How can you pretend something isn't broken when part of it is missing?

The room was dark where Loki sat hunched over his desk, pen scratching wildly at parchment. The bin next to him on the floor was stuffed with crumpled papers, most barely filled. He'd need to replace that soon. He needed to throw the papers out or banish them away or something. But not now. Not now when he was so close, when he'd finally made a decision.

Nothing could break his concentration. Everything else was arranged. The bags by his door were already packed. His knives, spellbooks, and clothing took up the greatest amount of space. He'd tried to pack only the simplest of clothing, something unrecognizable and plain, nothing that could be linked back to Asgard.

(For a moment, standing in front of his closet, he'd considered leaving anything green, as well, but then he'd remembered Mother looking down at him in their private garden oh so many, many years ago and telling him how handsome he looked in green and he'd gone and stuffed three green undershirts into his bag before he could stop himself.)

Strapped to his waist, there was a large sum of money charmed to fit into a small pouch. The money was taken from his private accounts and allowances, gradually of course. There was still a small sum left over in his accounts that he supposed he'd have to leave behind. The second prince depleting his entire account was bound to go noticed by someone.

He'd packed a dozen or so various items for survival as well. Basic tools and extra bandages. A small sewing kit. He'd even packed a healing stone, though only one. The rest he left. Thor could use them. It wouldn't be too long before he and his friends would go on another adventure.

The quill in his hand creaked from the pressure of his fist. Taking a deep breath, he placed it down on his desk next to the three items—a necklace, a dagger, and a stone—that he'd picked out and set aside months ago.

All that was left was to write the letter. Then he'd deliver the items and go. And maybe they'd be sad and maybe they'd search and maybe they wouldn't but the point was it'd be done. Asgard's Royal Family would be gold and brilliant and strong and soon all the Nine Realms would forget there ever was a second prince.

And maybe one day he could forget that he was ever Prince Loki Odinson, too.

The Queen's child was gone.

'Missing.' She thinks. 'Missing, not gone. He was alive. He wasn't dead. Heimdall would know if he was dead. Somewhere, Loki is alive.'

She just didn't know where that somewhere was. Or how long he'd been missing. Or if he was coming back.

The court stares at her now. She can hear whispers behind her back that were never there before.

She doesn't know, exactly, how long Loki has been gone and that's the worst, she thinks. Because maybe if she were the kind of mother who knew how many days, how many seconds, went by without her boy beside her than maybe she would also be the kind of mother whose son never left at all.

Instead she is the kind of mother who wandered in to her dressing room one morning—she wishes she knew the exact date, she spends hours and hours and whole days trying to force her brain to remember the exact date because maybe then she would not feel so useless—and saw the thin chain Loki wears around his neck sitting forlornly at her vanity and did nothing.

(Loki never took off that chain. He won it off some dwarves centuries ago and never once took it off since and a good mother would have remembered that but she didn't and doesn't that just say everything?)

She didn't so much as think of the necklace at all until four months later—when still no one had heard from Loki: no one in all the Nine Realms had from Loki, no one knew where he was or what he was up to and if he would ever just come home—when she woke in bed in a cold sweat and remembered the necklace and ran to her dressing room on feet that did not feel like her own.

There were a dozen different things on her vanity but none of them were the necklace and she hated her possessions in that moment. Hated her luxuries and jewelry and creams and all the hundred little things blocking her view and so she'd yelled and swept them all to the floor but still she didn't see the necklace.

The handmaidens still spoke of that day in hushed tones: A Queen down on her knees in her nightgown, searching and searching and then finally destroying, ripping away everything in her path.

But she was tired. Tired because she was a Queen and she was exhausted from all the sleepless nights of the last few weeks after she'd finally realized that her child was gone, really gone and not just away on some adventure.

They thought she'd gone mad. Let them. None of those fools knew the pain of a lost child, of a child gone from you and you did not even know why or when but you did know that he'd left something behind and you could not find it. All those compartments and drawers mocked her. They hid her child from her. And she'd felt so angry. The universe was hiding her son away like a thief and no threats or tears or gatekeepers could get him back and she was so tired of not seeing the one important thing because of a thousand idiotic, flighty things and if she couldn't raze the universe in her search for him then she would be damned if she couldn't raze a dressing room.

She found it on the floor. Laying next to the splinters of what, once, was her treasured Elven vanity. The splinters cut into her skin as she'd knealt down on the ground and clutched the necklace in her hand.

She wore that chain around her own neck now, a painful reminder of all the ways she'd failed.

Once, Odin told her to take it off. Release the necklace from her neck and return it to Loki's room so that he could have it when he returned. But he couldn't answer her when she asked if, since he was so wise, he could tell her when her son was coming back. If he could tell her why, if it was 'just another adventure, dear, don't worry' did Loki not leave a note? Why did he not bring Thor? Why didn't he talk to them before he left?

Odin didn't answer and sometimes she hated him but most times she hated herself, for assuming for so long that Loki was fine, that nothing was wrong, that he'd gone off to study magic or get some new spellbooks, that he'd come back soon.

Why did they assume for so long that he was fine?

Two years passed and nothing was fine but everything, she resolved, would be better once Loki finally returned. She was sure of it. She'd make sure they talked more, make sure they laughed more.

Make sure she set aside time every day for her son.

Maybe they could even start spending time in the gardens again. They'd used to, when he was a child. The gardens were magnificent and green just like his eyes and he'd been such a quiet child, so content to sit next to her and watch the birds.

She'd gotten busier as he'd gotten older, of course. They hadn't sat out there together in some time, but surely that didn't mean he couldn't still appreciate them, did it?

She wished they'd appreciated them more before he'd gone. The landscaping servants had started to do the most gorgeous hedge trimmings back when Loki had been just barely a teenager. She wondered if he'd ever seen them. They were truly magical, the most wondrous displays of animals and people and—once—the most perfect rendition of the Royal Family, all gathered close together. She took time every year to stop and admire them.

Loki would love them.

A few days later, she walked out to her garden, ready to see the hedges. Perhaps, if there was still time, she would even request a design of her own.

When she arrived, the garden was a disaster around her. The shrubs were brown; weeds sprouted out of hedges whose designs were so old she couldn't tell the shape of them any more. The grass was untrimmed, reaching nearly to her knees. Her favorite flowers were withered and dead.

Loki couldn't see this. He needed to know she'd made things special for him, not let all of their favorite places shrivel and die in his absence.

A servant girl passed her and Frigga called out to her. "What has become of my garden?"

The girl stopped and stared at her like an overgrown deer. "I-I'm sorry, my liege. We-we-we haven't assigned anyone new to the garden yet."

"And why not? If Roknar quit then I should have been informed and a new gardener found at once. Why wasn't there?"

"We thought maybe if we let it be over-over-overgrown then he might…"

"Who might? I demand to speak to the head gardener at once."

"Prince Loki always tended this garden, my Queen. Or did. He left it in my charge but I only thought that was for a little while and when he return I thought maybe if I left it untended he'd get angry and come back but…I'm sorry, my Queen."

The world seemed to pale before Frigga's very eyes. She sat down heavily in her garden chair.

"I didn't really want to be left in charge. I mean, I did, but I always thought Loki did a better job than me. He always took such great care with it. He…he used spells to keep all of the weeds away and brewed potions to spread over the flowers, to make them bloom longer. Sometimes, when he thought you or-or one of us was feeling sad, he would even enchant them to bloom early for us. Once he made a whole bunch of flowers sprout polka dots and sing every time the sun passed over head."

She remembered that. Seeing a whole host of daisies start singing, each one trumpeting off its own note in a wild, off-key serenade. She'd shaken her head at the staff's silliness.

"He had a small bunch of stinksap over in the far corner, that he used for pranks and told me to stay very, very far away from it but once I'd told him I wanted to gather it all up and dump it on my sister-in-law's head and he laughed and, and told me I could take as much as I liked. So I did. And we laughed."

Seeing her Queen's smile, the girl continued. "He even made a special trip to Nornheim, to acquire a kind of fertilizer there. It's very rare, and it makes the ground feel like clouds upon your feet." She smiled at the ground. "He loved the hedges best. He told me not to tell you but he spent weeks beforehand, planning out what he was going to do with each one. He drew little plans to make sure all of the pieces would look good all together, instead of only looking good one at a time."

She looked directly at Frigga, then, for the first time. "He loved how much you loved them. He planned out each one just for you. Sometimes he asked us which designs we thought you'd like best. He worked on them at night. And then had us tell him every time you came to see them, so that he could come and watch you see them, too." She looked back down again.

"I'd sit out here with him, sometimes, at night. I told him it was because I wanted to make sure nothing was crooked, but really I…I just wanted…he was so…no one ever…" She pressed her lips together briefly. "I-I was the one who suggested adding those lights, you know, a few decades ago. That's-that's how I became assistant head gardener."

Frigga looked up at her. "Did he…did he say why…"

She didn't look up from the ground. "I asked him." She whispered. "Before he…I asked him what he wanted to do this year. He hadn't mentioned at all and he usually did. He said he didn't know and so I asked him if maybe he wanted to do another hedge cut out like the Royal Family again. He did that one last year and you really seemed to like it. But he…said no. Not this year.

Her words got even quieter. Frigga had to strain to hear. "Do you…do you know where…?"

Frigga looked away. "No."

"Oh. I'm…I'll start tending the garden again, my Queen. Don't worry. I'll get it back again like it was before."

As if there was getting back to before was ever possible. "No. Don't. Leave it. I…want it like this." The girl stared at her but then averted her eyes, staring at the ground and bowing her head before walking away.

He never said…why couldn't he just have said—

'He should not have had to say.' She thought suddenly. Viciously. 'He should never have had to say or do anything. Not win tournaments or pull pranks.' She pressed roughly at her temples. What right did you ever have. To make him think your attention needed to be earned. What right did you ever have.'

She walked closer to the hedges and stood in front of the one that, once, had been the Royal Family, perfect and life-sized and detailed (she should have realized then; what common gardener could ever have known the Royal Family so well) all huddled together. All four with smiles on their faces, hers with its arm around Loki's shoulders and Odin's hand placed so carefully against the back of his neck, and Thor's leaning against him, everyone smiling and laughing and looking so damnably happy together.

But what a fantasy it had all turned out to be, just one lonely boy's yearning…

Dear Gods. Centuries. He'd made these for centuries and she didn't think she'd once taken the time to mention them to him. Even just in passing.

The worst part wasn't even that he hid from her, the worst part was that she could see the way he would hide from her so clearly, could see the way his eyes would go wide and he'd bite his lip when she came into the garden and lean forward just slightly from his hiding place so that he could see her reaction more clearly, so that he could see all of her awe and appreciation just a little bit better. She knew how he would look so well, so why hadn't she gone out there to see them with him?

Why hadn't she just made time?

That night, she tossed in her sleep. She could hear him. He was crying for her. Her baby was screaming and his loud, heartbroken sobs echoed the castle. He was still so small, Odin only just brought him home from the war a week ago and he was so afraid of being left alone in the dark. Her little boy. Her precious miracle child. She ran to him, trying to reach him in time but she stumbled and her fall jolted her awake. She sat up in bed, panting.

She could still hear him.

She was awake, she knew she was, and Loki was grown and Loki was gone but still she could hear him crying for her and she was going to fail him now too, get there too late and he'd be gone forever.

No. She got out of bed. The cries were so faint, so quiet, but they got louder as she got farther away from the bed. She ran down the corridors. She felt like a rat in a maze, running wild lines, jolting back every time the cries grew faint again and made her feel like she'd hit a wall. She was coming. She was coming. If he could just hold on.

She thought the cries were coming from Loki's wing but when she got near there the cries grew faint again and she kept running, further and further until she felt like she'd run a big circle and the cries were like war drums in her ears and then she was deaf with them—deaf with the sound of his cries—and this must be it. She threw open the door.

The cries stopped. And the Queen looked around her at a nursery she'd half-forgotten was there.

Loki's old crib was still right next to the door. He'd cried so often at night for no reason. Refused to stop unless someone came and soothed him.

No one was crying now but she knew she'd heard it before and she wondered suddenly when it was her baby taught himself to cry without sound.

Slowly, she made her way over to the ancient rocking chair in the window. She pulled an old, soft blanket down around her shoulders. And then she cried. Silently at first and then with deep, shuddering breaths, forcing herself to make noise. Make noise as she cried loud enough for both of them.

Then, maybe, when her precious baby boy finally came back, she will have shed enough tears that she could hold him through his.

(A/N)

Thank you for reading.

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