He walked with sure steps and then he faltered, and without thought his hands came up before him and folded together, left hand methodically rubbing the right. Then he went onward, and his coattails hit his leather-clad calves and his side throbbed dully from where he had fallen over the rubble. Or was it a ghost pain left from a fatal wound that had been healed? He could not recall. . .

The Midgardian magician had not a single solitary need to restore him, yet . . . he had.

It burdened him with a nameless confusion and swirling turmoil. It ached, this lack of understanding. But he did not dwell on that now.

He stared, but his eyes did not truly see, as he walked along those golden halls; he breathed, and the muted sound was echoed onward in this vaulted place. Pillars on either side of his peripheral vision rose up like fluted trees overlaid in gold, bracing up the ceiling until eternity fell and Yggdrasil came to her glorious and fiery end.

Behind him, like a distant clash—softened somehow and not harsh, though it once seemed so in a day he had nearly forgot—came the jangle and shift of the Einherjar's bulky armor. Before him moved four of Asgard's soldiers, and behind him walked eight; ensuring they did not lose the traitor of Asgard; the Not-Prince; the master-liar; the enemy of Midgard and her precious freedom; the once-god but now a monster of his own make.

A time ago he might have smiled to be as he was in this moment—he might have bared his teeth in a predator's smile to be in such a position meaning he was a creature worthy of all the fear placed upon him—but he could not find such lack of respect, such insolence, such blatant disregard, now. Not in this moment.

He had not the heart—or perhaps it was more a lack of one—to be so thoughtless, so cruel.

He looked down at his hands, at his thin fingers attempting, while he was in his far-off thoughts, to rub away the stains thereon. As he was halted by a spear held out before him, he parted his hands and opened his palms.

It was black and reviling now.

The blood.

So much blood.

His fingertips began to shake, and he closed them with a snarl and a hiss faint in his throat, turning his head minutely, bowing it an inch, enraged at his own pathetic weakness. As a boy the phrase his mother used did not make sense—as a grown Æsir it made even less; but now it was he understood, in full and utter truth, the meaning of the words.

Blood on his hands.

The life of other men and women no more virtuous, no less so, than himself. And he closed his eyes as the great doors before him thundered open.

But the thunder was the merest rumble, and did not strike terror into his heart nor joy; as once a great and mighty Thunderer could.

"Walk on."

It was an issue, an order, and he obeyed.

As he passed the place, he glanced to it, knowing there would be no queen to come up from her concealment behind a pillar to see her youngest boy safe-home at last, though he was a wayward and foolish child; so insistent in his stupidity and willfulness. He saw himself now, as she had made observance of his failing to do so long ago; but her words and face were so vividly etched in his memory even to this time.

"Mother, have I made you proud?"

His step did not slow as he walked onward to the golden throne rising in familiarity from where it had long stood. But now, Odin did not stand there in judgment—at least, not yet.

He waited. He waited and expected his resentment to rise up as he stood there, but it never came. What remained was only his barren yearning and endless loss. An arcing guilt played up his spine, and he looked down at his hands, slowly now. He spread his fingers; felt the hardened, dried blood crack and pull against his skin; sensed the blood on his face, faint now, but still matting the dark tangled hair on the right side of his face, just behind his ear.

And then he called it, softly, softly. It was as if he saw and used it for the first time in an age—as if it was his first time to strike the words, and he was filled with wonderment; a dulled awe he had not felt in centuries. His seidr shimmered above and around his palms, golden and then the briefest flash of silver before darkening to emerald green.

Then, all that remained was Thor's soft, hem-torn, dirty scarlet cape resting on his palms; folded precisely, as Mother had taught but they had both forgot in their youth. Until now, it seemed. A smile of remembrance strove to turn his lips, but it did not get so far before it faded.

An aged throat cleared, and he lifted his head. Odin had come, and the guards had gone, while his mind drifted on an endless tide. He stared at the old king, an old man, nothing so fearsome or so great, but wise in ways he was not.

"So, it seems, we are at a repetition of time, though not so identical."

He would have closed his eyes to savor hearing that graveling, gentle, dangerous voice; to find in himself that he did not hate it so much as he had let himself believe. Yet he still could not bring himself to love as he once had. Such a thing was gone not to pass again, but there did remain its embers in his soul's blackened fields, and he touched on it for a moment before letting it lie in peace.

"It does not seem; but if you mean my hate still burns, then you are wrong. I have not come in chains, as the conquered do." It was too simple to find his tongue and lie and derive as he had learned too well to do. But he did not cease.

"That you come at all is miracle enough. I have been told you. . .bring me news of a battle on Midgard." The king's hand shifted down the cold, slick metal of Gungnir, and he exhaled silently as he recalled how such an action had felt in his own hand. How soothing to be friend to such deep magic.

"Yes." And then his silvertongue turned to lead, and he swallowed; but not from ire at such a realization.

"Tell me then, before I hear it from other mouths." Odin motioned him onward, almost wearily too dismissive, and for a moment he was tempted to lie and connive and mock. But he did not, clenching his fingers over the cape in his palms as a dead god's words rang in his hollow chest and made his breastbone ache.

". . .do not fail our love."

He would not; not after such bitterness and defeat and then success made bland with the suffering endured before its rise.

My. . .Y. . .The prince of Asgard has fallen," he swallowed, fingers shaking he clenched the fabric betwixt them so fiercely in his reluctance and pride. But then pride and reluctance fell away, and he could breathe without effort again. ". . .my king." He stepped one dust-clad boot forward and knelt with grace, laying down the folded cloth he held before the throne of Asgard.

Odin did not speak, though he felt the old king move forward in his seat.

"And it seems, I know not how," his voice came smoother now, as if urged on by some force he could not name, but his mind wondered at distantly, "that a great burden has fallen to me." He put a hand briefly to his chest and then lowered it, swallowing again as he met Odin's eyes. "That I have become. . ."

"It could not be—"

". . .worthy of something I do not wish to bear. I who have such. . .blood on my hands and contempt in my soul," he remembered distantly a time when his fear and emotion had sped his voice onward like this. He was younger then, but he felt the same now, "I ask for your forgiveness and know I might not have it, but I cannot have this," he let the hammer rest on the marble step one down from where he had laid the scarlet cape, "so I give it to you and tell you: your son and your prince fought well in the name of his realm for a weaker which he swore to guard."

Why did it hurt to speak? Why could he not shut his mouth and still his tongue? What was this child's rambling?

"And I who am a liar and a thief of all I have beheld feel honor to have fought at his side to his last, though it should be I who died in his place for it is my fault—my fault, mine. . ." his voice was breaking and he could not finish for what was happening.

Odin had come down from his throne, taken a weathered hand and set it on the back of his head, gnarled fingers in his black, tangled hair, and other hand on his arm, barely to be felt through his armor.

He swallowed, and the pain in his throat did not subside and his tears did not fall though they brightened his eyes.

"Oh, Loki . . . you alone cannot take all blame for what has come. It is mine also, my son."

His eyes widened, and he felt hope stir in his heart despite his hate and his knowledge that this mended no faults and repaired no breaches.

"They are both gone." Loki's voice was a low yet high cracking sound in the vast open space. He bowed his head to the shoulder of the aging Æsir he had once called father, and enclosed him in an embrace of sorrow.

Odin Allfather held close to him the grown Æsir he had once misled and called son, even if in his heart it was naught but truth, and they shared in matched grief; though perhaps not in tears. For the greatest of sorrow is expressed in utter silence.

A/N:

This is a continuation vignette/one-shot to the vignette "Beyond Infinity" which I posted under the Avengers category. I was trying to leave that piece alone, but my mind wouldn't leave it there in peace, and in my head I kept hearing Hiddleston's Loki-voice saying these lines as I watched War Horse this evening:

"And it seems, I know not how, that a great burden has fallen to me. That I have become . . . worthy of something I do not wish to bear. I who have such . . . blood on my hands and contempt in my soul"

Because of that one part, this whole thing was born. I don't know if I got all the characterization right, but I needed some Loki and Odin father-and-son feels after the brotherly feels of Beyond Infinity. Even though Loki and Odin are not father and son, and even though there's a lot of damage and bad blood between them. I think that something like Thor's death (and Frigga's before it) would draw them reluctantly together. After all, it hasn't been openly stated anywhere that Odin has declaimed Loki or made him ineligible for the throne. So, perhaps technically unless stated otherwise in the upcoming film, Loki could become next in line as a *legal* king of Asgard on the event of Thor's death. Dunno, just a thought.

I know Loki's not Asgardian, but he's identified as one for so long that I figured it'd be easier to just call him one; also I think that Odin sees Loki, in fact, as his son, despite everything that's happened. I think that's why, when Loki declares "If I'm for the ax, then for mercy's sake just swing it" Odin sighs, because here's this kid, who he really does love, rejecting everything and being a brash, uncompromising idiot. I'm not saying Loki has no right to complain, because he does. . . but still. He's being a petulant teenager. *prays* (please, please, change that in thee next two films!)

Also: because I mentioned in Beyond Infinity that if I went further and got into Loki's implied battle with Thanos I'd probably have killed Loki off, I touched on there at the beginning that he did in fact die (who knows how many times) but Strange brought him back to life. Mainly because Strange is an ambitious guy and knows that if he's patient enough he could probably learn something valuable from Loki's skill at magic, but also because it's an interesting idea since Loki has a penchant for winding up dead and Strange has an annoying ability of bringing things back to life over and over and over until he's annoyed the crap out of— Well, you know what I mean. ;) Tell me your thoughts and/or opinions in that review box below!

I hope everyone had a great Labor Day weekend! Happy reading,

WH