Deceptions

Frigga vanished before Loki could touch her, the perfect image turning to smoke and mist, dissipating even as his fingers closed around empty air and silence.

He dropped his hand, fingers clenched, and backed away. As always, after these rare visits, he was left with a feeling he despised: utter, inconsolable loneliness. But this time it had been different in one significant way: they had spoken of Odin. All the words left unsaid before had emerged, and all the hurt and rage with them.

"He is not my father!" Loki had said, unable to conceal his hatred even from her.

"So I am not your mother?"

The question had cut him to the heart, and yet he had answered calmly, knowing—even as he spoke—that he would hurt her.

"No," he had said softly. "You are not."

And then he had reached for her, as if to prove his words false.

Now she was gone.

He stalked about the cell, muscles tense, considering what he might destroy that he wouldn't miss later. But Frigga had given him all this: the comfortable bed with its thick furs, the table, the chair, the books, the other small comforts that made this confinement somewhat more bearable. She provided wine that was better than the common swill his guards occasionally delivered, and food of far higher quality than the sparse and tasteless rations his sentence imposed upon him.

But most of all, she provided her company during these irregular, "personal" visits, when she defied the All-father to speak to him for a minute or two or three, asking after his health and needs, delivering small tidbits of court gossip he might find amusing. Never touching on the one subject that made of all the others meaningless.

Until today.

Holding the turmoil of his emotions firmly in check, he took his chair, stretched out his legs, and continued reading where he had left off. Frigga had done her best, but she seemed determined to improve his character with dull tomes of philosophy that read rather too much like the sermons of a mortal priest attempting to bend the will of his congregation to the desires of their ineffectual god.

And they could have had me, Loki thought, closing the book. He would have brought order to their world, ended their petty international quarrels and brought them the true contentment of servitude. Even the most intelligent and gifted among them was incapable of wielding power without tempting self-destruction. It was a miracle that Midgard had remained intact so long.

Loki massaged the skin between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. There were still things—events, segments of time, actions—from his time on Midgard he had trouble remembering, as if he had seen them through the eyes of another man … a man who had died and taken his memory into death with him. It wasn't as if he didn't know what he'd done. And he had long since admitted to himself that he had made many mistakes, most specifically in his methods and approach. His use of the Chitauri being foremost among them.

But he always reminded himself that he hadn't had much choice. Another had made that very clear … another he'd fortunately heard nothing of since his defeat. Still, sometimes he imagined something dark and twisted careening about inside his brain, making it difficult to plan or even think when he needed his mind most clear.

Shaking off the **(pointless thoughts, Loki picked up a somewhat more interesting book—a recently-authored piece on the history of Vanheimian magic, a mere two hundred years old—and set about absorbing the contents. Perhaps, when Frigga came again, he could show her a small trick or two, as much as he was permitted in this warded chamber.

He smiled slightly, anticipating the moment, and bent his attention to the book again.

#

How she hated these visits.

Frigga paced her chamber, distress flooding her body anew with every footstep, every beat of her heart. She could still hear Loki's words—words that might have been devastating had she not understood what lay behind them. The pain, the torment, the self-contempt, all the wounds she had never been able to heal. Could never hope to mitigate, not as long as Loki remained in that cell.

And that would be for the rest of his life.

"Oh, my son," she whispered. "What have you done to yourself?"

What have I done to you?

She paused beside the bed and looked down at her hand, turning it palm up. Loki had reached for her, his offered touch giving the lie to his rejection of their kinship. But then the maid had entered her chamber, and Frigga had broken the spell. Odin almost certainly knew of her clandestine visits, but he would not stop her as long as she remained discreet … and took pains to make sure neither he nor anyone else ever caught her at it.

Now the maid stood near the door, her face very long. She was not Frigga's regular personal maid, or she would have known what she'd interrupted. Even so, she recognized that her mistress was far from happy.

"Gerda," Frigga said, smiling as she approached the young woman. "Would you be so good as to bring me fruit and wine? I quite forgot to take my morning meal."

With a sudden, grateful smile, Gerda curtsied and hurried out to fulfill the queen's gentle command. Once she was gone, Frigga sat on her couch, arranging her gown and robes as if she were holding court among those who preferred to approach her rather than Odin with their requests and petitions. At such times, she was queen, benevolent but always distant. She could not forget her role.

Now, she was merely a woman. And a mother. That, above all. A mother who had been lying to her favorite son ever since he had learned of his jotun father, and of Odin's cruel deception.

Loki, too, was a master of deception. But she was its mistress.

She remembered.

#