Disclaimer: I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

The Devil Of Asgard

Chapter 1: The Soot Of Power

A/N: Needless to say, I do expect that those of you reading this have seen the film. I also trust that I am not the only one who wished that Kenneth Branagh had been able to further elaborate on the state of Asgard while it was under Loki's control. But, it was called Thor, and as such, the God of Thunder had to be the primary focus. Thus I have developed this over the past six weeks, alternating the focus to everyone's favorite bastard. I aim to also elaborate further upon the Lady Sif and the Warriors Three, as I feel they were not given too much depth. Note that this is heavily laden with alternate events of my own design, and that I have a fondness for exploring the mother/son dynamic between Loki and Frigga, but I have made every effort to combine this with the beautiful world that the brave cast and crew of Thor created for us all on-screen.

I hope that all of you will take pleasure in reading this, and I would especially like to thank any of you who came here after reading "Like Pulling Teeth," for you all helped to make that the most enjoyable fan piece I've written.

It was killing him slowly, this feigned notion of remorse that he had forced to play upon his face so as to win their trust, if only for a time. His head fell back, eyes cast to the ceiling, breathing deeply as they watched him with concern, suspicion. Though physically draining, Loki had spend the whole of the previous night pacing the halls, strolling along in the gardens and wracking his brain for answers. There was no reason, save for those fabricated within his busy skull, he could find for Odin to have lied; no reason, save the fear of him becoming what he was, for the truth to have been hidden from him, from Thor. All along he should have known, had the right to know, who and what he was. Everything, these decadent halls and heightened ceilings, the early morning hours spent sleeping in the library, upon Odin's knee, had meant nothing. It had all been a lie.

He had seen the darkness lining the skin of his eyes early that morning, but had done nothing to repair it, simple as it would have been for someone with his talent in magic. Now, as they stared up at him from the dias of his throne, easily bothered by the fact that it had been given to him, it seemed that the decision had been a wise one, indeed.

Loki rose, Gungnir's shaft warm in his hand, and descended the stairs, their eyes all wide as he denied them their request to bring his brother home.

He spoke lies to them, stating that he could not undo his father's last command; that it would be disrespectful to the High One for him, though the now rightful king, to undermine his authority in such a manner. Though, in truth, Loki would have liked nothing more. If only it didn't involve foolish Thor's return.

Sif seemed to burn with disdain, disbelief, that undying hatred. So long she had wanted to turn him inside out, watch him bleed down the steps of his mother's garden as she took to ridding the Nine Realms of his brand of trickery. Since that day when they were children, when Loki had finally come into his own as a sorcerer, slipping into her bedchambers in the dead of night and changing her hair, by way of some ancient and lengthy spell, to the color of the pine tree's hardened bark. By now, if he so wished, Loki could change it back, make her long locks the color of golden candlelight once more. Of course, he never would.

"We're done," he snapped, his eyes boring into Fandral's, the warrior holding tightly to the Lady Sif's arm.

Wisely, he nodded with a generous smile, and gently tugged on the warrior woman, even as she refused to move.

But Loki raised a hand.

"Leave her," he said, and turned swiftly to the guards, nodding for them to follow the Warriors Three as a muted escort, ensure that they did not seek to conspire against him. The two men bowed slightly and swept quickly out of the room, the heavy doors echoing as they were promptly shut, leaving the two of them alone. "Now, Lady Sif..."

She spoke not a word as her feet moved, carrying her up the steps to stand before him, her hand lashing out to strike the spear from his. It clattered to the floor, Loki's eyes wide with shock and irritation as Sif took to him, her hands against his throat.

"Monster," she hissed, and he felt his gut churn. "You care not for the people of Asgard, for the trials that time has brought upon them. You are but a wolf in sheep's clothing, having always sought after the Allfather's power, to hold yourself above him..." she leaned in close, her breath shaking, "when you are nothing more than a writhing snake with your belly to the floor."

He sneered, grabbing her arm and giving it a twist, the toe of his boot pushing against the back of her knee, causing Sif to fall against him. Her eyes were wide, her lip trembling with anger. Not once would he dare to admit it, but she was right. He had never been one to care for the peace that Odin strove for, had only ever held his tongue in hopes that the Allfather would choose him as heir to the throne. Following the announcement of Thor's coronation, Loki had all but thrown that propriety to the vultures, hovering in the dark behind his brother's back and setting his secret plans in motion. All of those accusations he could bear, could swallow at table with the rest of his meal. But for the Lady Sif to say he was naught but a wriggling serpent, the lowest of the kingdom's creatures, was intolerable.

"Too much lead on that forked tongue?" she shot, giving him a firm knee to the groin.

Loki seethed and pushed her backwards, Sif's head striking the floor with a solid thud. She pulled him down after, and the two of them tumbled about like children in the courtyard, lacking the occasional stone or handful of dirt to shove in the other's mouth. With his hands at the side of her head, Loki growled, fingers knotted in her dark hair.

"You," he said through heavy breaths, "are an impressive woman, Lady Sif. My brother is indeed fortunate to have earned your favor." She flinched. "Now, tell me: How many times have you dreamed of him, taking Thor as your own?"

Her jaw dropped in shock, struggling beneath his weight as he straddled her. "That is none of your concern!"

"Ah. But you do not deny it." He leaned back and stood, stalking across the room as she leered after him. Kneeling, Gungnir was taken again in his hand, a smile appearing on his face. From the moment it had been offered to him, Loki had known with a certainty that he was meant to rule. "Now, Lady Sif, you may leave."

The warrior woman swore bitterly as she got to her feet, spitting the words at him as though they were venom with which to burn his skin.

"And, when you meet them, send the guards back."

# - # - # - #

Quietly Fandral sat, a goblet clasped in one hand as he leered across the room at Volstagg, whose mouth was, once more, filled to the breaking point with meat. He shook his head, paying the ale no mind as the sun burned through the window, heating the skin of the back of his neck. The whole situation was rather disconcerting, even a bit too convenient for his liking. A philanderer he may have been, but Fandral was also a reasonable man, having little interest in passing judgment upon any before first understanding their intentions, the facts behind whatever incident may have been at hand. But as his friends had pointed out in the healing room in the days before, there was something amiss in the House of Odin.

There were rumors that flitted about the grounds like tattling butterflies, all of the younger prince and the events following the coronation ceremony. One of them, and Fandral knew it to be lies, told of Loki's silver tongue as it had weaved ropes about his brother, urging him to breach the borders of Jotunheim and wage war. The others, though equally as outlandish, had some merit to them. Tales of Loki's disdain for Thor, his jealousy, even desires to be favored by the Allfather. Those were certainly points that he could believe, were it not for the lying tongues of the servants what had told him.

Truly, the servant girls were good for a cold and lonely night, but little more.

The warrior flinched at the sound of his companion's chewing, his arm flying up and spilling the ale over his boots. Fandral grimaced and cast the goblet to the floor, ignoring it as it rolled across the room and between the legs of a chair as he stormed to Volstagg's side, eyes aflame.

"What in the devil is wrong with you?!" he demanded, slamming a fist on the polished wood. Volstagg's plate hopped, sending grapes rolling to the floor. "Sif, what with her wild tongue, is like to be eaten alive in there, and here you are pigging out!"

The other turned as Fandral's hand struck the drumstick away, sending it soaring across the room and into a potted plant. His beard bounced as he stood, grabbing Fandral by the front of his tunic and hoisting him off the floor. With a bellow, he began to spin, holding the man in his outstretched arms and letting him fly towards the window. Eyes wide, Fandral reached for one of the columns, his hand scraping the side as he flew through the arched opening, falling and barely catching the edge of the balcony.

He wailed, not daring to look down for his fear of heights, and squirmed until Hogun appeared and yanked him back into the room. On his hands and knees the warrior heaved, rolling down the steps and onto his back as Sif entered.

"Ah, Lady Sif," he gasped, swiping at his brow. "How kind of you to join us."

The woman stomped her foot, taking hold of the drumstick that had fallen into the plant and flinging it angrily into the nearest torch.

"I take it your chat went rather well," Volstagg quipped, dripping with as much sarcasm as ale upon his beard.

"That unrepentant bastard!" she howled, seeming to give thought to kicking the torch to the floor. "I cannot stand him!"

Taking to his feet, Fandral turned and crossed the room, coming to stand beside Sif, a hand on her shoulder. "Well, that's not hard to see, my dear," he chuckled with a grin. She glowered at him. "I take it he didn't ask you to dinner."

Sif opened her mouth then quickly closed it, having thought better of her response. This made Fandral raise a quizzical brow and stroke his chin, watching as she paced across the polished floor. He thought that, were she allowed to continue doing such for very much longer, the heels of her boots would wear a deep trench right through the slabs of beautiful stone.

"He most certainly did not," she snapped, coming to fall into a chair at the head of the table. Immediately, Sif seized the pitcher of ale, tilting it over a goblet until it was filled, bringing it to her lips and downing it without so much as a breath. "He has nerve to speak of Thor, to call himself King."

Fandral nodded. "Ah, so that's it."

"What's it?!" she demanded.

He coughed, quickly moving across to the opposite side of the room before speaking loudly, "So he made mention of your beloved. Of your... secretendeavors."

Sif jumped from the chair and ran across the top of the table as Fandral stared, suddenly begging her not to pound him into powder, and darted around to stand at Volstagg's side, his chair sticking out.

"I didn't mean it!" he shouted, running around the chair as Hogun watched. "It was just a joke!"

"It's always jokes with you!" Sif retorted, finally leaping over Volstagg and seizing him by the hair. "Loki is the bastard and you are the fool!"

Fandral wailed, apologizing and insisting that Sif not rip out too much of his hair, as he had considered taking a very lovely young woman out for a quality night of fun. She scoffed at that, yelling at him once more, this time about his blatant disregard for women unless it involved removing their undergarments and bedding them.

The door opened then, the woman's voice lost amid all the shouting. It was only when Hogun let out a curt bark that they ceased, Sif seated atop the philanderer's back, her hands still knotted in his short blond hair. Volstagg turned as well, another goblet of ale clasped firmly in his hand. Turning towards the door, they all took to their feet and offered a deep bow as the goddess swept through the room. Her eyes lingered upon the torch a moment, looking to the group as if expecting to know why on earth there were burned chicken bones within the flame. But she shook her head, the gown sweeping about at her feet as she settled upon one of the chairs.

"Has my Lady slept well?" Fandral inquired, hands moving to lay flat his hair again.

They all knew the answer to that silly question, word of the queen's trials having surged throughout the palace in recent days. It had been said by her servants that the Queen Frigga had not slept a wink since Thor's banishment, the day of the Allfather's unfortunate fall into the Odinsleep. The warrior grimaced, noting that Loki's words had been true, evidence of the goddess' fatigue evident upon her fair face. He grimaced and looked quietly to Sif, curious as to whether or not she had realized this as well.

Frigga sighed, leaning back in the chair and motioning for them to sit. The warriors did as they were bidden, and Fandral quite happily allowed Hogun and Volstagg to settle into the space between himself and Sif.

She spoke quietly of the Allfather's condition, expressed her worry that the High One would ever awaken again. Fandral sat in silence, hunched over in his chair with his arms folded, his brow creased and a serious expression upon his face. He had never had true reason to dislike Loki, even as a boy. An awkward child himself, he had only ever played along with his friends and their charades, fearing the worst if he did not. After all, he had seen Sif's ferocity when Volstagg had dared to tell her that her idea to jump off the top of the palace and into the lake was a foolish one, and she had made sure that he sported quite the black eye for a while. Fortunately, on that day, Loki had gone to tell Odin of her exploits, and the Allfather had come and put a stop to it.

But, Fandral had noticed that, as their group had aged, Loki had become a bit more hostile, more introverted, even when it came to his having a part in their schemes. He had argued with Thor far more often, not hesitating in the slightest to tell his brother that he was utterly daft. The first time, he recalled, had been a rather violent argument, one that had ended with an abundance of swearing on Thor's part, and Loki planting a foot in his fallen brother's face. Ashamed as he was to admit it, Fandral had laughed that day.

Things were all so different now, what with Thor having gone. Thus far, all evidence pointed to the contrary, insisting that Thor's banishment and the Odinsleep had just come about as naught but coincidences. It was clear that Sif and Hogun, at least, were increasingly suspicious of their friend, but Fandral would not make a call just yet.