Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Loki never really tried to fake his own death, no. Rather, it was more like death was constantly evading him. 

In all honesty, he’s surprised he has made it for as long as he had thus far. 

Not because he’s weak—though the thought has crossed his mind more times than he’d ever admit—but because there were so many chances. So many perfect opportunities to go. To disappear. To let the world believe he had finally done something right by ceasing to exist. 

The fall from the Bifrost. 

The darkness of the Void. 

The workings of the Mad Titan’s children. 

Each time, death came close. Brushed his cheek. Kissed his brow. Then left him behind, again and again and again. 

Getting impaled by Kurse.

Falling from the Bifrost, again.

Ragnarok.

Sometimes he thinks it’s punishment. Sometimes he thinks it’s mercy. 

Mostly, he just finds the whole ordeal rather irritating.

But Loki was nothing if not resourceful, and a great improviser. He learned to adapt. To twist pain into performance. To meet each near-death experience with a tighter mask, a sharper smile, a new lie ready on his tongue. 

Because if he stopped moving—if he paused for even a second—he might have to face what all that surviving had cost him.

That sort of self-destructive habit was nothing new, and neither were the more morbid thoughts. 

Though, as a young child, they appeared as nothing more than nightmares. Visions of being left alone—often somewhere cold, always somewhere dark—with violence pressing in from all sides. 

He’d wake with a gasp, half-frozen with fear, the phantom chill of some unseen tundra clinging to his skin. 

When he told the healers, they smiled gently and said it was just his imagination. An overactive mind, they called it. 

He’ll grow out of it, Odin had said with faint amusement. 

He’s just been listening to one too many tales of frost giants, Frigga offered, brushing the hair back from his damp forehead. 

And so, he stopped speaking of it.

And then he got older—probably no more than five hundred years old—when he and Thor decided to sneak out of the palace and hunt a cave beast that had been terrorizing the outskirts of Vanaheim. 

Thor had heard it from one of the Einherjar. It was supposedly massive, tusked, with scales like black stone and a roar that split trees. Naturally, that meant it had to be destroyed. And naturally, that meant they couldn’t possibly wait for permission. 

Loki tagged along, more out of boredom than bravery, though he conjured up armor to match Thor’s and smiled with teeth when his brother looked at him with that spark of shared chaos. He liked it when Thor looked at him like that—like they were equals. Like they were meant to be a team. 

The beast wasn’t nearly as impressive as the stories said. But its claws were sharp, and it was fast. Faster than Thor expected. Faster than Loki could dodge. 

One moment he was casting an illusion to distract it. The next, he was on the ground, throat raw from a cry he didn’t remember making, with a gash from his ribs to his hip, and blood soaking into the moss beneath him. 

Thor struck the beast down with a furious cry. Carried Loki back in his arms. Called him a fool for not moving faster, for getting in the way. 

Loki barely listened. The pain was dull, distant. Almost interesting. Like watching someone else’s body bleed. 

And when the healers muttered about how lucky he was—that it had missed anything vital by mere inches—he smiled. Because of course it had. Lucky him, truly.

That must have been his first brush with death.

It certainly would not be his last. Though, after that he made an effort to be more careful. If not for himself, then for his mother’s sake. He endured nearly three hours of scolding upon returning to Asgard, most of it tearful, some of it furious, and all of it exhausting.

So he turned inward. He devoted himself to his studies—history, diplomacy, languages—but most of all to his magic. By then, he’d realized that brute strength would never win him the same glory as Thor. He could hold a blade, yes, but they would never sing in his hands the way Mjolnir did in his brother’s. If he wanted to matter, to prove himself, he had to find a different path. 

And seiðr—Frigga’s magic—was the path that welcomed him. 

It was beautiful. Ancient. Elegant. It required precision, control, intent. Everything Thor lacked, everything he had in spades.

But it was also whispered about behind palace walls. Hushed voices called it egri , unmanly, unnatural. They said no prince should wield such power. That Frigga should not have taught it to him at all. 

He pretended not to care. He made jokes about it, snide remarks with razor edges. He let the words roll off him like rain off oiled leather. 

But the truth was—it stung. 

Sometimes he wondered if it would have been easier to bleed again. If the ache in his chest might quiet if he let his body break just enough to match what he felt inside. 

But he didn’t. Not then. 

Instead, he disappeared deeper into the libraries, memorizing incantations and ancient runes, perfecting illusions so seamless even the Allfather might be fooled. If they would not praise his strength, then they would fear his cunning. 

And still, death watched from the shadows. Patient. Amused.

It nearly claimed him again in Vanaheim only a few years later. 

A skirmish turned sour—ambush, chaos, screaming steel. He’d meant only to distract, to draw attention away from the wounded soldiers behind him. To save his foolish brother and his friends from their own carelessness. But he lingered too long. Let himself get caught in the fray. 

A blade slid between his ribs. 

He remembers the sound more than the pain—a wet gasp from his own throat, the scrape of metal pulling free, the distant thud of his knees hitting the earth. Thor found him slumped against a tree, blood soaking his tunic, too weak to summon even a simple spell. He looked up at his brother’s panicked expression, blinked once, and muttered, "At least it wasn’t the face.”

He was unconscious before he could see if the joke landed. 

The healers were furious. Thor more so. But Frigga... Frigga only held his hand in the quiet of the healing chambers, and whispered, "Don’t make a habit of this, my son." 

He tried not to. Truly, he did. 

Any thoughts of how there was something dangerously comforting about how close he’d come that day—how soft the world had gone, like sinking, like rest—was quickly overshadowed by the words he heard from Thor, or rather his unruly band of friends.

They called him weak. “Always getting in the way with his tricks,” they scoffed. “He was lucky Thor found him when he did.”

Of course, they failed to mention how those same “tricks” had kept Fandral from being impaled—or why Sif could still walk to tell tales of the battle. 

There was no thank you. No acknowledgment that he’d saved them. Only that he was foolish. Reckless. A liability. 

Loki said nothing, eyes fixed on the ceiling of the healing chambers as their voices faded, muffled by thick walls and thicker pride. Even Thor’s—low, defensive, vaguely ashamed—didn’t reach him the way it once might have. 

He turned his face away from the door, jaw clenched tight. 

They were right about one thing, at least. He was weak. 

Whatever this was—this creeping fascination with death, this unbearable ache—he would keep it to himself. He could not afford to be seen this vulnerable again. 

So he shifted his focus. Healing spells, mostly. Not enough to rival Eir or his mother, but enough to quietly mend torn flesh, to knit bone with a breath. Enough to keep going without ever having to ask for help.

He told himself it was practical, logical. Necessary, even. What if something happened and he was alone? What if no one came? 

The first time wasn’t deliberate. Not really. He had lost control during a training session—magic, not blades—and the backlash left his hands burned raw, glowing red along the knuckles and palms. The healers were busy with someone else, and Thor had gone off with the others, too swept up in their victory to notice him retreating down the hall. 

So Loki sat in the quiet of the library, breath shaking as he pressed trembling fingers to scorched skin and whispered the words he had memorized. The pain dulled. Then disappeared entirely. 

And he felt… better. Not just healed—cleansed, somehow. Emptied. 

After that, it wasn’t always accidents. A miscast spell here. An illusion he held too long, long enough to strain his mind and make his nose bleed. A dagger held too tight in his hand until it bit into his palm. Nothing that left permanent damage. Nothing anyone would see unless they looked too closely. 

He wasn’t trying to die, nor did he want to. Not really. He just wanted to feel something. Or maybe nothing at all. Or maybe, he wanted to see if he could get away with it. Just another form of mischief, really.

The irony, of course, was that he could hide it all so easily. A shimmer of magic, a shift of light, and no one ever saw. Not the bruises, not the cuts, not the tremor in his hands after sleepless nights where his own thoughts clawed at the edges of his sanity.

It became a game, in a way. How much he could endure. How neatly he could patch himself up before anyone noticed. A performance in secrecy—silent and precise, like threading a needle in the dark. 

There was satisfaction in it. Twisted, maybe. But it was his. The only thing that felt like it belonged to him alone. Sometimes, when he felt particularly invisible—after Thor returned triumphant from some grand hunt, or when Odin barely looked his way during a feast—he would press the edge of his dagger to the thin skin of his forearm, just enough to sting. Just enough to remind himself he was still here. Still real. Still something. 

It didn’t bleed much. He never let it. That was too messy.

And if he woke the next morning a little quieter, if he kept to the shadows of the palace a little more than usual, no one commented. If they noticed at all, they must’ve assumed it was just Loki being Loki. Thor’s ever looming shadow.

Even Frigga, for all her perceptiveness, never said a word. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she did, and chose not to speak of it. 

Either way, Loki grew very adept at hiding. 

He concealed himself in plain sight—behind grand speeches and calculated smirks, in flourishes of magic and well-timed wit. He became the trickster, the clever one, the liar. If they said it enough, if they believed it enough, perhaps they’d never think to look beyond the mask. Beyond the glittering illusion he so carefully maintained.

He learned to shield himself from Heimdall’s all-seeing gaze, weaving spells of concealment so subtly that even the gatekeeper of the Bifrost could no longer track him at will. He mapped every forgotten corridor and crumbling stairwell tucked away in the palaces and cliffs of Asgard, slipping through shadows while Thor reveled in the halls, basking in glory, surrounded by cheers and laughter and ale-soaked celebration. In those cliffs, he even found pathways—branches of Yggdrasil he learnt to walk—that led to other realms entirely. Loki walked the places no one looked.

And when he was alone—when the silence pressed too tightly against his ribs, when the weight in his chest became too much to carry—he let himself break. Quietly. Deliberately. Only behind closed doors.

Outwardly, he became untouchable. Cunning. Composed. Dangerous. 

He played the part so well that even Thor began to believe he didn’t feel things the way others did. That Loki’s sharp tongue and mocking grin were shields by nature, not necessity. 

No one saw the way his hands shook after a particularly bad day. No one heard the way his breath hitched when he finally closed his door behind him and let the mask slip. No one noticed the hairline cuts that shimmered briefly beneath illusion, or the way he clutched at his chest when no one could see—when the ache inside clawed at him like a thing alive. 

He wasn’t trying to die. That wasn’t the point. It never had been. He just needed something to anchor him. Something to remind himself that he was real. 

That he mattered—even if only to himself.

The illusion of control became its own addiction. The rituals, quiet and methodical, helped him feel as though he held dominion over at least one small piece of his life. He could not control Thor’s radiance, Odin’s cold distance, or the way the court watched him with wary eyes—but this, this pain, this silence, this blood… it was his. 

It escalated slowly. A missed meal here, a sleepless night there. More complex illusions to mask the deepening hollows beneath his eyes, the slouch in his posture, the way he flinched at loud noises or sudden touch. 

He told himself he was fine. That this was working . That no one knew. 

But Asgardian marble was cold, and the shadows of forgotten passageways held little comfort. And the more he slipped away from the warmth of others, the more the silence inside him began to echo with unbearable clarity. 

He began to make mistakes. Small, but noticeable. He was still young, no matter how hard he tried to ignore that fact, mistakes were inevitable. A flicker of a wince during a diplomatic gathering. A missed step in the sparring arena. Magic that faltered for the briefest second before steadying again. 

Frigga noticed then. 

Of course she did. 

She didn’t confront him—not at first. She simply watched, her gaze lingering a little longer when he passed her in the halls. Her hand would hover just slightly before resting on his arm. She would ask gentle questions, simple ones, and seem far too thoughtful at his practiced answers.

But eventually, she asked. 

It was quiet, the way mothers’ concerns often are—not an accusation, not quite. They were walking in her garden, late afternoon light filtering gold through the leaves, and he thought—briefly, foolishly—that he was in the clear. 

“You haven’t been eating much,” she said softly. “You seem tired. Unwell.” 

He shrugged with practiced ease. “Studying. Practicing. I’m not Thor—I have to work twice as hard for half the recognition.” 

She didn’t smile. “Loki…” 

His name, just once, and it made something twist in his gut. He didn’t let it show. He turned, voice cool, almost amused. “If you’re trying to imply something, Mother, please—don’t be vague. It doesn’t suit you.” 

Frigga's brow furrowed, pain flickering behind her eyes. “You wince when you move. Your hands shake when you think no one’s looking. There are marks on your skin.” 

Loki blinked, once. Then he laughed—light, brittle, insincere. “Marks? Really, you think I’m harming myself? What, precisely, do you imagine I must gain from that?” 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” she said. Not cold. Not angry. Just… tired. 

And norns, he wanted to. 

But lies came easier than truth, and he knew exactly which shape to mold this one into. He met her gaze, calm and even. 

“I’ve been… experimenting,” he said. “With pain thresholds. Illusion versus sensation. I need to understand how magic behaves under duress, especially in combat. It's nothing more than study, Mother, as I said. You know how seriously I take my work.” 

Frigga looked at him for a long time. Long enough that, for a moment, he thought she might call his bluff. That she might press further. That she might ask the questions that would unravel him entirely. 

But she didn’t. Instead, she reached up, brushing a strand of hair from his face the way she used to when he was small. It took everything in him not to flinch away.

“You’re clever,” she murmured. “Too clever, sometimes.” 

He smiled—tight, perfect. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

She never brought it up again after that.

But little things began to change.

In the weeks that followed, Loki began to notice small things. A new cloak, heavier and softer than his usual ones, left neatly folded on the edge of his bed. Runes of restoration stitched subtly into the lining. A salve he hadn’t asked for, tucked among his spell components. His favorite tea appearing in the kitchens again after being gone for months. 

She never said anything, never hinted that these gestures were anything more than the ordinary kindnesses of a mother. But Loki knew. And the knowledge grated. 

It felt like being watched. Like she saw him still, even through all his carefully constructed lies. It unnerved him, unsettled the fragile illusion he’d worked so hard to maintain. And more than that—it embarrassed him. 

He wasn’t weak. He didn’t need to be tended to like some broken thing. He did not need her pity.

So he overcorrected. He forced himself to sleep regularly, to eat more. He laughed louder in the halls, made sharper quips at court. He doubled down on his training, arriving early to sparring sessions, his magic more dazzling than ever. He made himself better —or at least, something that looked like it. 

And Frigga, true to her word, said nothing. 

But some part of him was waiting. Waiting for her to stop him again. To press. To pull him aside and say, I know you’re pretending. 

When she didn’t, that silence began to echo louder than her kindness ever had. Still, he kept going. Because if he could fool her— if —then perhaps he could fool himself, too. 

Eventually, even he began to believe it. That he was fine. That the ache in his chest was just a trick of the mind. That the emptiness pressing in around the edges was something he could live with. Tolerate. Ignore. 

He learned how to walk with it like a shadow, something constant and quiet. And when it whispered, You’re not enough, he simply worked harder. Smiled wider. Bowed deeper. 

Outwardly, he thrived. The court’s words held a tone—something close to approval. Odin—well, nothing had gotten worse, at least. Thor clapped his back and called him brother more freely.

And if, on some nights, he sat in silence staring at his reflection a little too long… if his hands trembled beneath the table where no one could see… if the numbness began to feel like peace—he told himself that was normal. 

He was better now. 

He had to be.

And for a time, the illusion held. He felt something like normalcy—or at least, what he imagined normalcy might feel like. He was still Thor’s shadow, still second-best, still too sharp, too strange, too much and not enough all at once. But at least his mind had quieted. 

He learned to swallow every slight, to smooth over every insult with a smile or some mischief. He was a prince, no matter what anyone said. Still his parents' blood. That title meant something. He would make it mean something. 

If he wasn’t given worth, he would carve it out himself. 

And then Thor’s coronation was announced. Thor, who was reckless, brash, blood-hungry. Thor, who skipped diplomatic briefings to chase monsters for sport. Thor, who laughed louder, fought harder, and thought with his fists more than his head. 

Loki was still proud of his brother, of course. Part of him always knew that this day would come. That it would one day be Thor, not him, on the throne. He loved his brother, truly. But—

He wasn’t ready to rule. He couldn’t be.

But Loki knew better than to voice it aloud. No one would listen. They’d call him jealous, bitter, accuse him of sulking simply because he wasn’t the one being crowned. 

So he didn’t protest. He schemed. 

If words would fail him, then he would show them—show Odin, show the court, show Thor himself—that he saw what they refused to. 

He could finally put his years of hiding, his silent mastery of walking the branches of Yggdrasil, to good use.

The plan was simple enough: let a few frost giants slip into his father’s vault, expose Thor’s recklessness, delay the coronation just long enough for reason to prevail. He wasn’t overly worried—he had faith in the Destroyer to do its job. 

Of course, things never went so smoothly. 

He had nearly forgotten he was dealing with Thor—Thor the blustering storm, the unstoppable hammer-swinging force of nature. 

Thor, who refused to let anything stand in his way, especially with his own pride on the line. Thor, who decided their best course was to march straight into Jotunheim—because of course it was. 

And Loki hadn’t truly been invited. It was more assumed—an unspoken truth that he would trail just behind, the ever-present shadow to Thor’s blazing sun, never straying far, never shining quite as bright.

And then—

And then.

Thor hadn’t listened to his pleas to turn back. Pride deafened him, bloodlust drove him. So they fought. And when the frost giant grabbed Loki—

Everything he had built—every illusion, every deflection, every sneer swallowed in favor of grace—shattered in an instant.

He didn’t feel pain, no. 

His skin turned blue. 

But there was no time to fall apart. Not yet. They still had to survive. Still had to return home. To Asgard.

Back in Asgard, he tried to speak—to ask, to plead—but Odin only shouted him down. So he stayed silent. And Thor was banished. 

Loki sought answers. He had to know. If he was—what he was— 

A monster. 

Because everything they’d said about him, all those years, had been true. He was different. Other. Wrong. But— 

No. 

He could still prove himself. 

Odin had taken him for a reason. He must have. And now, with Thor banished and Odin fallen into the Odinsleep, there was an opportunity. Frigga had given him a chance to rule. To be the son Odin needed. To show the Nine Realms he was worthy. 

He would finish what Thor had started. 

He would destroy the monsters. He would save the realm.

But, of course, that did not happen.

Because he was Loki—not Thor. Not the golden son. Not a true prince of Asgard. Not even of Asgard at all.

Still, he tried. He tried . Even then, hanging off the edge of the Bifrost, clinging to the last thread of hope that maybe, just maybe—

Thor had called it madness. Maybe it was. But Loki had lived with that madness all his life. It had grown with him, threaded through every crack they’d left in him.

“I could have done it, Father,” he choked out, the words torn from somewhere deep and aching. 

Madness. Or maybe just the inevitable end of pretending he wasn’t already unraveling. A monster. Maybe that’s why he kept pressing his pain inward—why destruction, at least when self-inflicted, felt like control.

“For you. For all of us.” 

And Odin— 

Odin looked at him. 

“No, Loki.”

No. Of course not. 

Why would he ever think—-

He let go.

There wasn’t a flicker of hesitation. All the years of bending himself into the shape of something lovable, of swallowing every wound with a smile, of being overlooked, unseen, unwanted—they all led here. 

He’d thought, foolishly, that proving himself would make it hurt less. That being worthy would make him whole. 

Instead, he fell. 

And as the void swallowed him, he only hoped the end would be swift.

It wasn’t. 

As he’d once said—death always seemed to slip past him. 

What had felt like the only choice at the time—maybe not right, but necessary—had simply led to more pain. More suffering. Straight into the waiting hands of the Mad Titan himself and his so-called “children.” 

Part of him wondered if it was a punishment. Part of him couldn’t feel anything at all. 

And after weeks—months— years —some indistinct span of time lost to agony and haze, he was sent to Midgard, body and mind not entirely his own. He suspected that time in the Sanctuary, and whatever traces of the Mind Stone still lingered, had done what they were meant to. Even someone like him—something like him—was not immune. 

A monster, after all, breaks eventually.

And break he did. 

When he arrived on Midgard, it was as if he were wearing a skin that didn’t quite fit. He moved like himself, spoke like himself, even smiled the same sharp smile—but there was something hollow behind it. Something cracked. 

He was given a mission. No—he was infused with one. Conquest, domination, the bending of the human world to his will. Midgard was weak. Midgard would kneel. 

That was what he repeated to himself. Over and over. Like a prayer. Like a curse. They will kneel. 

He told himself it was justice. Retribution for a lifetime of being made small. He told himself it was power. Freedom. That this—this chaos, this war—would finally carve out a place in the universe where he mattered.

Because whatever doubt still festered beneath the surface—whatever remnants of the boy who fell off the Bifrost remained—there was no turning back now.

But then he saw Thor again. And it hurt more than he expected. 

For a moment, the grip of the Mind Stone faltered—just enough for something to slip through. Just enough for him to ask the one question that had haunted him most on those dark, silent nights in the Sanctuary. 

“Did you mourn?” 

Nights where he had whispered Heimdall’s name to the stars, wondering if anyone up there could still see him—or if they had simply looked away. 

“We all did,” Thor said. And that—that was how Loki knew he was lying. 

Perhaps his mother—Frigga had mourned. Perhaps. 

But Odin? Thor, who had let him fall— thrown him off? Thor, who had later dismissed every cry for help, every desperate attempt to belong, as nothing more than “imagined slights” ?

Even from a distance, he could feel the Mind Stone stir—whirring, seething, feeding on the heat behind his ribs. The Other’s voice still rang in his head. Always there, always listening.

So the plan carried on—messy, reckless, not entirely his. A plan he barely constructed, in all honesty. A plan destined to fail. 

Though, he wouldn’t say that he didn’t at least put some effort into it. He had gotten as far as he had, anyways. 

Until the Hulk slammed him into the ground like a ragdoll, and his body—so often numb, dulled, dissociated—remembered agony. Real, sharp, bone-snapping pain. 

He had to give the beast credit: it had been a long time since something hurt enough to make him black out.

When he awoke, his seiðr had already begun mending him without his asking—an instinctive act of survival. But more notably, the hum of the Stone was gone. He was gone. For the first time in what felt like years, the silence in his head was his own.

Still, Loki wasn’t naïve enough to think he could walk away. There was a part left to play. So he smiled. He “schemed.” He bantered with mortals in Stark’s ridiculous tower. He endured the humiliation. He waited. 

All the way to the end— 

Until he stood before Odin once more.

Even seeing Frigga again didn’t soften what he knew was coming. If anything, it only made the ache sharper. 

And truthfully, he almost welcomed it. 

It wasn’t that he wanted to die—not exactly. But the alternative? 

“He will make you long for something as sweet as pain…” 

That, he could not bear. So he spoke, tired and sharp-edged: “If I’m for the axe, then for mercy’s sake—just swing it.” 

But no. 

Odin, ever the executioner cloaked in righteousness, informed him that yes—he was meant for the axe. Until, of course, Frigga intervened. Of course she had.

Frigga, who had always seen more in him than anyone else dared to. Frigga, who taught him how to use seiðr—not because she had to, but because she wanted to. Because she saw him. 

And still, even her mercy couldn’t undo what had already been done.

He was to rot beneath Asgard—buried and forgotten, like everything Odin wished to erase. Everything he was ashamed of.

His grip on his mind—his control—was beginning to slip once again. It had only been a handful months since his sentencing, which made it all the more humiliating that those old thoughts were creeping back in. The ones he thought—wished—he’d buried alongside his youth.

His daggers were gone. His access to his pocket dimension, sealed. They had warded the force field around his cell with something clever—some enchantment he hadn’t cracked yet. Not that it severed him from his seiðr entirely; he could still cast illusions, still mend the damage done to his body.

And maybe— maybe —he could work with that. He could find a way. A loophole. A crack to slip through.

But then Frigga came. 

Or rather, a duplication casted of her. The Allfather had forbidden her from seeing him, naturally. Still, the sight of her, even in mirrored form, was enough to undo him if he wasn’t careful. 

He couldn’t let her see how frayed he’d become. Couldn’t bear to show her the spiral he’d started slipping into again. It was already unbearable enough—her sending him comforts he didn’t deserve: books, a real bed, warmth. 

He told himself it was pity. Told himself she only did it because she still saw him as her son. 

It achingly reminded him of his childhood, the years after she caught a glimpse into his madness and tried to remedy it with small luxuries. He hated it.

And yet… part of him clung to it. Part of him wanted it. Even now. Even after everything.

Even as he lashed out. Even as he spat cruel words, shouting that Odin was not his father—and then, quieter, more bitter, that she was not his mother. 

He knew she saw through it. The lie had no weight, not with her. She looked at him with that same quiet ache, unshaken. 

And still, she cared. 

"You're always so perceptive of everyone but yourself.”

And still, he reached for her—only to be met with nothing but empty air. Her projection faded, and the silence she left behind felt colder than the stone under his feet.

She was wrong, of course. Loki knew exactly what he was.

A monster.

Then the shift came. 

A low hum of power surged through the dungeon—Loki felt it before he heard it. A ripple in the air. A crack in the order. Chaos. 

Screams rang out from somewhere down the corridor. A blast shattered the far wall, and the dust rolled in like a wave. Kurse had broken free. Loki could taste the fury in the air like iron on his tongue. 

He watched from behind his barrier as the beast moved, methodical and merciless, releasing the other prisoners one by one. The clang of shackles, the roar of fire, the sound of Asgard coming undone beneath its own complacency. 

Kurse stalked toward him next, heavy and purposeful. 

Loki stood tall. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. He would not show weakness—not again. Not to this thing. And so, Kurse kept walking. 

Of course he did.

Loki hadn’t expected him to open the cell, not truly. But still—still, a sliver of him had hoped. Just enough to sting. 

But he hadn’t been useless. With only a few words, he pointed Kurse in the right direction. Towards the stairs. Towards freedom. Towards Thor. 

Or so he had thought.

It wasn’t until days later that he heard news of it—slipped from the mouth of a nameless guard, tossed out like it meant nothing. Like she meant nothing. Only four words. 

“The queen is dead.” 

Frigga. His mother. Gone. And the last thing he had said to her had been a lie spat like venom. A coward’s defense. A child’s tantrum. 

His rage came fast and blinding. 

At first, just a spark—one little blast of magic. But then another. And another. Until he couldn’t hold it back anymore. Until the madness came roaring back in full. 

The illusion snapped. 

He shattered the furniture. Tore the books she’d sent him to pieces. He screamed until his voice gave out and the walls bled with cracks. He destroyed everything he could touch— 

And still, it wasn’t enough. 

But no one came. No one saw. 

Because even now, in all his grief and fury, Loki kept up the illusion: calm, untouched, composed. A pristine cell. 

Because even now, especially now, no one cared enough to look closer.

Let them believe he was still in control. Let them think the prince had not unraveled.

But he had. 

The more he thought about it, the more he spiraled. 

He didn’t even know what happened to her. He couldn’t even ask.

Had she suffered? Was it quick? 

Had she died in battle—protecting someone, perhaps? That sounded like her. That sounded like Frigga.

But the timing—it had been days before anyone thought to tell him. Did that mean she lingered? Was she in pain? Did she call for help that never came? Or had they simply not bothered to inform him?

Had she a funeral? A proper one? 

Why wasn’t he there? 

Why couldn’t he have been there? 

It was a foolish question. The most foolish of them all. 

But still. 

She was his mother.

And now she was gone.

There had always been so little that tethered him to Asgard. So little that kept him from drifting completely into the void. And Frigga—Frigga had been that tether. The one person who saw through every lie, every mask, every cruel word he threw like daggers just to see if she would flinch.

She never did. 

He had pushed, and pushed, and she stayed. She stayed. 

And now— 

Now there was nothing left to push against. 

His thoughts clawed at him like beasts. He couldn’t stop seeing her face, the last time she looked at him. That soft ache in her eyes. That quiet strength. The love she never stopped offering, even when he didn’t deserve it. Especially when he didn’t deserve it. 

He sank to the floor, breathing ragged and uneven. The illusion flickered—just once—but he forced it back into place. Let them see a prince. Let them see a prisoner untouched by grief. Let them believe he had already buried her deep in some dark corner of his mind. 

But he hadn’t. He couldn’t. 

He pressed his forehead to the cold floor. For a long time, he didn’t move. 

There was no one left to mourn with. No one left to mourn him. 

So he mourned alone. 

And when the silence became too much to bear, he began to speak. Barely a whisper. Barely anything at all. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He didn’t even know if he meant it. 

“I should’ve said it. I should’ve said it while you were here.” 

But he hadn’t. He never had. He’d wasted it all on bitterness and fear and words that couldn’t be unsaid. 

“I should’ve told you I still loved you.” 

Maybe she’d known. Norns, he prayed she had. But hope was a poor balm for regret, and the words still felt hollow now—too late to reach her. Too late to matter.

So Loki stayed there, drowning beneath the illusion. Beneath the weight of it all. A god in a cage, crumbling in silence. A son in mourning, unseen.

Thor came days later. Not with rage, not with condemnation—just purpose. Just resolve. 

Loki felt him long before he saw him—the heavy footfalls, steady and familiar, echoing down the corridor like a war drum. He didn’t bother to stand. He hadn’t in days. He remained where he was, slumped against the wall, hidden behind the illusion he’d woven: perfect, pristine, untouched.

He waited. 

And then, his brother’s face appeared behind the barrier—stern, worn, older than Loki remembered. But still unmistakably Thor.

Still a golden fool.

Loki—rather, the projection of him—rose gracefully. Polished. Poised. Still playing the role. Still the silvertongue. 

And yet— 

“Loki,” Thor said. “Enough. No more illusions.”

For a moment, Loki said nothing. Then, with only a thought, the illusion shattered.

The truth revealed itself: the broken furniture, the torn books, the cracked walls, the debris scattered like the pieces of himself he could no longer hold together. And Loki—disheveled, hollow-eyed, and pale from exhaustion. The magic had been draining him for days, but grief had taken more.

“Now you see me, brother,” Loki said at last, the final word curdling bitter in his mouth. And before he could stop himself, the question escaped: “Did she suffer?”

Thor didn’t answer. 

He shut it down quickly, avoiding the grief, closing the door Loki had only barely dared to open. He hadn’t expected more—but still, a part of him had hoped. 

Of course, Thor hadn’t come to talk about Frigga. He’d come for help. Which was almost laughable, given the circumstances. 

Thor laid it out plainly: he needed Loki’s knowledge. His hidden passageways. His skill in deception and escape. He needed what only Loki could offer. 

Loki was still skeptical. “What makes you think you can trust me?” 

“I don’t,” Thor said, blunt as ever. “But Mother did.” 

Thor said more after that, about betrayal and consequences, even promising death if Loki betrayed him again. 

But Loki had stopped listening. 

He didn’t need anything else. 

Of course, he wouldn’t let Thor know that. Instead, he offered the smallest of smirks. 

“When do we start?”

As it turned out—immediately. 

Loki would be lying if he claimed he wasn’t relieved to be out of that Norns-forsaken cell. He’d never been one to bask in sunlight, but after a year of unnatural light and cold stone, the warmth was… almost pleasant. Strange how something so simple could feel like luxury. 

He even found he was almost enjoying himself— almost. There was a certain satisfaction in the rhythm of conversation again, even if most of it was sniping and bickering with Thor. After a year of silence, save for the flickering illusion of his mother, the presence of others—real people—was jarring, but not unwelcome. 

He would admit, at least to himself, that he indulged in it. The chaos, the freedom, the familiar pull of attention. Even if that attention was laced with suspicion, hostility, and the promise of swift death should he misstep. 

A line of people just waiting for an excuse to kill him. 

How thrilling.

And truly, he wasn’t planning on betraying Thor—not this time. Not exactly. 

He knew why he was here. The only reason his brother had come crawling to him was because Loki was the only one who knew how to slip off Asgard unnoticed, how to disappear without the Bifrost. That was it. Not forgiveness. Not trust. Just necessity. 

So yes, he would help. He would play his part in Thor’s little rescue mission, all for the sake of his mortal woman. He would guide them through the shadows, open the hidden doors, say the clever words and wear the proper masks. 

He wasn’t lying when he told Thor to trust his rage. In fact, it was the only truth he could offer.

Because no matter the reason he was brought along, Loki would use it. Use it to exact vengeance. For Frigga. For the only soul who had ever truly seen him. Even if her death was his fault. Even if retribution cost him everything. 

Even if it meant dying for it. 

He told himself it wasn’t to protect Thor. That it wasn’t some last-ditch effort to be something other than a monster in his brother’s eyes. No, this was justice. Nothing more. 

But as Kurse turned on Thor, as the battle tipped against them, Loki didn’t hesitate. He acted. 

The spear found its mark in the beast’s back, and for one fleeting moment, he allowed himself the satisfaction of a clever, fatal blow. 

Then Kurse turned—fast, brutal, unstoppable. 

Loki barely had time to register the movement before he was caught. Lifted. And then— 

The blade plunged into his chest. 

Shock bloomed before the pain did. And absurdly, the first thought that drifted across his mind was: Well… that’ll leave a scar. 

Then again, maybe not.

Because as his body hit the ground and the weight of everything—grief, rage, guilt—began to slip from him, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat—

“See you in Hel, monster.”

At least he got something right for once.

Thor was suddenly there. Holding him. Shouting something he couldn’t make out. 

And even as his vision dimmed and the cold crept in, Loki didn’t flinch. He didn’t beg. He had long since learned not to hope. Not to expect anything from death. 

Naturally, he had been right.

He wasn’t sure how long he was out—minutes, hours—but when he came to, he was alone. The hum of ancient magic pulsed faintly beneath his skin—his seiðr already working to stitch flesh and bone back together, to drag him back from the brink once again. 

Damn. He’d really thought that would be it. 

But then again, Loki was nothing if not adaptable. Nothing if not a survivor. 

Nothing if not an improviser.

He waited until he could move without crumpling, until his limbs obeyed and his magic steadied—then he made his way back to Asgard. 

He couldn’t simply show up and expect a warm welcome—not after everything. And yet, there was nowhere else to go. Nowhere safe. There will be no realm, no barren moon, no crevasse where he can't find you. 

So he had to prepare. Plan. Do something. 

If nothing else, he could try to keep Asgard safe. Hide himself in plain sight. He knew— he —was far too powerful to face alone. But Loki could still play his part. Still do what he could… just not as himself. 

Taking Odin’s place had been surprisingly easy. 

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it—the way the spells slid over the Allfather like silk, the satisfaction of watching him vanish to some cozy little retirement home on Midgard. 

A touch dramatic, perhaps. But really, what fun was there in subtlety?

Ruling, at first, was like wearing a familiar mask. 

He spoke the right words, issued the right decrees, nodded solemnly when the court expected it. He sat the throne like it was made for him—because in a way, it was. He had grown up being fed lies of how he was meant to be a king someday. Even if they ended up being lies, he still knew what he was doing.

For a while, it was even… satisfying. Peaceful. He kept the people safe, the realm quiet. He approved festivals and praised victories and quelled border disputes with a flick of his fingers. No threats loomed. No enemies marched. Asgard was flourishing.

And no one knew it was him. 

Not Thor. Not Heimdall, though he often feared that watchful eye might see through the illusion. Not even Frigga, though she was gone, and that was the only reason he could keep it up at all. 

The silence of her absence was the loudest thing in the palace. 

At first, he filled it with busywork. He restructured the guard. Improved the archives. Rewrote old, dusty laws he’d always found inefficient. But even the tedium of ruling could only quiet the ache for so long. 

The throne room was vast, and cold, and empty more often than not. And when the court adjourned and the ministers left and the gold doors shut behind them, Loki would sit there, alone, staring out over the great city. 

He couldn’t help but think how pleased she would’ve been to see him here—truly ruling. Not for glory. Not for conquest. But for Asgard. 

But she wasn’t here. And she never would be again. 

Some nights he almost dropped the illusion entirely, just to be seen. Just to feel like himself, even if only for a moment. But he never did. Because if he did… it would mean admitting he was still there. Still hurting. Still grieving. 

Still afraid. 

And that, he couldn't afford. 

Not when he was still out there. 

Not when Thor was gone, off to his precious Midgard. 

Not when Loki had an entire realm to keep from falling apart.

When the old aches crept in again—the ones that clawed beneath his ribs, desperate to feel something, anything —he didn’t lash out. Not outwardly. Not inwardly. Not this time. 

Instead, he began to write. 

He had always loved stories, spun them in his mind like golden thread. But his ideas were always dismissed, his creations waved off. That had never stopped him before, and now—now he had power. Now he had space. Time. Solitude. 

Perhaps he went a bit overboard with The Tragic Tale of Loki of Asgard , but really, who was there to stop him? After years of being ignored, erased, condemned—he could finally tell his own story. If no one else would acknowledge that he had lived, then he would at least give them a death worth remembering. 

A death worth mourning. 

Even if it was all fiction. 

Even if he was still right here, hidden behind a crown that wasn’t truly his, in a palace that no longer felt like home.

It was almost ironic, really. He’d finally found some rhythm to the masquerade, some predictability in solitude—and that’s when Thor returned.

And soon after, all Hel broke loose… quite literally.

Leave it to Odin to keep secrets until they were no longer possible to hide.

Thanks to Loki, the Allfather had passed in peace. Or at least, that's what he told himself. He hadn’t spoken a word to him. Hadn’t dared. Some habits were too deeply etched into the bones—ones like staying silent in Odin’s presence, especially with Thor at his side. Speaking out of turn had never served him well. 

Not that it mattered now. 

The Allfather had gone to Valhalla, and in his absence, their sister emerged—Hela, the goddess of death, as furious and terrible as any nightmare. 

Loki hadn’t expected her. Thor hadn’t either. 

They barely had time to process Odin’s final words before the sky split and she stepped through—armored, towering, radiating malice. She looked at them like they were gnats. 

The fight was a blur of motion, fury, and disbelief. Thor had tried to summon the storm, to end it swiftly. 

She shattered Mjolnir with a single hand. 

Loki’s heart had nearly stopped. Seeing that hammer—the one thing that had always seemed untouchable—crack like glass… it unraveled something deep in him. And in that panic, he called the Bifrost. 

He didn’t think. He reacted. 

Get them out. Get them anywhere but here. 

But she followed. She struck before they could escape—knocking him from the bridge of light. One moment he was reaching for Thor, the next he was spiraling again—back into the void. 

Weightless. Directionless.

Was he ever not falling? Had the past few years been just another illusion—some cruel trick of fate designed to lull him into a false sense of stability? If this was reality, why did it always feel like dying? And if not, then how was he still alive?

Was he living?

And then—he wasn’t falling anymore. 

Sakaar. 

Or so the madman with gold paint and a ridiculous grin had called it. 

The Grandmaster. 

Unnerving didn’t quite cover it. There was something off behind those eyes—something too calm, too amused, too used to cruelty. Like a predator in silk.

But Thor was gone. Asgard, by now, likely reduced to ash. And of course— of course —Loki would be the one left standing.

Even when he didn’t want to be. 

So what else was there to do but keep playing the game? 

He crafted another mask, one better suited to this world of chaos and decadence. One that laughed at violence, that danced through madness, that indulged in the Grandmaster’s taste for spectacle and hedonism. 

He wore it well. Too well.

He didn’t allow himself to dwell on it for too long. There was also no use mourning what he couldn’t reach—not Asgard, not Thor, not whatever fractured future had once flickered in front of him.

Instead, he focused on survival.

Winning favor with the Grandmaster, fortunately, didn’t take much effort. Loki had always known how to adapt, how to make himself indispensable without making himself dangerous. It was a balancing act. One he’d perfected long ago.  

And the Grandmaster… well. He was the type to grow attached to pretty things that sparkled when spoken to just right. Loki knew that look in a man’s eyes—the kind that wasn’t just curiosity, but hunger, wrapped in charm and painted gold.

So he let himself shimmer. Offered a well-placed smile, a slow tilt of the head, a laugh that never quite reached his eyes. Spoke in riddles and let his gaze linger just long enough to be remembered.  

He didn’t have to do much more than that. The Grandmaster seemed pleased to keep him close. Closer than most.

There were times—too many—when Loki felt the weight of that gaze like a hand between his shoulder blades. When the Grandmaster’s compliments dipped just below the surface, too warm, too possessive. He never touched him without reason, but there were too many reasons. 

Loki bore it all with grace. He’d worn far more uncomfortable masks. Besides, it kept him alive. Comfortable, even. And power—especially here—was proximity. Influence. A well-timed smirk, a whisper in the right ear. 

Still, it left him hollow.

At night, when the music dulled and the palace emptied, Loki would sit in the corner of a room too bright, too loud, with wine he didn’t want and silk he didn’t need—and wonder how long he could keep this up. How long before someone saw through it. Before the game grew stale. Before The Grandmaster grew tired of him.

And then, as if summoned by memory and ache, he saw him again.

Thor. Alive. Unmistakingly so.

And, like the oaf he’d always been, Thor had landed himself squarely on the wrong end of the Grandmaster’s attention. Then dug himself in deeper by challenging his prized champion.

After weeks—months?—of yielding to every whim of a lunatic ruler in a place where time seemed to stretch and snap like string, everything that followed Thor’s return happened far too quickly.

The Hulk, somehow, was on Sakaar. Thor got thoroughly pummeled. Scrapper 142 revealed herself to be a Valkyrie. Thor said he’d always thought the world of him. Thor said Loki should stay on Sakaar. Loki, predictably, tried to betray him—reflex, really. But Thor was quicker this time. One step ahead. 

And still… despite everything, despite himself, Loki returned. 

With a stolen ship, a band of would-be revolutionaries, and every instinct screaming at him to run the other way, he came back. To save his brother. To save Asgard. To try.

He told himself it was practical. Tactical. That there was no real future for him on Sakaar, not with the Grandmaster’s interest growing colder by the day—no matter how many nights Loki smiled just right or leaned in close enough for favor to turn to survival. 

But it wasn’t just that. It was Thor. Stupid, stubborn Thor , still standing, still fighting, still believing. Still reaching for him even after everything. 

Loki didn’t know what irritated him more—that Thor hadn’t given up on him, or that part of him wanted to be someone worth not giving up on. 

So he returned. 

Cloaked in stolen grandeur, flanked by misfits, slipping into the chaos of a dying realm.

And then—Ragnarok.

The end of everything they'd ever known. Fire and ruin and prophecy fulfilled.

It almost felt poetic, in a cruel, bitter way, that he was the one to set it in motion. Even if it was Thor’s idea. Even if it was necessary. Of course Loki would be the one to finally destroy Asgard. After all, hadn’t he spent half his life trying?

How fitting. How very him. 

Maybe this was it. Maybe this was how his story ended—not with glory or redemption, but with the satisfaction of doing one last thing right. Saving his brother. Saving their people. Going down with the home he’d never truly belonged to. 

But then… the Tesseract.

Tucked away in Odin’s vault, practically humming with temptation. Power. Survival. A way out. 

He told himself it was strategy. That if he had the Tesseract, that meant he could keep it from the Mad Titan—at least for a little while longer. That it would buy them time. That he would know where it was. 

But truthfully, he didn’t know if it was cowardice or pragmatism. If he was making a choice for the greater good or just doing what he always did—running. Surviving. Slipping out just before the end. 

In the end, he gave in. He took the cube. 

And with a flicker of light and a twist of fate, Loki escaped death once more—landing silently aboard the Statesman. 

Now… what?

He had options. He could disappear. Drift across the stars, find some distant corner of the cosmos to vanish into. It wouldn’t be hard. He was good at slipping through cracks, no one would even notice he had gone. Maybe they had even expected him to go.

But... 

He missed his brother. 

He missed the familiarity, the stubbornness, the weight of being known. He missed not having to wear a mask every second of the day. Part of him was tired—so very tired —of pretending he didn’t care. Pretending he didn’t still carry love in the quiet, hidden places of his heart.

Maybe he could… try to stay. 

Odin was gone. Frigga was gone. Their home was gone.

All they truly had was each other. 

Maybe that could be enough.

And if it wasn’t—well, Loki always had an escape plan. There was always another door to slip through. Always another lie to tell. 

But for now… 

“Maybe you’re not so bad after all, brother.” 

A pause. A soft, tired smile. 

“Maybe not.”