Ta da! This is the last chapter (I swear)!

It kind of gets increasingly AU, but I... I wanted the Feels :3

And yes, I'm making Odin a douche. My interpretation of Odin is based on the Marvel comic "Blood Brothers" and Mike Vasich's book "Loki", in case anybody's wondering why I make him so evil. And Thor 2 didn't exactly do anything to assuage my feelings about him.

Also, I know that Sleipnir and Hela are both Loki's children in the myths, but I'm choosing in this fic for them to be unrelated because I simply cannot see my Loki here as a father.

Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

Chaos-green eyes blink, and slowly, slowly those bloodied lips curl up in a smile.

For a moment Thor allows hope to flutter its feathers inside his ribcage.

But that hope is dashed away when Loki whispers, "Then catch me," and lets himself fall into the darkness.

Thor rushes to the balcony and looks down just in time to see smoky wings snap open, and a falcon glide off on the rain-scented breath of night uttering a high, shrill cry that causes gathering clouds to shiver and brings the sky to tears.

Jane wakes up to the sound of Darcy's laughter and the scent of freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies.

When she walks into the kitchen wearing her lilac pajamas and fuzzy purple slippers, bleary-eyed, brown hair a tangled mess, she finds Darcy and Ian each eating a cookie, melted chocolate on their fingers and lips, as Loki stands there with a couple forks, placing more batter on the metal tray.

"Loki?" Jane asks in disbelief, eyes widening as she feels suddenly very awake. "What are you doing here?" she asks.

"He just waltzed on in and asked if we could show him how to bake cookies," Darcy says, with her characteristic wide-eyed what-can-I-say-people-are-weird expression. "And since we had all the supplies, Boyfriend and I thought why the hell not."

"Is Thor here too?" Jane inquires hopefully.

The dark god chuckles, looking up from the cookie dough to smile at her, eyes coruscating shrewdly—and Jane remembers Thor telling her how Loki travels between realms through pathways and space, and she wonders for a moment if all that darkness gouged his eyes out and he shoved two stars into his empty sockets to take their place, and that's why those green eyes are so fucking bright.

But the thought slips from her mind forgotten as he says, "No, Thor is still in Asgard, likely cursing my name."

"What did you do?" Jane says, stomach dropping at his gleefully impish expression.

"Oh, not much," Loki says casually, as the timer beeps and he finishes placing the rest of the cookie dough on the sheet and opens the oven, a wave of heat rolling over them as he grabs the sheet of baked cookies and slides in the new tray of dough.

He doesn't even use oven mitts as he holds the burning hot tray and sets it down on the burners on top of the stove.

"Cookie?" Darcy asks, offering a plate of them to Jane, who takes one, letting it dissolve sweet and chocolatey on her tongue.

Shifting his sharp gaze to the scientist, Loki says cryptically, "Thor will come down and make you an offer, which I suggest you consider well before giving him your answer." He turns to address Darcy and Ian. "I hope you don't mind if I take some of these Midgardian treats with me?" he inquires, raising a dark eyebrow.
"Not at all," Ian says, gesturing at the trays. "Take as many as you'd like."

Loki nods in thanks and crosses over to the cabinet on the other side of the room in two long-legged strides, and removes a paper plate and roll of aluminum tinfoil. He then arranges a dozen or so cookies on the plate and covers it with the foil.

Inclining his head politely, Loki says, "Thank you for the educational baking experience, but I must bid you farewell. And oh—" he adds, as thunder rumbles in the distance, "I'd appreciate it greatly if you didn't tell Thor I was ever here. It can be our little secret."

(Although, Loki thinks wryly, their loyalties are far stronger to Thor than he, and they'll do doubt betray him. Just like everybody always does.)

And with that Loki steps out of Midgard's plane of reality, still holding the plate of cookies.

When Thor lands on the deck, it's immediately clear to Jane that something has changed, and her stomach drops, apprehension from Loki's words winding tighter.

It's the way Thor stands with the resigned determination of someone who carries the weight of the world on their shoulders—although in this case it's probably the weight of the worlds, Jane thinks—and has decided they will bear the burden with grace.

It's the way Thor says "Jane," his voice soft with caring and heavy with some knowledge he's nervous about imparting upon her.

It's the way Thor kisses her, both tender and hungrily, as if this is either the beginning or the end of something, and he doesn't know which.

"What is it?" Jane asks once they break apart, worry evident in her sorrel eyes.

"I am King of Asgard now," Thor states, and Jane's eyes widen, lips parting as she lets go of Thor's hands and takes a step back, expression almost betrayed.

"But that means you can't stay here," she realizes weakly.

"Jane," Thor says, and she can hear the confirmation of her fears in his voice. "We can still be together."

"How?" Jane asks dubiously. Anger begins to rise in her chest, that Thor will have to leave her again, even if he has no choice, and he won't be able to come back more than briefly every so often—and with her mortal lifespan, it's possible she might only see him another two or three times.

She knows a king can't just go on vacation for a few decades, and the thought hurts.

Yet Thor's next words send a shock through her system, enough to send her heart trying to beat out of her chest.

"You can be my Queen," Thor says.

And Jane's frozen as he continues, "By eating Idunn's golden apples, you can retain your youth and live immortally by my side. Though you would have to live in Asgard and would seldom be able to visit your homeland here, and you would have to realize that you will outlive your friends here. It would stress the laws and beliefs of Asgard enough to bring you up, you know I couldn't do so for your friends as well. And eating Idunn's apples, though it will keep you immortal, it shan't turn you into an Aesir—you will still be human."

And Jane hears the subtext there, the You will still be a fragile mortal.

It's a question of love, she realizes. Whether her love for Thor is great enough she would leave behind everything she's ever known, or whether her love for her friends and home overpower her love for the god.

And Jane remembers Loki's words: Thor will come down and make you an offer, which I suggest you consider well before giving him your answer.

Thor is waiting, watching her with fearful, resigned blue eyes.

"I..." Jane starts, letting her gaze fall from his handsome face to the deck, where she shuffles her feet in their fuzzy purple slippers. "I need to think about it."

"I understand," Thor says, and she can tell he does. "I will leave you to your decision then, as I have more duties I must attend to." He's about to leave before he pauses. "You haven't by any chance seen Loki recently, have you?" he inquires.

For a moment Jane is about to tell Thor that yes, in fact she has, but she remembers Loki asking that his visit be kept secret with such an expression it was obvious he was used to people disparaging his word, and Jane just shakes her head at the thunder god.

And to be honest, she wants to spite Thor a little.

There's a rush of power and from behind her closed eyelids and Jane doesn't see the rainbow beam that takes Thor back up to Asgard. Doesn't see his silver armor gleaming, doesn't see his red cape fluttering, doesn't see how his grip is white-knuckled on Mjolnir.

Tears slide down her cheeks, and when she opens her eyes he's gone.

"Well fuck," Darcy says from the doorway. "That sucks."

The mists are silver, twisting and curling, so thick that Loki can barely see his feet as his black boots stir the mist like water.

In front of him the dark, hulking canine shadow of Garm becomes visible standing before the entrance of Hel.

Sounds are muffled as well, and Garm's thunderous snarling seems but a kitten's purr through the mist that Loki holds close about his figure until he gets within a few yards of the wolf.

You are not dead, Garm growls at the god, baring long white teeth. The wolf's eyes are a glowing red, like there's fires lit behind them, and muscles ripple visibly beneath her smoky black coat as she shifts threateningly, claws carving into the rocky ground.

"No," Loki agrees, smirking. "Though I've been close to it countless times and have been believed such at least twice."

What brings you here, Trickster?

"A social visit, if you will," Loki answers calmly.

Forget it, Garm snarls, tail beginning to wag low and dangerously. Hela will not see you.

"I have cookies," Loki says, as he gestures with his right hand at the aluminum foiled plate held in his left, smiling innocently. "They're chocolate-chip."

Garm sniffs the air, the scent of freshly baked cookies lingering strongly about the god. And you think cookies change anything? The wolf growls, mocking.

"Yes," Loki says immediately, smile growing continuously more angelic. "They make good bribes and peace offerings."

Says the mischief god, Garm gives a barking laugh. This is Helheim, Sly One. Bribes and peace offerings are meaningless here.

"How about distractions?" Loki offers.

Too late Garm snaps at him with her bone-crushing jaws—the illusion dissipates into nothingness, grinning like a skull.

"Loki," Hela greets, as the dark god strides into her holding something round and glinting silver in his left hand, making no effort to step over the bones that are strewn across the hall. They crunch beneath his black boots.

"Hela," Loki nods, coming up before her throne of skulls and lowering to one knee, tilting his head down respectfully.

He then jumps up, saying, "How have you been darling? You life hasn't been hell, I hope."

"No, it's been hela fun," she smirks. "But just because the mortals believe—falsely—that I am your daughter simply because we look similar does not give you the right to call me pet names," she says, voice lowering to a threatening, sibilant hiss.

And with the God of Mischief and Ruler of Helheim standing next to each other, it's easy to see why people might think they're related.

Both ghostly pale, both raven-haired, both with eyes the luminous green of their magic since their powers stem from the same chaotic force of Yggdrasil, and both wearing black and green—in Loki's case his Asgardian leather armor, in Hela's case a sweeping gown.

However Hela's face is obscured by a black mask and headpiece, the black antlers of which twist ornately out and upwards.

"Do so again and I will—"

"Kill me?" Loki interrupts, raising his eyebrows as he walks up the steps to her throne, lifting up the aluminum foil as he sets the plate on her throne's arm rest, offering her one even as he takes one himself. "Get in line, love. Though I'm afraid then you would be stuck with me and my mischief until Ragnarok."

"I was going to say: beat you bloody, you insufferable creature," Hela snaps, though she takes one of the chocolate-chip cookies in a slender, pallid hand.

"They smell good," she remarks. "What are they?"

"Chocolate-chip cookies," Loki says. "A Midgardian dessert."

"What does it taste like?" she questions cautiously.

"Like warm sunlight in winter, except with more chocolate. Try it."

Thor growls to himself, low and rumbling in the back of his throat as he paces the Observatory, only vaguely aware of Heimdall's amber gaze flitting to him every once in a while, though mostly the gatekeeper tries to ignore Thor while he paces like a starved and restless animal in its golden cage. An animal that can see and smell freedom but can't reach it.

Clomp clomp clomp, Thor's boots pound out a steady beat on the floor. Steady as a hammer.

That's what Thor has always been, and nobody worries because they know just where he'll be.

It's Loki that terrified people, in his erratic behavior and unpredictable tendencies, and Loki only made it worse by cloaking himself in mysteries and speaking words that no matter how simple they appeared were always riddled with complexities, using pride as the impervious armor of his insecurities, so nobody could ever tell whether he was content or suffering.

Thor has never been good at understanding Loki.

No one has, actually. That trickster's mind is like a maze, Thor knows, convoluted and dark, with trapdoors and booby traps and death traps and loops in all four dimensions and not a single dead end.

Trying to think like Loki gets Thor nothing but a headache.

But oh Loki's clever, and ever has been able to read Thor like a picture book, often knowing what Thor's going to do before Thor knows himself.

If Loki doesn't want to be found then he will never be found.

But if Loki wants to be found, he will go where he knows Thor will look for him.

So then if he wants to find Loki, Thor realizes, he doesn't have to try to figure out where Loki would go—he just has to figure out where he would look for Loki.

And he runs their last conversation through his mind, one thing Loki said jumps out at him, and Thor has the urge to facepalm even as he hops into the flying boat that he left resting beside the bridge and speeds off across the water towards the city of Asgard.

"There is no place for me here. Asgard thinks me long dead, and it's best it stay that way. Even if you brought me back from Hel somehow..."

Loki has always told Thor that he's a hopeless liar.

Well, if Thor is correct, he won't have to lie.

All he needs is Sleipnir.

Hela raises her eyebrows in pleased surprise as the chocolate-chip cookie melts in her mouth. "They're alright," she concedes, trying to sound perfunctory, though she's already reaching for another one.

Chuckling, Loki opens his mouth to say something, but he's abruptly cut off by a bellowed, "YOU FAILURE OF A SON!"

Loki pauses, a sardonic smirk stretching across his lips as he turns to see Odin's spirit vibrating there lividly. The old man's but a shade, a shifting form in the mist of silvers and grays, appearing sometimes substantial and sometimes completely ethereal.

"Ah, Allfather," Loki says, eyes lighting up in elation at Odin's ire. "I wondered if you would be here."

"The Valkyrie wouldn't let me into Valhalla—Valhalla, which I created," Odin grunts, glaring with the ghostly orb of his left eye and the empty socket of his right. "I seem to have failed with you, if after all I've done to try to make you a beast of hatred you still had too much love and mercy to fight and kill me."

"Oh no, you misunderstand," Loki laughs, high and cold and cruel. "You succeeded with me quite admirably. You see, if you wanted to be killed in battle, you chose the wrong son to dispatch you. You taught Thor honor and chivalry."

Loki lowers his voice, expression shifting into something dark, pained insanity sparking in the depths of his shadowed green eyes that suck in the light like black holes. "You taught me to find exactly what it is somebody wants most, and make sure they never get it."

At this proclamation Odin's face crumples. Even as but a spirit he looks weary and thousands of years old, like he might just crumble apart. "I've made so many mistakes," he realizes, looking down at where his feet dissipate into nothing.

Loki laughs again. "You know, Mother told me that a true king admits his faults. Ironic, I think, when you never did."

As Odin closes his eye in denial, his shoulders begin to tremble.

And oh, Loki is enjoying this, as he descends the steps towards the one he once called Father, his movements precise and predatory, his voice pitched low and acrimonious. "So tell me, what is it you regret? Taking me from Jotunheim, from that cold barren rock where I should have died so I wouldn't be here to hate you? Or perhaps you regret I did not turn out to be the tool you'd intended?"

Odin shakes his head, saying quietly, "No Loki."

And Loki can't stop laughing.

Entering the stables, the smell of hay and horse manure washes over Thor as he strides down to Sleipnir's stall.

The large dappled-gray horse nickers in greeting, his eight hooves dancing in agitated anticipation, as if he can tell where they'll be going, and that they will be retrieving his favorite person.

Sleipnir adores Loki, even though it was Loki's magical accident that caused the horse to have eight legs.

But Loki had said: no harm done. After all, Sleipnir is now the fastest horse in all the Nine Realms, and can travel places almost no other creature can travel to and still come back alive.

"Come on, Sleipnir," Thor says, as he leads the steed outside, quickly fastening the horse with saddle and bridle and swinging up onto his back. "Let us bring Loki home."

He clicks his tongue, and Sleipnir takes off towards the bifrost bridge, eliciting rainbow sparks with every step.

Heimdall sets them down on the edge of Niflheim, as close as anyone living can get to Helheim.

But Sleipnir finds the way through the oceans of mist, the trail of solid ground that winds through the ravenous bog with its oppressive stink of death and decay.

There are icy black rivers with waterfalls that roar like the harsh battle cries armies on the losing side of a battle, rivers that could sweep away entire kingdoms, but Sleipnir's speed is such that he barely touches the ground and might as well be flying through the air, and he dashes straight over the crying rapids that are white with rabid froth.

There's so much mist and darkness and bone-chilling cold, and Thor grits his chattering teeth to try to keep them still, shivers convulsing through his frame.

And somewhere it seems Sleipnir crosses realities, as ghostly figures become visible in the mists, their cries not so much sorrowful as empty as they reach with smoky limbs and see with shadowed holes instead of eyes; the lost spirits of the dead, doomed to wander the edges of Helheim for eternity.

After what could have been days, hours, or merely minutes, the mists are dispersed slightly by a warm breath that stinks of blood and smoke and rotting flesh, and Garm is there standing before them, lip curled and teeth bared, black fur rising in agitation.

Sleipnir whinnies, rearing slightly on his back four legs.

"Shhh," Thor says calmingly, patting the steed's dappled-gray neck, dark mane smooth beneath his palm.

Another one of the Living, Garm snarls. State your purpose in Hela's realm.

"I've come to retrieve Loki," Thor states, bold and honest.

To his surprise, Garm gives an exasperated pant, growling, Yes, get the Trickster out of here.

And with that she lies down, head on her paws as she allows them passage into the heart of Helheim, though her burning eyes stay on them till they disappear completely into the cave of darkness on the other side.

Long and winding and pitch dark, echoing of final breaths and last words, murmurings of love and gasped curses. The darkness is so deep and palpable that Thor cannot tell whether his eyes are opened or closed, and the air is so cold that he loses all feeling in his body, and can only feel the speed of Sleipnir beneath him as they tear through the cave.

One could become lost here easier than breathing, Thor thinks.

But eventually Sleipnir finds the way out, and although the light of Helheim is dim as twilight it blinds Thor after all that time in darkness, and he clenches his eyes shut and ducks his head on reflex.

When his eyes adjust and he's able to open them again and look around, Thor sees that there are fires on this side, flame and mist twirling in some chaotic dance. Though the flames don't so much as make the place brighter, they give the place a semblance of life, almost, amid the overwhelming presence of death, heavy and dark and inevitable.

They make Helheim seem slightly less depressing.

(Even if the only reminder of life is pain.)

The mists clear when they reach the throne room, and Thor utters a yell as he sees Hela grab Loki, one lean arm around his chest and the other holding a gleaming obsidian dagger to his throat.

"Unhand my brother!" Thor orders, swinging off Sleipnir to the floor, bones crunching beneath his feet as he strides forward, only to stop when he notices that Loki looks positively triumphant.

"What, you're not enjoying your stay here?" she purrs, and her green gaze is not fixed on Thor. "I could make it more torturous for you by killing Loki to keep you company and turn your regret into agony."

Only then does Thor notice the smoky figure of his father in front of him.

"Odin?" Thor asks, as the old man turns to look at him in surprise.

"My son," Odin acknowledges.

"Why don't you tell him," Loki calls, voice raspy and hoarse from hysterics, "Tell your son all that you've done, all your intentional mistakes that have pitted him against the one he calls 'Brother' in order that you might fulfill the Norn's prophecy of Ragnarok! Why don't you tell your son how the very same words he swore—when we returned from that excursion to Nornheim—would never come to pass, you have been instigating!"

"What?!" Thor demands, turning on the old man, fists clenched into fists. "Is this true?"

"You can't fight your fate," Odin says stiffly.

There's something like betrayal in Thor's face, anger and denial and a wry humor that he must have gotten from Loki, as he says, "If you truly believe that," he rumbles, "Then you are a fool. Loki is my brother and always will be, and I will not push him away and believe the worst of him just because of the incoherent ramblings of some old ladies."

"You are a disappointment," Odin growls.

"Good," Thor says, and when Loki's lips twitch so do his. "Because Loki is not the only one who has lost the desire to make you proud."

The old man looks about to say something more, but Thor cuts him off with, "Oh, and by the way: Loki made a better king than you did."

And that's apparently all Odin's spirit can take. With one last scalding but dead stare, he fades away into nothing.

"Cowardly, unlovable old man," Thor grumbles to himself.

Behind him, Sleipnir snorts and paws at the ground in agreement.

After waiting another moment for the dark god to calm down, Hela finally lets Loki go, a drip of red on his neck; and as his lean body trembles with adrenalin, Thor realizes that threatening to kill Loki was probably just the Queen of the Dead's excuse for restraining him.

Thor doesn't know if it's possible to injure someone who is already dead, but if it can be done Loki would be able to figure it out.

"Brother," Thor says gently. "It will be okay."

Loki's wild eyes snap to his face. I don't believe you, they scoff, more black than green.

And Thor has nothing to say, and so he says nothing, instead choosing to ascend the steps to where Loki stands and pull his little brother into a hug.

They stay that way—Loki with his arms around Thor's chest while Thor has his arms around Loki's shoulders, one hand on Loki's back and the other at the nape of Loki's neck—until finally Loki's shaking stops and he pushes the thunderer away, eyes cast down in a way that says his pride won't let him thank Thor for defending him, however grateful he is that Thor, if nobody else, will stand with him no matter what.

"Cookie?" Hela offers, breaking the awkward moment as she holds out the plate of chocolate-chip treats.

"They're better than poptarts," Loki adds, finally looking up at his brother.

Thor smiles as he takes a cookie. "Don't mind if I do."

"Come to the dark side!" Loki crows suddenly. "We have cookies!"

"What?" two voices chorus in confusion.

Loki shrugs, eyes beginning to regain their mischievous luster. "Oh, you know: Midgardian phrase."

On their way back to Asgard riding Sleipnir, Loki insists on sitting in front with control of the reigns while Thor has to hold around his waist.

"I know the way better than you do," Loki points out.

"It doesn't matter if I don't know the way," Thor grumbles. "Sleipnir knows it."

"Exactly—it doesn't matter, so you should stop complaining about having to sit on the back," Loki smirks, and Thor has the urge to hit him.

But instead he just rests his chin on Loki's shoulder, dark hair tickling his nose, breathing in Loki's familiar scent of ash wood.

In the darkness of the tunnel Gnipahellir Thor subconsciously grips Loki tighter, burying his face into his brother's hair just to make sure he's still there in the black and the cold that presses around them like an ocean.

"Thor, I can't breathe," Loki gasps, voice muffled, and Thor jumps at the noise, nearly falling off Sleipnir before he feels Loki's hand grab him by the cape and haul him back up.

For some reason Thor hadn't realized that you could hear anything in the cave.

"Idiot," Loki snorts.

"Keep talking," Thor says, practically pleading.

"What?" comes Loki's voice, the smirk evident even in the inky blackness. "The Mighty Thor, afraid of the dark?"

"Shut up," Thor growls.

"I thought you just told me to keep talking."

There's silence, and Thor practically whimpers.

"Loki please keep talking."

"I'm surprised you made I through Gnipahellir even once, if it disarms you so."

"It was awful."

"Oh, this is priceless! You will fight your way through hundreds of warriors without batting an eye, you will temporarily sacrifice your girlfriend of your own volition, you will face a Kursed Dark Elf that beat you into the dirt, but you are unnerved by a little dark and cold."

"Thank you for summing that up."

"You would never have survived the void, you know."

Light breaks upon them, and Garm's hot and fetid breath greets them as they screw their eyes shut and crinkle their noses.

So, the little Asgardians return. I see you're taking the Trickster home, Thunderer, just as you promised.

Loki bites down the urge to snap, "I don't have a home."

But he does though, doesn't he? Thor says, "Indeed."

Good riddance, Garm growls, and the ground rumbles as the wolf's tail thumps against it.

Loki laughs.

They continue on into the stirring stormy-gray mists, and everything looks so similar in takes Thor a while to realize they're going a different direction than the way he came—the ground beneath Sleipnir's eight hooves sounds softer, less rock and more soil and vegetation, and the mists are taking on an unfamiliar argent shade.

"Loki, we're going the wrong way," Thor says, apprehension creeping into his tone. The droplets of mist are wet and cool as they drizzle against his skin, and he shivers, pressing closer to his little brother even though Loki's skin is just as pale and cold.

"No we're not," Loki says assuredly.

"Yes we are. It feels different," Thor protests, reaching for the reigns before Loki pulls them away, slapping at Thor's large hand.

"It's a different way," Loki says, turning his head to glare at Thor. "But that doesn't mean it's the wrong way."

Thor pauses. At least Sleipnir has slowed from a trot to a walk. With eight legs, Sleipnir's trot just about rattles the teeth in Thor's skull till he's sure they're going to fall out if he opens his mouth. Not to mention he can barely stay on the horse.

Sleipnir's walk though is significantly smoother, and he has the easiest canter of any horse in the Nine Realms, and one of the most comfortable gallops, despite being by far the most powerful.

"So where are we going?" Thor asks after a few moments.

"You'll see."

"I can't see hardly anything in this damn mist!"

"Patience, Brother."

"I am being patient!"

"No you're not."

"Yes I am!"

"Well now you're just being contradictory."

"No I'm not!"

"Yes you are."

"No, I'm not!"

"See? You're being contradictory."

Thor growls in annoyance, and Loki elbows him in the gut, admonishing, "Not in my ear," and leaving Thor clutching his side and gasping. Damn but Loki's elbow is bony.

When the mists finally clear, Sleipnir stands at the top of a large verdant hill. Looking down into the valley below, Thor sees the enormous, majestic hall of Valhalla with its roof thatched with gold shields, the golden tree of Glasir before it.

"Well?" Loki asks, sounding pleased. He turns his head to assess Thor's expression, and the thunderer sees that Loki is grinning hugely.

Licking his dry lips, Thor manages, "What are we doing here?"

"Just passing through," Loki says with a tone of nonchalance that can't even fool Thor.

"You're hoping we'll see Mother," Thor realizes, as Sleipnir begins trotting down the hill.

Aaaaaargh, Thor thinks, clenching his teeth and gripping Loki tighter.

Okay, it wasn't as bad as getting pounded in the face by that Kursed creature, but still.

Thor dismounts gratefully as Sleipnir stops beneath the gold boughs of Glasir, saying to his brother, "So how exactly do you plan to make this look unintentional?"

"Why, we pretend we died, and fight our way through the hall," Loki says, rolling his eyes as if that was obvious, as he too swings off the eight-legged steed.

"Right," Thor says, unconvinced.

"If we just walked through, they're bound to notice us," Loki points out, beginning towards the doors of the hall, Thor just beside him. The sounds of battle from Valhalla echo loudly—battle cries, the clashing of weapons, the crashing of broken tables and goblets being smashed. "But they're all drunk, dead warriors whose only purpose is to fight; they aren't going to be observant. So we just have to fight and yell and fight through them while trying not to actually get killed. Exactly what you do best."

"And hope that Mother sees us," Thor adds, hand on the handle into the hall. "And that nobody recognizes us."

Loki sends him a look, like, But of course Mother will see us. Why would you ever think differently?

And then Thor's pushing the doors open, and the two of them charge into the tumultuous mass of bodies.

It is, for lack of a better word, insanity. Warriors are everywhere in the colossal hall, wielding swords and axes and maces, throwing goblets and chairs and smashing tables and hacking off each other's limbs and continuing to fight, no matter if they're missing legs or heads or have spears protruding through their stomachs.

And Loki thinks my plans are likely to get us killed? Thor can't help but wonder to himself, as he utters a thunderous, "AAAAAARGGGGGGGGGH!" and throws himself into the fray, which happen to be composed of all the best and most talented warriors that have ever lived.

Thor can't help the grin that spreads like wildfire over his features as Mjolnir spins around him, though he makes sure it never leaves his hand. Oh, but this is a challenge worthy of the Mighty God of Thunder!

Loki, with a sword in one hand and a whip in the other, is a twirling, unstoppable force of glinting steel, his whip is a blur around him, making a cracking noise each time the tip of it's rope breaks the sound barrier.

And then somebody manages to meet his blade, parrying every stroke and grabbing his arm, and Loki's green eyes widen as he registers Frigga's smiling face. And she grabs his arm and pulls him over to the sidelines, slashing warriors out of their way, before casting a magical protection around the area where they stand.

While most of the warriors are severely maimed and scarred, Frigga is still all in one piece, which, Loki thinks, certainly says something about her battle prowess.

"Mother," Loki breathes, as she takes his face in her hands and presses a kiss to his forehead.

"You're not dead," she notices.

"Not yet," Loki agrees, and his eyes drink her in, her long blond hair he used to play with as a child, those fair hands that used to guide his in his first lessons of magic, those lips that are some of the only ones that have ever truly smiled at him, those blue eyes that are some of the only ones that have ever looked upon him with love and pride.

And when she pulls him into a hug, he doesn't resist.

Even in death she still smells of honeysuckle beneath the metallic tang of her gold armor.

"I'm so sorry," Loki murmurs into her hair, beginning to shake. "I'm so sorry, I couldn't... I couldn't do anything... you died, and I was stuck in that stupid cell... and I couldn't save you..."

"Shhh, my son," Frigga says, stroking his raven hair, still as silky as she remembers it from his youth. "It's alright, there was nothing you could have done. It was my time to go."

A sob shudders through Loki's lean form. "They... they didn't allow me to your funeral..." he says, for once not cursing himself for the weakness he shows as tears trickle down his face, over his lips and nose. "I... never got to say goodbye."

"This is not goodbye," Frigga says softly, pulling away just enough so he can see the sincerity in her face. "I'll always be there with you, right here," she says, touching where his heart is beating in his chest, pulsing life like a star beneath her fingers. And she fills a thrill through her veins, that her little boy is so very alive, in a way most of the warriors in this hall lacked even when they were alive.

Loki knows and he sees and hears and he cares, he cares so very much that it breaks him.

"I'm everywhere you want me to be," Frigga reminds him, smiling into the pained, sorrowful expression that pulls his features, wanting nothing more for him to smile, because that expression rends her soul so. "In the whisper of the wind at your window when you can't sleep at night, in the warmth of sunlight on your skin, in the sweet taste of honeycakes on your lips."

He sniffles, those green eyes looking down, and she can't remember the last time she saw him showing so much emotion, even in front of just her. "I love you, Loki, and I'll never leave you," she tells him, and there's nothing but truth in her words. Truth, warm and comforting, rather than the cold cruel truth he's grown so accustomed to holding in the hollow of his heart.

But oh, she needs for him to remember her, to remember warmth and comfort and love so he doesn't freeze himself in the coldness of the world he takes into his soul.

And when he looks back up at her, she can see him realize her words in the way light glimmers like flames in those green eyes, lighting up his pallid face as she smiles and brushes a lock of onyx hair behind his ear, as she remembers the very first time she made such a gesture when he was hardly a babe and just grown enough hair for it to hide those gorgeous eyes.

"Thor's here too," Loki admits finally, shifting his gaze to look for his brother amongst the battle. "Hopefully he hasn't gotten himself killed yet."

Frigga just laughs, spotting the streak of blond hair and silver hammer that is Thor, catching his eye and gesturing him over.

Thor's blue eyes alight as he spots them, and as he fights his way over where they stand in Frigga's little bubble of safety at the edge of the hall Loki hurriedly wipes all traces of tears from his face.

"Mother!" Thor says gaily, crushing her in a hug as she laughs.

"My son," she smiles, and as the sorrow clouds back over his features as he remembers arriving just moments too late to save her, she reassures him in the same manner she did her younger son.

She doesn't want them to mourn for her, when they have such long lives ahead of them, and she wishes nothing for them but the most happiness they can extract from Life, for them to live and love every moment, to take on ever cruel hurdle that Life can devise for them and come out of each one stronger.

Life is harsh enough without them hurting for her as well.

"You can cry for me," she tells them, knowing that no matter what she says she can't take the pain of loss away. "But know that I'm always there, in the air that dries the tears from your cheeks."

And as they talk, when she sees Loki's hand seek out Thor's, and both her sons holding onto each other as a lifeline, she feels the dead heart within her breast leap with joy, and hopes beyond hope that they never again let go.

The weight on the brothers' shoulders is lighter as they leave Valhalla on Sleipnir, so light they feels as if nothing could stop them from flying should they wish to, as if a cloud had been hanging over them for so long that now that it has blown out from covering the sun they're relishing the forgotten feeling of naught but blue sky above them.

They both know they can never return here again during their lives—won't be able to return till their deaths—as the Valkyrie chase the laughing gods out of Valhalla.

But neither of them mind, because they realize, just possibly, they might be okay.

"You will stay, right?" Thor asks, as he holds tight to Loki's waist while Sleipnir emerges from the mists that gather at the very edge of Asgard where Valhalla stands just out of reach, and the steed's eight legs propel them across the ocean towards the shining city of Asgard that gets larger and larger, buildings transforming from distant line of horizon to climbing proudly towards the clouds.

"Yes," Loki says, and he can feel the warmth against his neck from Thor's smile. "Yes, I will stay."

In the end, Jane agrees to becoming Thor's Queen.

"But I have three conditions," she warns.

"Name them," Thor says, as they sit in her house on the couch, Thor's legs spread out across the cushions and Jane sitting on his lap, leaning against his muscular chest.

"One, since this marriage will be a uniting of our realms, we have to live in Midgard for a month of every year," she says, sorrel eyes daring Thor to object.

He doesn't, so she continues, "Two, I get to bring my scientific equipment to continue my studies."

At this, Thor creases his brow. "Why would you need to?" he asks, genuinely not understanding. "In Asgard, you will discover that the rules of magic are not all governed by your scientific laws. Besides, Loki can tell you whatever you desire to know."

"Like he would," Jane snorts. "No thanks—I'd rather figure things out for myself."

Thor just shrugs, conceding. "Alright. What's the third?"

"Well, I understand that to be Queen of Asgard I will have to adopt Asgardian styles," Jane says, tracing her fingers over the metal circles on his vest. "And I don't have a problem with that, except that I be able to bring my slippers."

She wiggles her toes in her purple fuzzy slippers, and Thor laughs, saying, "Of course, my love," and pulling her into a kiss.

Somebody clears their throat, and Thor and Jane look up to see Darcy standing there, wearing a dough-splattered blue apron and an oven mitt on each hand, one orange and one red.

"Not to interrupt or anything," Darcy says, widening dark eyes in unconvincing innocence. "But I bothered Loki into helping me with a pineapple upside-down cake—since Selvigg actually brought over baking ingredients—and Ian is showing Loki how to make a mean taco, if you two are hungry."

"Loki cooking?" Thor asks in comical disbelief.

"Yep! Darcy grins. "He's quite good at it, except for lifting the electric mixer too high and splattering everyone and then breaking the device 'for its impudence,' as well as freaking me out by continuing to touch hot metal stuff because it apparently doesn't hurt him."

Thor's brow is creased, as if he still can't picture his uptight and occasionally snobby younger brother doing any sort of baking, but Jane interrupts him with, "Yes, of course we'd love some lunch."

As they walk over to the small round dinner table, dragging up more chairs, Jane says, "But won't Asgard protest to having a human as Queen?"

"At first," Thor admits, counting the chairs and realizing they were one short, so he moves two of the chairs out of the way and instead picks up the couch and sets it before the table. "But don't worry, Loki is very convincing with words, and he will out-logic them until they can't possibly complain without sounding like absolute idiots."

"If they even trust me," Loki snorts from where he's leaning against the stove and the lit burner.

"Um, Loki?" Ian says, tapping the god on the shoulder. "Your shirt is on fire."

The official story told to Asgard of Loki's return from the dead is that Thor went to Helheim to retrieve him, and was able to because Loki died with honor and should have gone to Valhalla but he angered the Valkyrie to such a point that they wouldn't take him, and then he'd proceeded to drive Hela crazy, and she was only too glad to get rid of him, though she couldn't unless a soul was traded for his, but when Thor offered his soul instead (and he meant every word, because he would, too, without hesitation), Hela ended up letting them both go. She does have a soft spot for honor and bravery, after all.

This story is accepted (as well it should be, seeing as it was almost entirely true), though unsurprisingly, Asgard is not pleased with the news of either Loki's return or Thor's choice of bride.

Especially not Sif.

"You—you would marry a mortal?!" she sputters, flushed with anger as she confronts them in the halls.

"It only makes sense," Loki points out, stepping in, "Since Midgard has become aware of the Nine Realms and begins becoming more involved in universal affairs, it is beneficial that Thor take a wife from Midgard in order to bolster the alliance between our realms and to make sure they have a strong representative in foreign affairs. And she shall not be mortal if she feeds on Idunn's apples."

Before Sif can protest further, Thor strides down, patting her on the back. "There's no need to be envious, Sif," he grins. "There's always my brother!"

Immediately green eyes and dark eyes widen in alarm, and Sif and Loki both start making gagging noises, bending over and pretending to retch.

Later, when retching noises have become snickers and Thor and Jane have walked on, Loki says to the warrior, "Still want to kill me?"

Sif snorts. "And force Thor to go retrieve you again? I think not." She's silent a moment, before admitting, "He insists you're redeemed. And besides, he's much happier with you around." Her gaze darkens as she adds, "And with her."

"Don't worry," Loki says, smiling in a way that's only slightly teasing. "I'm sure you'll find the right man someday, somebody whose better for you than Thor."

"Shut up," Sif growls, clenching her fists as she glares at him. "Or I might just take back my words and kill you after all."

Loki just smirks, dancing out of the way as she tries to punch him. "Oh, you can try," he says. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go destroy Jotunheim."

When Sif raises her eyebrows, Loki widens his eyes, amending, "Oh, did I say 'destroy?' I actually meant 'set up a permanent peace with.'" He strides off down the hall.

"I don't trust you," Sif growls, jogging to catch up with him so she can make sure he stays true to his word and does what he's supposed to for once, instead of causing trouble like he's always been so wont to do.

"Good," grins Loki wolfishly, mischievous as ever. "I'd hate to have to refurbish my reputation."

After all, why refurbish his reputation when he can change it (for the better)?

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The End. Fin. No more. I'm done. I swear. But hey - I wrapped it up in a neat little package for you, with gold wrapping paper and green ribbons and everything! ;3 Like I kind of liked the end of the Frigga part as the ending, but I figured WTH, and included the last three sections as a sort of epilogue.

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Lilith: I'm so glad you enjoyed the story so much! Yes, you can translate this story into Polish if you give me credit ;D And if you send me the link to your translation I'll post it on my profile as well. Thank you for asking permission, love!

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Anyways, I'd love to hear your thoughts! ^.^