Disclaimer: Thor belongs to Marvel and its creators, writers, artists, and other respective copyright holders. Not this bitch.

Note: Yes, I realize this is the name of a Star Trek: TOS episode. Shhh.

Wolf in the Fold
Prologue: Passageways and Pathways

"The pathways of hell are hardly foreign;
we shall end up there one day if we tarry too long.
From a passageway to a pathway:
it is an easy fall, without shock or surprises."

— Muriel Barbery, The Elegance of the Hedgehog

"Why let go?" — it was what Loki inquired of himself; his life in his brother's — and his father's — hands (strong hands as they were, used for destruction as many times as salvation), dangling above destruction and oblivion. Reality and grammar would dictate that the question was, in actuality, a simple one: three words and a reason. While he considered the counter — "Why should I not let go?" — he observed the simple things, the hidden truths, in what lay about him. He took in the sweat that beaded down Odin's brow, swelling and growing larger in the canyons on his face, and the way the All Father grit his teeth with the strain of holding his two sons from churning destruction, with a detached manner. Thor, his brother, who was open mouthed, with a face twisted in agony, as his shoulders groaned and popped against the two opposing forces dragging at him — then, Loki noticed. Odin, father, could not save both of them on his own.

Wasn't that a reason why he had to let go? Wasn't that why he had to let go, why he had to make the choice in place of his father? Why, even, the query had come to him?

To let go, or not to let go?

It seemed right, did it not? To let the good son live, saved by his father, and have the bad one (the awful, awful one: the one who killed his biological father, committed patricide) vanish into the void, it all seemed right, did it not?

He had no doubts, none whatsoever, that help was on its way, Odin's strength and Thor's shoulders needed only to last a few more moments — but. But Odin loved his brother more, his true son, drew more pride from Thor's nobility and savage power than from Loki's... duplicity, devious, even, in his survival. Survival? If he survived, if he allowed himself to be pulled up, he would be hated, wouldn't he? For what he did, what he planned, what he plotted, for what he was willing to do, he would be shunned by Ásgard, for they would know. They knew, even now, even before, when they had been wary.

Loki was the clever one, the flighty one — a wolf amongst men. His domesticated cousin, the dog, might have been man's best friend, his companion, his tool, his pet, but he was not — he was a predator at his best, and a demon at his worst. A creature in, all regards, to be wary of, no matter the situation. And that was why, he determined, they had been wary. Were wary. Are wary. The Warriors Three had avoided him, why Sif warned them to be cautious, to not say too much in his presence: the vile, slippery thing that he was. It was as though Ásgard could tell, even when he could not, the true nature of his blood. It was why even Thor, love him as he might, had begun to appear increasingly uncomfortable around him, despite not being wary, or disturbed by what his blood doubtlessly was.

Loki looked, slowly, to the void below, the churning, moaning void, and felt a wistful, saccharine twist to his lips as he turned to his brother. Thor understood, immediately, from the savage cry slipping from his throat, "No! Brother — "

He let go. He let go, fell for approximately thirty seconds, and then grabbed for those hidden ways, those hidden passageways between realms — those that were hidden from even Heimdall, and his keen eyes. He pulled at them, slipping through the soft curling fibers, until he came to a grinding halt. His back slammed against a solid but invisible surface, a soreness curling in his arm, the one that had let go. Loki panted, watching as the hairline cracks thriving on his hands ghosted over and sealed themselves shut, fading into blue then the white of his hide. He went limp, staring listlessly up into the smooth, rolling emptiness. He took his moment of peace, of aloneness, of singularity, and threw it away.

Rolling over so that he could stand, Loki drew his knees up to his chest and felt his spine protest, bodily, at the action, and forced himself to stand. Armor, gold and green in tone, hugged tightly, lovingly at him, even as he began to strip himself of the remnants of Ásgard still clinging, hopefully, to him. Down, far out into the expansive emptiness, went the interlocking pieces of the heavy plates, down went the guards, the oppressive weight — down without a whisper, more of a tantalizing roar. Emerald fabric pooled at his feet as he removed the cape with a long, drawn sigh. As Loki leaned back, his eyelids drifted down, and peered through his lashes. The trembling beginnings of a smirk curled upward, and a breathless laugh occupied the darkness.

What to do — where to go — ? What to do, when he had nothing planned? Where to go, when he wasn't welcome in the only places he could (potentially) call home?

His shoulders — free and lighter, though not entirely free of that dreadful oppression ("Where had he gone wrong? Where was his plan faulty? Who had been the unpredictable element, the factor which he could not properly control?") — were slumped as he considered, and then — why not?

He had nowhere else to go, and none could follow him, so, why not?

— [ "Would you offer your throat to the wolf?" ] —

"You look like you've seen a ghost," someone commented as she blearily wiped the sun and sleep from her eyes, before her heart startled and she tensed at the feel of cold iron at her throat. Cautiously, she looked up, eyes wide and goosebumps growing along her arms: she shivered and stared morosely into the face of her attacker — lean, feral: full of hunger. Jaded eyes. She knew those eyes; that strange, creepy fellow they had picked up outside of Griesheim on their way back to the States. While he hadn't seem worth it that early on, having only been picked up because — while not physically intimidating in the sense of brawn — his very presence filled people with unease. A natural, long forgotten hyper awareness of predators resurfaced where the man was. He was useful for intimidating clients into letting them do what they had to do; and, in the end, he had ended up being full of wonderful ideas.

He had called himself Loki.

The woman hissed, shifting under the threat of a slit throat, fumbling under her pillow for the pistol hidden there. She spoke in hope of distracting him, "Now, Loki, you think my workers listen to you if you take control in a backhanded coup like this? They'll eat you alive, bones and all. You know it, I know it, so, why not put that blade down? If you want to move up, a raise, I can make that happen — you're worth the expenses."

He was also dangerous; her blood sung with that knowledge and it was set in stone when his other hand darted out to grasp her wrist the moment her fingers touched the hidden pistol. She gulped and gasped when his cold, cold fingers curled around her wrist and clenched. Her bones groaned as they ground together and her fingers began to throb as the circulation was cut off, and when had he been so strong? Intent on wiping that slight from his face, she wrenched the pistol out from beneath the pillow with her other hand, and against her training, against her better instinct, fired. The bullet never hit that smug hound in the face like she had fancied it would.

She didn't see where it went, nor had she noticed right away when the pistol was suddenly torn from her grasp by another— another Loki?

The one crushing her wrist smiled pleasantly, and leaned forward until his lips were brushing against her ear. He murmured, "I'm afraid that... you're help isn't necessary."

Loki let go of her wrist and then the blade was gone, just like that, and his hands were wrapped around her throat. She struggled bodily against him, but her breath was already coming in gasps, her lungs were already on fire — and his grip was inhumanely strong. Iron fingers curled round, crushing her windpipe like she wound crush a fly. "Doesn't it take more to kill a human?" was her last coherent thought, a surprisingly valid inquiry that wasn't answered as her body went limp. Her blood churned blue in her veins, unable to bring that precious oxygen to her organs. Her lips were blue and her eyes glassy.

He stared down at the body, and then, with a clinical detachment, began to memorize every nuance of her form: he knew her personality — she was similar to him, in some ways. Enough that it wouldn't require much effort on his part to hide the glaring differences between her and him. Satisfied in his observations, he pulled vacantly at his physical features. His height declined, his hair lengthened and curled slightly at the ends, and he gained curves where he hadn't had any before; his face filled out a little, the edges becoming smoother — Loki turned to stare into the mirror. He smiled with a face that wasn't his.

Loki regarded the corpse, the rigor mortis beginning to set in, and with a casual wave of his hand, it was gone. He regarded his illusion with a quirked eyebrow, then it handed him the pistol and he fired it at the illusion, which dropped down to the ground in a mockery of death. A part of him twinged at seeing his face desecrated, brains blown out, an echo of pain coating the pale visage — but he cast it aside when the door swung open.

Two suits stood in the doorway, looking down at his corpse: "Clean this up, will you?"

One of the suits looped his arms around the illusion, and dragged it out the door, while the other one asked, "What'd he do, ma'am? I know he was a strange fellow, but he was useful..."

"He was overstepping his boundaries," Loki informed the man, pursing his lips in what might have passed for a thoughtful look, before he smirked.

The man inclined his head, "Sometimes, ma'am, I worry about your safety — you always pick up the worst ones out of country."

"No need to be so worried," he assured the suit pleasantly, falling into his role with a lifetime of practice's ease.

The suit looked at him funnily when the cleaning crew came in and nonchalantly began to scrape the bits of fake brain off of the far wall, and sponge off the blood on the floor. He quirked an eyebrow in question, inwardly wondering if this one could see that he wasn't really that woman, or that he could tell that Loki was still there, still alive, and shoo'd him away with a little motion of his right hand. The nails were painted a deep, inviting shade of blue.

It was time to lure his brother down to Midgard, to — for what, he didn't know, but he could improvise when the time came ("Did he want to kill Thor? Hurt him? Hug him? Break him? Love him?"). It was the only loose end in his mind, the thing that he had to deal with, because he didn't want to crave Odin's love and affection, he didn't want to crave for Odin's approval. But Thor, well, was different, in a sense: he had only ruined Loki's plans, hadn't lied to him, hadn't done the injustice of keeping the truth, a helpful but terrifying truth, from him.

Loki sighed.

It hurt not to know himself, to not know what he wanted, needed from the world.

His resolve shook, then flattened back out: for a moment, just a moment, he let the shroud that obscured him from Heimdall's searching gaze fall.

He would welcome Thor if — when — he came.

Notes: Loki, why are you disguised as a woman, dammit? Seriously, you have so many problems, you don't need woman problems too. D:

I would love to hear what y'all think of this. It really makes me work faster to know and chiz.

Up next: "Brother — he lives?" Thor roared, grasping Heimdall by the shoulders, oblivious to the paling faces surrounding him.