Loki walked in the shadows, taking care not to be seen. There was no telling what could happen to him if he was seen, not when he looked like this. He could not travel freely throughout the palace, but that wasn't his destination. The smokehouses were not far, he could see the thin grey ribbons rising in the distance. He had sneaked around the palace grounds many times before, but never before had he felt so vulnerable. Every sound seemed to herald danger. The sun was beating down unbearably hot, and everything looked different. It was too bright.

Loki crouched behind a tall statue, carefully measuring his breathing. People were walking to and fro—not many, but enough. Surely they would notice him. He squinted, taking a deep breath, eyes fixed on the smokehouses. A sudden dash might do it. There was no other way. He waited, the sound of his heartbeat loud in his ears.

And then—for one second, it was empty, but for one person looking the other way. It was his best chance. He sprang up, running, fumbled with the latch for one terrifying second, and ducked in, closing the door behind him.

The smell of smoking meat filled the air. The fire was small, but even so the room was sweltering. He resisted the urge to move away, instead walking up close and kneeling next to it, eyes watering as the smoke irritated them. He waited. Surely, something would happen soon. If it didn't happen… he did not know what he would do. He would be caught and killed. They would think he had killed the real Loki.

His eyes were watering in the smoke. He knew he was not crying, but he could not properly breathe as he tried to keep a sob in his throat. He stuck his fist in his mouth then withdrew his hand at a sharp pain. He reached into his mouth with one tentative finger, poking at his teeth. They didn't feel right. Near the corner of his mouth were little teeth that came to a point. They were razor sharp.

He had fangs.

Loki pulled his hand away, staring down at them in shock. He glared at the fire, anxiety rising in his throat. "Come on, work," he whispered. Surely it should have worked by now. Surely it was hot enough. He felt like he would melt.

Another thought came to him. He couldn't melt, could he? Surely not… but what if he could? What if he was melting right now, and he just didn't notice? There wouldn't be a body. He would vanish without a trace.

He reached his hand closer to the flame, almost touching it. It was torturous. It was agony. But it was not turning color.

He jerked his hand away, sucking on it and giving the fire a dark glare.

He would wait. He would have to wait, even if…

If didn't matter. It would work. Loki moved farther away from the fire.

He waited.

Loki woke up from a fitful dream and blinked. Even before he looked down he could feel the difference. He was himself again. It was all right.

But he looked down anyway, turning his hand over and over before he could make himself move.

When he walked out of the smokehouse he saw he had not been as long as he thought. The sun was still up, it was only late afternoon. He knew where the nearest stash of healing stones were located, and made his way there. He was no longer worried about anyone seeing him—if they asked him what had happened he would be able to think of some story to tell. He crumbled them onto his wounds. He had never needed to use more than a pinch or two of one, excepting for the time he broke his leg, but this time he needed an entire stone. He hoped no one would notice it was gone. He ran until he found Thor.

Thor was with his friends. Loki did not look at Fandral. He moved close to his brother.

"There you are!" Thor said. "I was looking for you all day!"

"Maybe I was hiding from you," Loki muttered.

Thor grinned. "You wouldn't do that. Not without challenging me to find you first."

Loki smiled. It felt stiff and fake, but Thor didn't notice. They started playing a game. Loki didn't join in.

He followed Thor into the palace when the sun cast long shadows over the ground, trailing his hands along the walls. They were warm from the heat of the sun and the torches that flickered on the walls.

He followed Thor to dinner, sitting next to him as usual. He was not very hungry. The terrible feeling in his stomach did not make him want to eat. Thor didn't notice, craning his head to listen to the stories of the warriors nearby. Loki twisted his hands under the table.

The music had not started yet. That was Loki's favorite part, usually. Tonight he wished he could leave right now.

Another warrior was talking. Not a young one, he was older. He had started recounting his old battles, and of course this led to the War. Loki listened to his tales of killing monsters and shrank closer to Thor's side. He knew no one could tell. No one had been able to tell before. But he began to get a strange feeling. It was a hot, twisted feeling, as though he were about to scream, as though something were tied up inside of him.

Loki had never liked those kinds of stories. He had thought the heroes dull and uncomplicated. He much preferred to hear about adventurers and wizards and strange tricksters that came out of the night.

Now he wondered if he had known. Maybe he had never liked those stories because part of him had known that they held no part for him, except as the monster.

He felt sick. Loki grabbed the edge of Thor's tunic with one hand, twisting the fabric between his fingers. He could not bring himself to grab Thor's hand.

.

.

.

THE END

note: the fangs kind of just happened. I have no idea why. It's random. Help.

second note: if you think this doesn't entirely feel finished, that's probably because it was supposed to be part of a longer story which I had planned, but it didn't end up working.