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Chapter Text

If one were to enter a certain room just near the servant’s quarters, no one would ever think a prince lived there.

Aside from the fact that it was originally a storage unit for the servants’ cleaning supplies, it was not exactly what one would expect to see in a young prince’s quarters. For one, it was exactly as it sounded – a somewhat large room with stone walls and no windows, serving more use for storage rather than as living quarters. The bed – if it could be called that – was obviously old and worn, flattened with years of eager feet jumping up and down on it. There was a single thin, worn blanket, but there were no pillows.

There wasn’t much else to be found in the tiny room. There was a small wardrobe and a rickety old wooden table. Nothing was on it though, save for some parchment and a pencil, and a roll of stale bread – the remains of the occupant’s lunch.

The owner of this room was Loki, second prince of Asgard. Or so that’s what his title supposedly said.

If he were honest with himself, Loki wasn’t a very happy child. He had just turned five not too long ago, but he couldn’t remember having a birthday celebration. He didn’t think he ever had a birthday in his life; not that it mattered to him. Other children always looked forward to their birthdays, claiming it to be a wondrous event. But Loki had never experienced such a thing, so he figured it wasn’t as great as other children made it out to be.

Thor, his brother, certainly did. Every year it was the same, with Loki holed up in his room, covering his ears as the overly loud party above shook his room and prevented him from sleeping. He was never invited to his brother’s birthdays, despite being part of the family. Or at least, he thought he was…

Loki sniffled, wrapping his thin blanket tighter around himself. Eyes watering, he stared at the remains of his only friend: a ragged, misshapen stuffed toy an elderly servant had helped him make. The servant had passed away last year, much to Loki’s dismay. She always brought him sweets after dinner and would tell him stories.

It was a horse; or that’s what Loki said it was. To anyone else, it would have looked rather strange. It had eight legs after all, but Loki loved it all the same.

But now it lay in a pile of stuffing, torn fabric, and split threads.

Loki withheld a sob. In a way, he thought it was his fault, even though he knew it most certainly was not…

It had been so sudden, he hadn’t truly had time to realize what was happening. Thor, along with his friends – a girl named Sif and some other boys – had just barged right into his room unannounced, laughing loudly and obnoxiously at some thing or another. The reason became quite clear when they revealed their pilfered sweets from the kitchens, still warm and sweet smelling. It had made Loki’s stomach growl.

The sound drew Thor and his companions’ attention to him. They seemed stunned to see him in the room, and Sif scowled, crossing her arms.

“What are you looking at?” she growled.

Loki lowered his gaze. This wasn’t exactly the first time they had done this. Loki’s room being near the servant’s quarters, no one would guess the kids would hide there when they stole sweets from the kitchens. And besides, if they were caught, they could just blame Loki and say he made them do it.

Loki shuddered. His back tingled painful from the last time Thor and his friends had blamed him for something. Odin had been in a foul mood that day as well, and there just so happened to be a riding crop in the direct vicinity. He could still remember Frigga’s impassive, disappointed look as he silently pleaded with her to make Odin stop. And he could remember hearing – though not seeing through the tears – Thor and his friends laughing at him.

He considered himself lucky. At least he didn’t get an infection, despite being denied a healer’s assistance. Now all he had were just a few thick scars on his back.

The children dug into their spoils, ignoring Loki and chattering to one another. Loki’s mouth watered, and he eyed the pastries and cookies in their haul. Mustering up some form of courage, he quietly slid off his bed and shuffled towards the feasting children, his bare feet soundless on the cold stone floor. He stopped before the group, huddled around their pilfered sweets like wolves around a sheep carcass.

“Um…” he started, “Can I have one?”

The chatter paused, and five heads veered around to look at Loki, mouths stuffed. Loki swallowed, suddenly nervous. He looked to his brother with hopeful, pleading eyes, clutching his stuffed horse tightly. Thor scowled, swallowing his mouth full before turning to face Loki.

“No,” he snapped, “You didn’t help, why should you get any?”

Loki bit his lip, cheeks flushing. He lowered his gaze from his brother and the others.

“I let you hide here…” he pointed out, “Can’t I just have one?”

“No!” Fandral snapped, harshly biting down on a cookie, as if to emphasize his point.

“Please…” Loki said quietly, feet shuffling, “I’m hungry.”

“Get your own food!” Sif snapped, getting up to loom over Loki. Despite being about Loki’s age, she was somehow taller than the second prince. And it frightened him how intimidating and nasty such a young girl could be.

“You didn’t do anything – you don’t do anything at all!” she snapped, “You just sit here in your room with your stupid Seidr and your dumb horse!”

Loki gasped as she snatched said horse from his arms, clutching it tightly around the neck, as if she were strangling it.

“G-give it back!” Loki exclaimed, reaching for his toy. But Sif held it up high, out of the tiny prince’s reach.

“You freak, it doesn’t even look like a horse,” Fandral laughed, pointing at the stuffed toy, “Look! He put eight legs on it!”

Looking at the toy, the children laughed. Loki flushed red in embarrassment. It wasn’t his fault, it had been his first time making a toy, and he had only turned four at the time!

“Please, give it back!” he implored, trying to reach his only toy.

Sif scoffed, tossing the toy to a waiting Hogun. The Vanir looked at the horse with a mixture of disgust and uncertainty, holding it by a single strand of its yarn mane. Hogun threw it to Volstagg as Loki made to grab it, the largest of the children laughing uproariously.

“Keep away!” he exclaimed, throwing it to Thor.

“Stop! Give him back!” Loki cried.

“Then come and get it!” Thor laughed, throwing it to Fandral.

Loki’s eyes burned, but he did not dare let any tears fall. Such actions would warrant even more taunting, even more scorn. He knew this by now; it took him only one crying session from Odin’s beating to learn this. Tears were a weakness in Asgard; they were not a sign of distress or a way to somewhat dull the pain in one’s heart and body. Tears were a disgrace…

“Please, give him back!” he yelled, trying to catch the stuffed toy. Sif caught it instead.

“What, are you going to cry?” she crooned mockingly.

Loki bit his lip, clenching his fists at his sides as he scowled at Sif. He hated her, he always hated her. It wasn’t fair. Thor was his brother, and yet he seemed to have replaced him with Sif. He never acknowledged Loki, even going as far as to say he wasn’t his brother. And here comes Sif, and suddenly Thor does not have a little brother, but a stubborn, cruel sister.

Honestly, when they first met, Loki thought she could be his friend. She wanted to be a warrior, and he wanted to pursue the art of Seidr. She was already wary of him and looked upon him with mild distain, but the moment he voiced this to her, she gave him the nastiest scowl and called him a weakling.

“Sif…” he rasped, trying to keep his voice even, “Give him back…”

Sif scoffed, holding his toy by one of its legs.

“Then come and get it,” she mocked, eyes sliding over to the obviously waiting Fandral.

Loki eyed Fandral, his scowl intensifying. He was tired, he was angry, he didn’t feel well, and he was hungry. He did not want this – he just wanted to be left alone in his cold, lonely chambers and let the days pass him by like they always did. Was it truly too much to ask for a bit of compassion from these people? Just a bit of mercy? Couldn’t he have just this one thing?

His fingertips tingled with poison green magic. He looked back at Sif, expression as green and venomous as his Seidr.

Sif blinked, taken aback. She had seen Loki upset before – more times than she cared to think of. But she had never, ever seen him this enraged. It unnerved her, the dark shadows under his eyes, the creases of his scrunched brows. His pale face was ghostly, his eyes livid and glowing. And before she could taunt him further, his hands lit up with green fire.

The others blanched, stunned.

Sif would never admit it, but she was frightened. They all were.

Loki snarled with bared teeth. “Give. Him. Back.”

Sif scowled, uncertain. They were now literally playing with fire, and any wrong move could mean the end of things.

But she was a child – and more than that, she was a nasty child. She hated Loki, and her emotions were the driving force behind her actions.

Loki frowned as Sif grabbed another of his toy’s legs. But he no sooner gasped, eyes wide as Sif pulled it hard enough for the weak seams to rip.

“Stop…” he rasped.

Sif grinned, pulling the leg harder until its only attachment to the body were a few split and worn threads. He could hear the others giggling and laughing behind him, and Loki could only watch as Sif took another leg and started tearing it off as well

“I said, stop…” his voice choked, strained and tight.

Sif shook her head, her grin widening as she grabbed the horse’s head. Loki faltered, tears bursting from his eyes as Sif took his toy’s head and tore it clear of its neck.

The proverbial thread in Loki’s head snapped.

And with a shrill, animalistic scream, he pulled his fist back and threw a burning ball of green fire at Sif. The girl screamed, dropping the toy as the fireball hit her, sending her crashing into the back wall, her clothes singed.

Seething, Loki ignored the others as they rushed to the girl’s side. She was sobbing, clutching her mildly burnt arms as she cried. And yet the others pitied her. Loki found it both infuriating and confusing. If Sif cried, because she was a girl who was hurt, she was not going to be ridiculed. And yet she wanted to be a warrior one day.

‘Pathetic.’ Loki thought, wanting to spit.

He looked up at the sound of feet rushing at him. But the moment he looked up, he could only see Thor’s fist flying at him. His vision flashed briefly, and when it came back, he was looking up at the ceiling of his chambers, his right eye throbbing. It took him a moment to realize what happened, but it only caused more tears to spring to his eyes.

Thor had hit him. Thor had hit him.

Thor had never hit him in their entire time knowing each other. He had never even touched Loki in any way, and for his first touch to his own little brother to be a physical act of violence and hatred…

It was like glass shattered in Loki’s chest. The meager, dying hope he held for Thor one day looking at him with anything but contempt, the desire to see his brother smile at him and to protect him; it had shattered utterly and completely.

Thor could never be Loki’s brother now…

Thor glared at Loki from above the fallen child, not even feeling the tiniest bit of remorse for the swelling already forming around his not-brother’s eye. He soon turned on his heels, going back to his friends, who were helping Sif up and leading her to the door.

When she was led out, Thor turned to Loki with a scornful look in his electric blue eyes.

“I hate you.” He slammed the door shut behind him.

And Loki was, once again, alone and hurt…

Loki sobbed, gently touching the torn threads and stiff stuffing of his toy and friend. One of its green button eyes was hanging by a thread, having been loosened from Sif’s cruel grip on its head.

He sniffled, rubbing his eyes. “I’m sorry…” he rasped.

It hurt so much. It felt like his heart was being eaten alive, torn to shreds and burning in a pile of coals. He couldn’t take it anymore! He’s lived his life in relative peace, despite knowing he wasn’t favored or looked upon as anything but a burden. He was fine with that, so long as someone, anyone, looked upon him at all. But Thor…

“I hate you.”

Too much. It was too much now. He was only a little boy looking for any semblance of love and compassion. And he suddenly seemed to acknowledge that he was not going to get any of that staying here. Not just in his rooms – but Asgard overall.

And so with a broken heart, his beloved toy wrapped in a thin cloth, Loki left his room. He didn’t even bother to put on any shoes or take anything else with him. He didn’t care anymore, he just wanted to leave Asgard.

And he knew of only one way to leave it.

The path was easy enough to find.

Loki had found the strange tear in time and space just last year. He could see it clearly, hidden like a blemish behind some bushes in the garden. Normally, he wasn’t allowed in the gardens. But at the time, the kind servant woman had been around and insisted he needed some fresh air.

“You are so pale, child,” she had said, cupping his cheek with warm and aged hand. “A little sunshine will do you some good!”

And so he had found himself outside one late afternoon, able to toddle about and smell the flowers. No one had been around thankfully, so Loki was able to enjoy himself for as long as he wanted. And that was when he had found the Hidden Path.

He at first had no idea what it was, this strange rip that hung in midair. But when the servant found him in the bushes, she told him what it was.

“Not many people can see them,” she had said, “But the few who can sometimes traverse them, finding new and mysterious worlds.”

“How come some people can’t see them?” Loki had asked.

The servant woman smiled, patting his head. “Because not many are as special as you and I.”

That had been almost exactly one year ago. And now here Loki was, standing before the Hidden Path he had kept secret from everyone else.

He looked to the sky, squinting at the few stars that existed above Asgard. The nights there were rather dim, often clear but boasting few stars or galaxies. The moon however shone down on him like a watching guardian, its round face a welcoming presence.

He clutched his ruined toy tightly, swallowing as he stared into the rip in reality. The servant had warned him to never enter it unless he was in absolute danger and needed to escape. She did not know where it led to, and so could not be sure it would take him somewhere safe.

“Or if you are lucky, it can take you to that place you were meant to be,” she had said, giving Loki a knowing look.

Loki had been quite confused at the statement. But the servant always seemed to have a strange manner about her, like she knew something about him that he himself did not know. But he shrugged it off. There was no point in thinking on it now. Now, he wanted an escape, and this was his only means of it.

He turned to look up at Asgard’s grand palace. Had his life been different, he probably would have seen it as a grand, wondrous home. But to him, it was a prison. You can build a cage of gold for a bird, but no matter its opulence, it was still a cage.

Loki took a deep breath, turning his back on his once-home. Or had it ever been his home to begin with? What was a home? He hadn’t the tiniest inkling of what a real home was like. How warm it could be, how loving and caring parents were, or how wonderful friends could be. He never had any of these things. So perhaps all the tales he has been told about loving parents and a safe, warm home were just that.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he thought, ‘I’ll make my own home.’

He startled somewhat at the distant shout of guards. Lights were being lit from windows of the palace, all near the servant’s quarters; they were looking for him.

Loki trembled, the scars on his back stinging. He had attacked Sif when she had taken his toy and ruined it. But no one would hear his side of the story, let alone believe him. And Odin was anything but merciful to his second son.

Without a word, Loki rushed through the Hidden Path. Once through, the tear in reality collapsed and closed, never to open into Asgard again…

The first thing Loki took notice of when he leaped through the end of the path was the snow.

It was everywhere, white as milk and soft as a newborn lamb’s wool. Spires of ice towered over him, like sentinels reaching for the abyssal sky.

The second thing Loki noticed were the stars.

Billions, if not more, were scattered about the sky like little pin holes in blue-black paper. Galaxies and milky ways streaked the navy blue canvas, shooting stars cutting across it like white arrows. An aurora fluttered like a rainbow drape in the sky, dancing at the highest and lowest peaks, billowing and rolling like waves of pure light and color.

Loki stared, awestruck and mesmerized. He didn’t even notice the cold seeping into his bare toes, the frigid sting of the wind reddening his cheeks.

Loki had always loved winter, even though he never much got to see it. Asgard’s winters were short and lacked for much snow. It was mostly rain and shorter days. As was the realm of gold and sunlight, winter was hardly a welcomed guest in the realm of the Aesir. Loki had only ever seen snow in picture books the kind servant brought him, or heard descriptions from her or former warriors who battled in Jotunheim.

Jotunheim…

Loki gasped. He was on Jotunheim. He didn’t know how, but he simply knew. The land spoke to him somehow, the snow aglow with a frigid energy that he could feel and hear. It hummed in his body, buzzed under his skin. He felt like his own flesh was too small and tight for him, and he wanted to get out of it.

And the cold, it didn’t bother him at all. He had always been a sickly child, but somehow the chill of the frozen realm did not affect him. If anything, it felt…welcoming.

He felt like he was home.

“HALT!”

Loki gasped and veered around at the loud, bellowed roar. His eyes widened on the large blue men atop their equally large, furry white beasts. Weapons clutched in their sapphire hands, eyes of garnet and ruby glared at Loki. The Aesir child whimpered, clutching his toy closer to his chest.

One of the Jotnar snarled, pointing his spear at Loki.

“Who are you?” he snarled, “How did you get here?”

Loki trembled and shook his head, unable to answer. He was terrified, not of the Jotnar themselves, but how they were looking at him. They looked at him like Odin did; like he was filth stuck under his boot, the very bane of his existence.

Getting no response seemed to aggravate the Jotnar, but they did not attack. Instead, the leading Jotun dismounted his beast and stalked over to Loki, towering over the small child.

“Speak,” he grunted, “From where do you hail from?”

Loki swallowed, trembling intensifying. He somehow managed to summon a smidge of courage to speak.

“I…I r-ran away,” he whimpered.

The Jotnar all frowned, suspicious.

“I asked you where you hailed from, boy,” he growled.

Loki lowered his gaze. “A-Asgard…”

Aggressive grunts and growls were heard, the slide of blades being unsheathed like nails on chalkboard to Loki. But the leading Jotun held up a hand, signaling the others to wait.

“And why have you run away from your golden realm?” he grunted.

Loki sniffled, suddenly terrified. What if these Jotnar sent him back to Asgard? What if they did not allow him to stay, and demanded Odin take him back? He’d never stand a chance, and he would probably never find another means of escape!

“Please…!” he rasped, a sob escaping him, “Don’t send me back! Please don’t send me back! Father will hit me again and Thor will laugh at me, and-”

“Thor?” The Jotun repeated, stunned, “You are a companion of Aesir Prince Thor?”

Loki shook his head. “I-I’m his brother…”

Silence fell over them. Loki continued to tremble, his eyes locked on the bare feet of the Jotun before him. In the back of his head, he wondered why the Jotnar didn’t wear shoes. People in Asgard said it was because they were so uncivilized that they didn’t even know how to make shoes. But it made Loki wonder if they simply didn’t like shoes. Loki certainly didn’t; he felt more free when he was bare footed. And the snow felt good between his toes.

“Your father…” – the Jotun didn’t miss how Loki flinched – “He is All-Father Odin?”

Loki nodded.

“And you are his second son?”

He made as if to nod, but paused. He lowered his head more.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, “He treats me differently from Thor. People say I’m not Thor’s brother…I don’t know…”

Sharing a few odd looks with one another, the Jotnar seemed to share a mental conversation. This could help them, or purely do nothing for them. On one hand, they could take this supposed second son of Odin to their king and open negotiations with Odin. They had heard rumors of Odin’s second son, but many had dismissed him as nothing but a rumor. No one had really ever seen the second prince, but he fit the few descriptions people made of him.

But on the other hand, if this boy was as ill-treated as he made it sound, Odin might not even care to have the second prince back.

But perhaps more than that, there was the issue of the child’s words. The bigger picture showed them a grim image. There was a lost, beaten, and abused child in their realm, and he was obviously desperate for their mercy.

“Thrym…” one of the Jotnar muttered.

The Jotun before Loki nodded, sighing deeply. Honestly, he was getting too old for this. He cursed his son and grandchildren for thinking of them as he looked upon the lost boy.

He kneeled down in front of Loki, startling the young boy. But the Jotun slowly slid his spear back into its holster on his back and held up his empty hands to Loki.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, “We’re going to take you to our king, and perhaps he can arrange something.”

Loki swallowed thickly, his throat tight. He clutched at his wrapped toy, staring at the large blue man in apprehension. Though stories of the Jotnar were many, Loki could only recall a few snippets of such vulgar stories from chatting and gossiping servants. But outside of that, Loki was completely uncertain of these giants. Few tales of their savagery passed through the walls of his cold, stony bedroom. Things like stories were few and far between for Loki, and the only few he could recall were the ones told to him by the old servant woman.

The Jotun – Thrym, one of them had called him – surveyed Loki with a narrow frown. The purpling bruise around his partly shut eye was quite concerning, a testament to the child’s supposed abuse. His clothing was also quite puzzling, if not contradictory to his supposed status. Loki only wore a faded, threadbare brown tunic and baggy pants, his feet bare and buried in the snow. Thrym easily recognized hand-me-downs, but he was puzzled as to why they were so old and not at all indicative of Loki’s status as prince. It was quite common for commoners and the lower class to pass down clothing, but for royalty to do so, and not at the very least mending what was obviously very old…

Loki bit his lip, looking up at Thrym imploringly.

“You…you won’t send me back?” he asked meekly.

Thrym took a moment to ponder over what the child was asking him. Likely he wasn’t going to see the kid again when and if he took him to Laufey and Fárbauti. But he was a father – and a grandfather – all the same, and he knew how much promises and reassurance meant to a child.

“I swear on my life you will not go back without good reason,” he said.

Seemingly satisfied with the answer, Loki nodded and stepped towards the Jotun. Carefully, as if the little Aesir were made of brittle frost and melted ice, Thrym picked him up under his little arms and held him against his chest. Loki squirmed somewhat, shifting about until he was comfortable.

“What is your name?” Thrym asked, turning back to his beast.

“Loki…” Loki said quietly, hugging his wrapped toy to his chest.

Thrym nodded as he mounted his beast. He grunted out orders to the others to go on ahead of him and alert their kings of their findings. While they went on ahead, leaving Thrym with two others at his side, Thrym settled Loki on one thigh against his abdomen. He gently kicked his beast into a steady trot, much slower than he normally would ride. But he did not want to jostle Loki and possibly hurt him, or make him sick.

Loki… Thrym frowned, his hand tightening on the beast’s reigns. He had a name so similar to his lost nephew’s name. He looked down at the quiet child in his arm, suspicious yet curious. The child was barely clothed, and he wore no shoes or even any socks. Yet he had stood perfectly fine in the snow of their icy realm, his clothing so thin and ragged, they couldn’t even shield him from their unforgiving winds. But he did not tremble, his teeth did not chatter – he did not appear as if the cold bothered him at all. And his scent…it wasn’t like any Aesir he’s ever encountered.

The boy carried the scent of a very young Jotun…

To be continued…