if it would have survived in its own realm, had Laufey not tossed it aside.

At least the baby has stopped crying. It is not asleep, so I fear it will wail again when I put it back down. However, I cannot bear to waste anymore time holding this awful creature. Trying not to disturb it or frighten any more screams from its throat, I carefully lower the creature back into the basket. When I try to pull back, however, the fingers around my hair do not loosen.

I panic a moment and grasp at the lock of hair to pull it away. It comes free easily – the baby does not tug – and I find myself staring, panicked, into those bright, green eyes. It is strange, the lack of malice in its eyes. Even a Frost Giant's whelp can seem deceptively innocent at such an age. But it must be a trick of the lighting – the glamor cast upon the creature to make its eyes appear as our own. No bloodied eyes could ever look so innocent.

The baby reaches towards me, its small fingers grasping ineffectively at the air. It makes a small noise of distress, and I realize it may cry again.

"No, please…" I beg, as though the infant can somehow understand.

It reaches up, making a fist in the air, desperate for something to hold onto. I look about warily, but there are no such toys in the nursery. Thor has outgrown the need for such comforts, though he still has a habit of chewing his thumb. Hesitantly, I lean down and move a small lock of hair towards the baby's fingers, hoping it will be appeased by my hair long enough to fall asleep. As I bend down, however, the baby's hand brushes my own, and it tries to curl its tiny fingers about it. I pull back fearfully, and the baby begins to cry. Horrified and desperate, I let go of my hair and offer a finger, which the infant grasps onto in an instant. Its skin is warm, and I remember how Thor used to grab at my fingers, smiling and laughing until he was pink in the face.

"Why do babies find fingers so amusing?" I ask the Frost Giant, frowning. My heart races as I wait for the child to transform – to fade back into its monstrous body and blacken the finger from my hand. It would harden and freeze, and crumble from my body like ash. I close my eyes, trying to swallow my terror – trying to be a queen. As the seconds tick by, however, the baby does not grow cold or hurt me. It merely clutches at my finger, gazing up at me with wide, curious eyes. Most likely, it has never seen an Asgardian woman before, and it does not fully understand.

He was abandoned in Laufey's temple to die alone. His own people have forsaken him.

As the baby holds fiercely onto my finger, I wonder if it has seen a woman before at all. It seems so small and underfed. Did it have a mother once? Laufey has no queen that I know of, so the child was most likely born of a concubine or an unfortunate victim. It is strange to think of a savage Frost Giant woman falling so helplessly before a man, but then again, King Laufey's brutality is known far across the realms.

"Who was your mother?" I ask the infant, hoping to fill the uncomfortable silence. "Did you drive her mad with your incessant groping?"

For a moment, the baby merely blinks at me, but then a small smile spreads across its lips. I pull back, stunned, as the infant's cheeks go round with giggles. It is so incongruous, this moment, being held in the grasp of a laughing Frost Giant. By all rights I should be afraid – terrified, even. When a soldier stands before a laughing Frost Giant, he knows he is about to die. But the baby's laughter is so innocent…

So familiar…

So… childish.

It is not so different from the way Thor would laugh when he was a baby – all smiles and giggles as I dangled a flower above his eyes and tapped him gently on the nose. I wonder if Frost Giant mothers play with their children, but I cannot imagine it. I cannot imagine any creature in so harsh an environment playing at all. They say Frost Giants are born into the world clutching a spear – they have no need of amusement or laughter.

Except for this little one. This one laughs just like my son.

Unsure, I sink into a kneeling position beside the basket and raise my free hand. I pull magic through my body – drawing it forth as easily as a soldier draws his sword – and a small orb of light appears in the air above the baby. Thor used to find it most amusing, and he would laugh at my tricks until he was red in the face. The Frost Giant's eyes widen beneath the glow of the light and, for a moment, I fear I have frightened it. But the child smiles instead, and reaches up towards the orb with the hand not wrapped around my finger. I lower the ball of light so that he may touch it, and I watch in fascination as the baby's small hand brushes against the orb. He giggles, and his eyes alight with amusement. He laughs as though it is the first time he has laughed in his entire life.

I cannot believe what I am seeing. I have never before seen a Frost Giant laugh.

That is because you have never seen a Frost Giant beyond battle, I remind myself. You have only seen soldiers and corpses – never a child playing in the snow.

I wonder what Frost Giants must think of Asgardians, having seen only swordsmen and war.

Do Frost Giants know love?

They must, says a soft voice in the back of my head. Or else what do they fight for?

"He was abandoned in Laufey's temple to die alone. His own people have forsaken him."

And it is a curiously sad thought, I realize. Even the monsters of the forest will at first know a mother's love. It is a testament to Laufey's brutality that he would leave his own child to die in the cold. Did he feel nothing when the baby reached desperately for his retreating back? Was his heart so hardened with ice that the lonely screams of a child meant nothing to him at all?

Is my own heart just as blackened…?

This is dangerous thinking, I know. The Frost Giant stirs my heart because it is a baby, and I am a mother. It is only natural, I suppose, just as an Asgardian woman might pity an abandoned wolf pup. But that does not change what the pup will become. This Frost Giant might grow to wage wars or kill hundreds of innocents. He might one day hurt Thor. How can I sit by and enable the nurturing of such a creature?

The baby's fingers bat against the small orb of light and it laughs – a delightful sound that fills the dark room with a happiness I have not felt since my husband marched on Jotunheim.

"I see you like magic," I remark, grasping the ball of light from the air and extinguishing it in my palm. The room plunges into darkness, save the glow of my candle, but when I glance down, I can see the Frost Giant staring up at me and giggling, his pale cheeks finally colored with warmth. I reach down and press the back of my hand against his forehead and grimace. A fever, for sure. Even a Frost Giant cannot be abandoned in the elements, it seems. I close my eyes, feeling the heat against the back of my fingers.

It is a monster.

He is alone.

It is dangerous.

He is a child.

It is our enemy.

He is a baby without a mother.

"You will not let go of my finger?" I ask the child, removing my hand from his forehead and trying to conceal a smile.

The baby's grip tightens as though he understands.

Don't let go… I hear his little voice say. I have been left alone for far too long…

As the child gazes up at me, a small smile still playing on his lips, I feel an overwhelming truth crash upon me. My hatred of the Frost Giants has turned me into the monster. In scorning their barbaric ways, I became the barbarian. To think, I let my hatred consume me so deeply that I would abandon an innocent child to die.

But it is a Frost Giant! A dark fire burns in the back of my mind, kindled by a lifetime of war and anger. It is a monster born of darkness!

But I know, as I gaze into that pale face, that I am the brute. He is a Frost Giant, yes, but does that devalue his life? Does he not burn with the fever of neglect; cry helplessly for someone to hold him? Nothing has changed except the color of his skin. If this is a Frost Giant at its most vulnerable, then what difference is there between a Frost Giant and an Asgardian without weapons? The temperature of their flesh? The sheen of their eyes? Inside there is still a living being, desperate to laugh and smile and share its experiences with others. Never before have I considered the life a Frost Giant might live beyond the battlefield – the children it might hold, the games it might play. Never before have I thought like this until now, when so small and fragile a creature looks into my eyes and smiles with love and warmth.

I have sunk so deep into the blackness that I would turn my back on a baby just as King Laufey has done.

I am the monster.

I am the beast.

What an example I set for my people! What a hateful queen I have become! I, who should accept all, regardless of status or wealth or birthplace. A true queen would never scorn a child.

"I am so sorry…" I whisper to the baby. "I am so truly sorry… War makes monsters of us all…"

The baby releases my finger and waves his little hands towards my face with a smile. I remember this gesture from when Thor was an infant, and I marvel that a Frost Giant shows its need in the exact same way.

"You wish to be lifted?" I ask the baby. I hesitate, then allow a small smile to play on my lips. "Alright…"

As carefully as though I lift glass, I nestle one hand beneath the baby's head and another beneath its bottom. I scoop him gently from the basket and press him to my chest – cautious, tentative – as unsure as a new mother with her first child. The baby gurgles contentedly in my arms, though it still burns with sickness.

"I am sorry…" I murmur, resting my cheek in his black hair for a moment. "I will not leave you alone again."

The child curls close to me, pressing its false flesh against my body. The skin may not be real, but the heartbeat I feel against my own is as true as any other.

/

My son gazes into my eyes, and they burn like fire. He must read something in my expression, but the muzzle prevents him from speaking. Instead, he stares at me with eyes that could burn through ice.

"Loki…" I whisper, trying desperately to find my voice. The words come to me again, for the first time in so many years. "I am so sorry…"

The words are too late – I know that now. Loki's eyes narrow.

"Loki, you are not inherently evil…" I tell him – beg him to understand. "I know what you may think, and I know what you have heard, but you must understand: you are not a monster."

Loki's eyes are gleaming and, for a moment I can almost catch a wisp of a word – of a shadow across his face. But Loki has become the master of deception – of hiding his true self behind a mask of protective indifference. Even now, I cannot understand what he wishes to say.

"It is not your fault…" I whisper. "It is our fault. All of us. The adults you believed in, the family you trusted. We have all played a role in this chaos. Do you understand, Loki?"

I can see the skin tighten around the muzzle, but I cannot discern the expression beneath it.

"I will not leave you alone," I murmur, feeling hot tears pressing against the back of my eyes. I remember that baby, burning with fever and longing, and my heart breaks into a thousand pieces inside me. "I will not leave you alone, Loki. Do you understand?"

Loki's stare is fathoms deep, but his silver tongue is silenced.

I do not know what he is thinking.

But I know war has made monsters of us all.

…

Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed! This story was actually inspired by my own mother. She's a huge fan of The Avengers, and she's seen the Thor movie several times. However, we recently came to an incredible realization. My mother is color-blind, you see. She can see colors, but some of them are indistinguishable to her. Recently, when I made a passing comment about Loki transforming into a Frost Giant, my mother became very confused. After some deliberation, we reached an astonishing conclusion: my mother never realized Loki turns into a Frost Giant in Thor! In the scenes where Loki uses the Casket of Ancient Winters, my mother failed to realize Loki had transformed at all! To her, it just looked as though the lighting changed. She never realized his skin was blue or his eyes were red. I thought this was amazing – a true testament to how superficial racial heritage can be. And it is from my mother's story that this fanfic was born!

This fanfic was, by far, the most difficult thing I've ever written. I wanted a challenge, so I tried to give myself the most difficult prompt I could imagine for myself. First of all, I can't stand babies and I have no maternal instincts, so I had to completely force myself into an incomprehensible mindset. Second of all, it was a huge challenge to write in "Asgardian" speech, so I apologize if it came across as stilted. It was my first try. Third of all, I rarely see fanfiction in which Frigga doesn't accept Loki right off the bat. To be honest, I have a hard time imagining Frigga as cruel as she first is in this story, but – when I think really hard about it – I also find it unrealistic in other fanfics that the queen of Asgard would so readily accept the idea of raising an enemy's baby to be a prince without any reluctance or worries whatsoever. I understand that she's a sympathetic character, but I don't think Frigga is reckless either. She had no qualms about killing a Frost Giant in Odin's chambers, after all (also, that was awesome). Anyways, this was an extremely difficult perspective for me to write, so my apologies if there was anything out of character or awkward about it. And forgive any awkward writing. I don't know how to "Shakespeare in the park."

Well, I hope you enjoyed! Comments and criticisms are equally welcome! Thanks for reading!