Loki

He groaned as the blinding light of Asgard's twin suns pierced through the gauzy curtains of his chambers.

What was he doing? Ah, that's right. Being an absolute fool.

Loki sat up, feeling his head throb with the force of a storm, and his stomach churned in rebellion against the mead he'd consumed the night before.

He hadn't intended to overindulge—it was, after all, a rare feast in honor of some diplomatic victory he'd already forgotten—but the toasts had flowed freely, and who was Loki to refuse a challenge?

Thor had happily drank his fill and retired to his chamber.

He shifted in the silken sheets, their cool touch momentarily soothing.

The opulent room spun lazily as he cracked open one eye. Gold and ivory pillars shimmered in the morning glow, adorned with intricate carvings that chronicled Asgardian triumphs.

Loki's gaze fell on a discarded goblet near the foot of his bed. The blood-red liquid that had once filled it was now a sticky puddle on the polished marble floor.

It reminded him of blood.

He looked away, pushing the thoughts of warm brown eyes away.

"Brilliant," he muttered, voice hoarse.

Sliding out of bed, he stood shakily and made his way to the tall, arched window overlooking the city.

Below, Asgard bustled with its usual grandeur—warriors sparring in the courtyards, merchants peddling wares in vibrant marketplaces, and fountains spilling endless cascades of crystalline water. It was beautiful, timeless, perfect.

Too perfect.

It was missing some chaos.

He rested his forehead against the cool glass and sighed, his mind drifting to places he would rather not visit.

Loki didn't like to brood even if he was naturally good at it. He liked to think he was above such things.

He let out a humorless laugh, wondering how he got to such a point— how absurd the his new duties were.

Loki, God of Mischief, lending wisdom to Asgard as advisor to the king.

But necessity had a way of twisting even the most stubborn of destinies. His intellect and silver tongue had proven invaluable to them. In the past three years alone he helped avert catastrophes, broker uneasy truces, and dismantle corrupt systems—all while indulging in the occasional bit of mischief, of course.

His mother focused on trying to heal Odin while Thor concentrated on ruling.

He was a prince of Asgard again, born with all the privileges but none of the respect. People still spat at the thought of him being so close to Thor. Some were outright hostile—eager to sheath their blades in his neck.

But they couldn't. Not unless they wanted to risk Thor's wrath.

Though he'd stood among them, he was never truly one of them. He was always the outsider, the other. A god walking among other gods, forever reminded of his own estrangement from his kin.

He thought of Thor, the ever-blazing sun to his restless shadow. On Earth, they'd found some semblance of brotherhood again, however fragile. Loki had never said it outright—his pride wouldn't allow it—but he missed the simplicity of their camaraderie. The laughs, the arguments, the shared battles.

The Avengers had their use.

Thor was adamant about his change, almost to the point that Loki even doubted it. He may be black of heart but he knew where to be grateful.

He wouldn't quite call it redemption or reformation, perhaps...evolution would be the correct term?

Maya would laugh at his if she ever saw him like this. She'd press her fingers against the crease between his eyes and bring his out of his self imposed isolation. Her touch was always gentle despite the callouses on her hand.

He scoffed, reminding himself that time had passed.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his reverie. Loki turned, wincing as the motion sent a fresh spike of pain through his skull.

"Enter," he called, attempting to summon his usual air of authority.

A servant stepped in, bowing low. "My lord, the Queen requests your presence in the throne room."

Loki frowned.

Frigga rarely summoned him these days unless there was trouble. She had tried every potion, spell, and panacea she could get her hands on throughout the nine realms and not a single one could rouse Odin from his sleep.

Loki never liked feeling helpless. It made one flounder like a bird with its wings cut.

Odin was the farthest thing from a father in his mind but he had his use. The nine realms were quick to succumb to chaos once he entered his slumber.

How could a realm as powerful of Asgard be so weak? An old man—full of conquests and untold lore—was all that remained between destruction and doom.

He knew the answer. The actions of Thor, Loki, and countless others contributed to the weakening of the throne. Frigga, torn between duty and love. Odin, slowly weakening but unable to relinquish the throne. Thor, fighting for earth and Asguard. And Loki...he had done enough.

This was worse than Ragnorak.

He dismissed the servant with a wave and dressed quickly, his fingers deftly fastening the emerald-green robes that matched his piercing gaze.

A dagger laid on his dresser, hiding in a leather sheath.

He curls his long pale fingers around the hilt and pulled it out. A gem the size his thumb nail was embedded in the hilt, catching the morning light and glowing ominously.

The blade was thin but he ensured that the edges would never dull, no matter how many hearts it would pierce.

مايا

Her name would always be on this blade. His blade. Its twin was in Midgard.

He pressed his fingers against the edge. For a moment he swore he could see Maya's eyes looking back at him through the reflection on the blade. Loki nearly dropped the knife. When he looked again, his green gaze stared back at him accusingly.

Now he knows he's utterly hungover.

He's wasted enough time as it is.

Loki slipped the dagger into his robes, making sure that it was nestled close to his heart.

He opted to leave his horned circlet.

The halls were silent except for the sound of his footsteps. His guards—courtesy of Thor—followed at a distance. He could feel them as they watched him.

One day, once he lost favor, they would be the ones to plunge their blades into his chest.

Today would not be that day.

He approached the gilded doors of the throne room, his smirk faded.

Here in Asgard, duty awaited. No mortals to charm, no fragile alliances to navigate—only the eternal weight of expectations and the ever-watchful eyes of those who doubted him.

Still, a part of him relished the challenge. For Loki, God of Mischief, there was always another game to play, another scheme to weave.

And perhaps, one day, he might find a way to reconcile the fractured pieces of himself—the trickster, the advisor, the son of Asgard and Jotunheim, and the wanderer who had found something worth cherishing in the chaos of Midgard.

With a deep breath, he pushed the doors open and stepped into the throne room, his head held high. After all, hungover or not, Loki was nothing if not a survivor.

Frigga stood in the empty throne room.

The morning sunlight flooded through the glass windows, casting a gold glow on her.

She wore place green robes with a bronze corset made of metal. Her long hair was woven with gold and jade, encircled on top of her head like a crown. No matter how grim the circumstances she would always remain the regal Queen of Asgard.

There were no maidservant's or soldiers in sight.

Loki felt acutely aware of how loud his footsteps echoed off the walls.

Frigga stiffened as he approached, turning around slowly and relaxing once she sees that it is him.

Loki feels his heart squeeze at the sight of her. Guilt and remorse course through his veins. It's the closest he'll ever come to feeling shame.

"Loki."

"Mother." He bows but she stops him. "What is it?"

Frigga gives him a sad smile. It does nothing to ease his anxieties.

"There's something we must discuss."

"Is it—"

"Yes." She sighs. "It did not work. Odin is still asleep. I thought that it would work but..." she squeezed her eyes shut.

He holds his mothers arms, keeping her still. She looked exhausted despite her finery.

"We'll find another way."

She chuckles and it makes him stiffen. "All this effort for a man you hate."

She right. He would rather toss himself into Hel itself than lift a finger to help him. It's only his loyalty to Thor and the affection he has for his mother that keeps him from ripping his hair out from the sheer hypocrisy.

Loki deflated a bit. "All this effort for a woman who is my mother."

"Loki," she said softly. "I don't know if I have any more hope left. Day after day I see him like this and it breaks my will. I fear your loyalty to Thor will trap you here."

"I am here of my own free will."

The God of Mischief and Lies. He should be better at this.

"You forget that I raised you, son." Frigga touched his cheek, as if he was a little boy complaining about his older sibling. "Your heart isn't here."

Loki couldn't argue. Frigga had a way of disarming her with simple words, far more effective than swords and manipulations.

The dagger he hid underneath his clothes was evidence enough.

He smiles in a way that made countless maidens swoon. "Mother, we will find a way. Our strengths mirror each other. If not this way, then another."

She smiles back at him but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Then we shall keep trying."