Asgard

Loki watched sullenly as the Einherjar drove in the latest prisoners from Vanaheim. Striding al-ongside the helmeted guards he recognized Fandral's dancing eyes, Volstagg's hulking, gluttonous girth, and Sif's tall, slender, straight-backed frame. She glanced in his direction once. She shot him a murderous glare and tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder. Loki smirked. He was responsible for those jet-black tresses, and if he felt any regret for causing a certain scrawny tomboy any real grief over them all those years ago, he certainly didn't now.

"Odin continues to bring me new friends," he muttered, his attention flitting towards the prisoners. They ranged from brutish-looking warriors to smaller, skinnier scoundrels whose unassuming appearance most likely belied cunning minds. "How thoughtful."

"The books I sent, do they not interest you?"

She was still there, then. Loki winced. He'd been trying to ignore her ever since a guard let her into his white, sterile cell a few minutes ago. The last he'd glanced in her direction, she'd been moving slowly through the room, examining his bedding, brushing with her fingertips the angry words he'd scribbled into the blank parchment she'd given him yesterday. Loki drew a deep—but quiet—breath to brace himself as he turned to face her again.

Frigga met his gaze steadily. There was no fear or contempt in her beautiful face. A stark contrast, he thought, from the Einherjar, who never made eye contact with him, or Sif, who made no secret of her hatred towards him since his betrayal of Thor two years ago. As for Thor, Loki hadn't seen him since the crown prince brought him back from Midgard—and that had been a full year ago.

But Frigga—Frigga looked upon him with a kind of pity that fell just short of the lavish affection she once showered upon him. Since Odin sentenced him to a lifetime in the dungeons, she had never once touched him, never wept. She only visited every other day, sent him books and parchment by way of his guards, and talked quietly about how, if he would only repent of his deeds on Midgard, she would do her best to obtain a pardon from the Allfather.

I do not need a pardon. I do not want one, and she knows it.

The thought coursed through Loki's brain and went straight to his tongue before he could stop it. It didn't come out in those exact words, but the contempt in them did, even as he followed her line of conversation.

"Is that how I am to while away eternity, reading?" he asked.

As if it wasn't his favorite pastime. As if she didn't know that.

Frigga stopped her pacing and clasped her hands in front of her. "I've done everything in my power to make you comfortable, Loki."

"Have you?" Loki asked coolly. Something roiled deep in the pit of his stomach at her words, and again at his own…something far more violent than his tone suggested. "Does Odin share your concern?"

Frigga raised her eyebrows and cocked her head slightly to one side. The expression on her face was infuriatingly familiar—but rather than dissuade him from further mischief as it had done so many times when he was a boy, it drove Loki on like a knife poking into the small of his back.

"Does Thor?" he added, narrowing his green eyes. "It must be so inconvenient, their asking after me day and night…"

"You know full well it was your actions that brought you here," Frigga said firmly.

"My actions?" Loki raised his palms in mock helplessness and turned his back to her. "I was merely giving truth to the lie I'd been fed my entire life. That I was born to be a king."

"A king?" Frigga repeated, not even bothering to conceal the disbelief in her voice. "A true king admits his faults. What of the lives you took on Earth?"

"A mere handful compared to the number that Odin has taken himself," Loki snapped.

Let her argue with that. Let her try to deny five thousand years of history. Let her try to blot out the red in his ledger. If the Midgardian spy's ledger dripped, then Odin's is soaked through with the blood of Dwarves and Frost Giants and yes, Midgardians who defied him in centuries past.

Frigga's skirts rustled behind him. "Your father—"

"HE'S NOT MY FATHER!"

The words exploded out of him before he could stop them—and he would have stopped them if he could. Not because he didn't believe them—he believed them with all his heart, had forced himself to swallow them down every day since he learned the truth—but because he had shouted.

Roared, even.

At her.

He felt the blood rush to his face, felt the violent pounding of his heart as his adrenaline raced and the anger churned and boiled in his stomach. Frigga stared at him. She blinked and pursed her lips; the tendons in her throat contracted.

"Then am I not your mother?" she murmured.

It was as if she'd dumped a bucket of ice water on his head—but no, ice water did not trouble him. This crushing weight of memories was more akin to receiving the full weight of Mjölnir on his chest again. In the blink of an eye, he saw it all.

Crawling in her garden at her feet as a still-nursing babe.

Curling up in her arms after he fell and scraped his knees.

Throwing himself in her lap, sobbing, when Fandral laughed at him.

Sitting with her in her chambers as she wove her magic around them both and taught him her tricks.

Sulking in a windowseat and feeling her arms slip around his shoulders after Thor went away on his first mission as one of the Allfather's warriors, leaving him alone in Asgard.

Sitting at the end of her bed, legs crossed, confiding in her about anything and everything. And she listened, eyes fastened on his face, as if he were the most important person in the Nine Realms.

Then am I not your mother?

Loki blinked, tried to catch his breath. His mother was some unknown Frost Giant woman—a lowly chambermaid, for all he knew—or maybe even a peasant Vanir or Æsir captured during a Jotun raid during the Frost Wars. It might explain why he'd been born a runt. Why not even King Laufey accepted him.

They might call him Liesmith, but even Loki could not deny the truth in this case.

Then am I not your mother?

Loki swallowed and tilted his head back.

"You are not."

She flinched—but before he could consider taking it back, she regained her composure with a slight, pained smile.

"Always so perceptive…" she whispered, stepping closer, "…about everyone but yourself."

It was like a sword-thrust through the heart. Loki's throat tightened as the memories washed over him again. Every tender word she'd ever spoken to him, every touch of her hand, every kiss on his forehead…

You ungrateful wretch.

That was a voice in his head he hadn't heard it in a long time, and it was surprisingly forceful. He couldn't stand her gaze any longer. He dropped his stinging eyes and closed the distance between them, reaching out to take the hands she'd stretched out to him.

How did I become this, Frigga? How far I have fallen from the quicksilver boy you raised…

As soon as his hands touched hers, the startling lack of contact and a flash of green told him the painful truth. Frigga's fingers dematerialized. He looked up quickly. Frigga gazed at him, gentle blue eyes filling with tears, lips slightly pursed to keep them from trembling. She looked as if she were desperately clinging to him before her magic ran its course.

Then she was gone. It had all been one of her illusions, the kind she taught him long ago. In all likelihood, Frigga stood alone in her chambers, a projection of him standing before her, as well, until he foolishly reached out and tried to touch her. And he had vanished before her eyes just as she had before his.

Loki dropped his hands to his sides and clenched them. He set his teeth again, but not in anger this time. For the first time in a very, very long time, the sourness in his mouth tasted like guilt.

Svartalfheim

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 time 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—rammed 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 it."

The wild terror in Jane's eyes turned to pleading desperation. Loki didn't wait to hear her give him thanks; he didn't need it. 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 Kurse'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 monster'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 even. 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 Kurse 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 Kurse 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 didn't look like a grown Æsir anymore, not to Loki. Thor had 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.

And Loki, small and innocent again, cradled in his brother's arms, drifted off to sleep. Far away he could hear Mumma calling his name.

Loki went limp in his arms. For a moment Thor thought he'd just lost consciousness—that he'd open his eyes in a moment, smile in that mischievous way of his, and say something like, "Ta-da." Or, better yet, "Are you ever not going to fall for that?"

But Loki didn't move. Thor watched in sickening horror as his brother's skin, ashy and tinged with blue a moment ago, began to decompose before his eyes.

"NO!" Thor cried. "No, no, Loki…!"

He pulled his brother's body closer and buried his face in Loki's jet-black hair, his shoulders wracked with deep, groaning sobs. His own body ached and burned from the monster's repeated blows and blood dripped from a cut on his forehead into his eyes—but he knew that if he'd been hit once more there would've been no more pain. Another well-aimed, bone-crunching blow would've ended him right here on this deserted realm.

He saved my life. Loki saved my life…and Jane's.

I never told him I loved him.

My brother…my little brother…

Svartalfheim's scathing winds tore at him mercilessly, and still he sobbed bitterly. Only when he caught a light, approaching footstep did he lift his tear-stained face. Jane stood over him, her young fair face full of grief and compassion, her hazel eyes brimming with tears of her own.

"Oh, Thor," she whispered, her chin quivering. "I'm sorry…"

He tried to speak and couldn't. Jane got to her knees and wrapped one arm around his shoulders, stroking his arm with her other hand. When he groaned, and she dropped her head on his shoulder.

"He saved our lives," she whispered. "Why, Thor? Why?"

Thor swallowed hard and looked down at his brother—or rather, what was left of him. He drew in an astonished breath. Loki's skin hadn't decomposed after all; it had merely turned a dark blue. In death, then, he'd reverted to his inherent Jotun form. It hurt worse than if he'd turned to dust right here in Thor's arms. This, then, was what he'd concealed even when there was no need to. If it had pleased him, Loki could've attempted to take over Midgard as a Frost Giant.

But he didn't. Why?

Do the Frost Giants still live? Loki's soft, childish voice came back to him from centuries past. He'd sounded almost frightened. Of course he'd been frightened. Every child in Asgard had been told to "be good, or the Frost Giants will come and take you away." Thor could hear his own, overly-enthusiastic response even now.

When I'm king, I'll hunt down the Frost Giants and slay them all—just like you did, Father!

How often had Loki remembered that in the past two years?

"I don't know," Thor whispered, finally answering Jane's question. "I know I hardly deserved it."

Jane said nothing—sensing, perhaps, that there was more to that answer than she knew quite yet.

The winds suddenly turned violent. Thor lifted his head and glanced around, narrowing his eyes as dust and rubble peppered his bleeding face. Jane grunted and shielded her face with her hands, only to curl her whole body forward to protect any bit of exposed skin from the tiny, biting debris.

"We must get to shelter," Thor said. "You are in no condition to brave these elements."

Jane peeked up. "What about him?"

Thor's throat tightened again. "We will have to leave him."

Jane's squinting eyes widened for a second before she narrowed them again in pain. "No. No, Thor, we can't! We can't leave him here for the—he deserves—how can we—?"

"He gave his lives so we could live," Thor said gently, but firmly. "I cannot carry him and protect you at the same time."

Jane lowered her eyes and nodded slowly. His heart swelled and softened even more towards her and the noble spirit that would recoil, as his did, at the idea of leaving Loki behind. But the strong possibility remained that he might have to carry her. She was unusually pale after her ordeal with the Aether. On this terrain, in this cruel weather, her strength would soon run out.

As much as it hurt to do it, Thor slowly laid his brother down and straightened his long legs. He folded Loki's hands over his mangled chest. When he glanced up, he saw Jane gently smoothing his brother's hair. He watched her, half-entranced, half-overwhelmed with gratitude for her graciousness. This, after all, was the woman who had slapped Loki mere hours before. And now she offered him the gentleness of a woman with a child.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Jane offered him a small, sad smile before drawing part of her leather Midgardian jacket over her nose and mouth. Thor struggled to his feet, trying to ignore the shooting pain in every limb, and offered her a hand. Jane took it and moved gratefully into the welcoming shelter between his arm and chest.

Only once did Thor look back. Loki's long, slender frame looked very small against the vast gloom of Svartalfheim. Here he would stay for all eternity. Alone. Thor's eyes, red and irritated from the harsh wind and dust, blurred with tears again.

You died with honor, Brother. May the Valkyries give you a warm welcome in Valhalla.

The first thing Loki was aware of 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 green 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 one 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 beautiful 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 the confession: 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 all his life 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 for all that he'd 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 wiped 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 about to pronounce decree or judgment. 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."

A/N: I don't even like Loki. To be honest, I want to grab him by the collar and shake him 98% of the time. But he is very complex, and I do feel sorry for him (sometimes). And because I love Thor, and Thor loves Loki, I truly want him to turn good. This rather long one-shot encapsulates my hope that the memory of his adoptive mother will eventually spur him to act as a true son of Frigga would.

(Besides, he'd be an awesome good guy if he'd just, you know, behave.)

I know this story may seem as if it ended a little abruptly, but I really didn't want to to go into possible scenarios of Loki returning to Asgard and his ascension to the throne. Because honestly, I have no clue how he did it. I don't even have a good guess. I just wanted a feel-good halfway-fix-it story. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.