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Loki runs a hand over the gilded gold arm of the throne of Asgard, fingers tracing its intricacies, his seiðr sensing its power.
He takes a breath, closes his eyes for the briefest instant, then steps forward, turning and placing himself upon it, relaxing into its shape, feeling the hard metal press against his back and rest against his forearms.
There.
He lifts his head to gaze out across the hall, taking in the golden columns and the many steps that flank its central walkway, their majesty and size all leading the eye directly to the throne.
Directly to Loki.
Another breath, another moment to revel, to take it in, savour the feeling of it.
Around him, the king’s guard stand tall and stoic at their posts, dressed in their ceremonial garb; their capes, spears, and intricate helmets as golden as the floor and walls around them.
A single word, and they will leap to his command.
This is everything Loki has ever dreamed of, his planning, his schemes, his careful orchestration finally come to fruition.
Loki, King of Asgard.
He can’t help the quirk of a smile, just at the sound of it in his own mind, at the truth of it, the finality. The power.
So why, at his moment of great achievement, the realization of his greatest aspirations, is there a lump, hard and thick as lead, twisting his insides to sickness?
His eyes rove the throne room, drawn first to the flickering braziers of fire, then to the pure pearlescent blue sky of Asgard peeking through the furthest columns at the end of the hall. The clouds drift, the sun casting its soft yellow light over the distant towers and spires of the outer city.
Everything around him is at peace in its beauty, but his mind is not here.
No, it is several thousand feet below, trapped to spin endlessly in the great Asgardian vaults, playing again and again the revelation of his true past, his true parentage, his true race.
He sees the Casket of Ancient Winters, remembers the rush of power that poured into him the moment his hands made contact with its edges. Feels how it pushed through his own defences, unravelled his deepest magics, and unveiled his true form.
Loki suppresses the slightest shiver. He can still feel it under his skin, crawling like icy fingers tracing out the markings of a Frost Giant across his flesh.
He can't help himself; he glances down to his hands, for what must be the tenth time this hour, one laying on the armrest, the other clutching Odin’s sceptre. They are pale, but reassuringly flesh-toned, warm-blooded, Asgardian.
He lets out another breath.
He is king now, King of Asgard. That is what he should be focussing on.
But his mind cannot be drawn away. Too much has happened in too short a time. He needs to think, to sort, to make sense of it and parse out its meaning.
His thoughts dance instead to Odin's chambers, where he sat less than an hour ago, staring down at the once great king lying helpless in sleep, defenceless and pathetic.
Loki had been numb, silent; always one to pride himself on quick thinking, his thoughts now slowly churned their way through this new reality.
Odin, All-Father, King of Asgard and most powerful being in the Nine Realms, was not his father, was never his father. Thor was not his brother. He was Loki, singular, no family, no blood ties. No right to the throne?
No, of course not. His father and mother had named him successor after Thor, even with their knowledge of the truth.
Or at least Odin's knowledge. His mother—rather, Frigga—must know. Must’ve known from the very start, been one of the key architects of the deception. Had she used her magic on him as a babe, to seal away his true nature and form?
Memories played through his mind, childhood and adolescence, all of his escapades with Thor, his striving to please Odin, his mother’s lessons in the ways of seiðr. The hours he had spent with her in quiet study and the unspoken bond that had slowly formed between them, united in their fascination with the ancient magics. It was a bond deeper and more complete than any he had ever shared with Thor or his father.
And now—To think it all a lie, to think of her, not a mother, but a cunning strategist preparing their Frost Giant pet for some future purpose in service to the Asgardian throne…
Somehow that image pained him more deeply than learning of any of Odin’s schemes.
And when she burst through the chamber doors, rushing first to Odin’s bedside, taking his limp hand, her eyes already shining with unshed tears, she turned next to Loki, crossed round the bed so she could fold him into her embrace, pressed his head into her shoulder and whispered, “Oh my son”—
It was at that moment that numbness threatened to overcome him.
How easily she lied. Had always lied.
Had she thought the truth would never come to light?
He considered pulling himself away from her embrace, letting out his anger, his hurt, shouting his accusations, breaking the soft ambiance of the bedchamber as sharply and suddenly as glass shattered on stone.
But it all at once became too much and instead Loki did what had always come most naturally to him—he put on a mask. Hid his rage under soft words of comfort, patting his mother’s—the queen’s—shoulder, recounting to her his father‘s collapse on the stairs without mention of the terrible revelation that had preceded it.
And it was not long after that that the king's advisors and guards had arrived to place Odin’s sceptre in Loki’s hands and declare him reigning King of Asgard.
And now here he sits on the throne, the weight of the sceptre becoming more familiar in his grip with each passing moment.
From unfavoured second son, to monster, to king, all in a matter of hours. Is this fortune? Mischance? Or something else?
This truth about his birth is…unfortunate. But aside from it, all his plans are coming together perfectly. Thor banished, his father unconscious, and his mother too deep in grief to rule in his place. Things could not have aligned more serendipitously.
He thinks again of Thor, considers where he might be right now, alone on Midgard, stripped of his power and forced to survive without his princely comforts. Midgard would bring that arrogant, reckless fool of a prince to his knees.
Even with all that happened this day, that image is enough to fill Loki with such satisfaction he could laugh aloud.
But then, a more sobering thought:
What of Thor—could he know the truth of Loki's parentage? Be in on the secret?
Always so confident, boastful, gloating about his superiority, his might, the favoured one in their parents’ eyes. Could it all be a great scheme played against Loki, a jest for them all to share, with him left unknowing in the dark?
But no, Loki dismisses the thought almost immediately. Thor could not lie to save his own life. He is a fool, brash and loud, but always straightforward. There is no way he could keep up such a ruse, not now, let alone through their long childhood.
Loki becomes aware of the ever tightening grip he has on the sceptre, his knuckles turning stark white against the gold. He relaxes his hand.
Takes another inhale inhalation, cool and controlled.
So just Odin and Frigga then. He doubts that the king and queen would trust any of the other nobility with such a secret. Not even their closest advisors.
He feels the rage rekindling itself inside of him, grief and betrayal, swirling and twisting into fury so white hot it threatens to overcome him.
Instead, he masters it, contains it, forces it down to settle, cool and hard as ice.
He scoffs to himself.
How fitting.
Loki instead reassures himself, smooths the sharp edges of his hurt with the knowledge that none of this is his fault. This can all be laid at the feet of his lying, conniving, deceitful father—rather, king.
This must be the reason why Odin has always favoured Thor over him. This is why Loki has always been left to the shadows, unvalued, unnoticed and never appreciated for his superior skill and intellect.
Odin could not bear to admit that a small, orphaned, helpless Frost Giant could grow up to make a better king than his own precious son.
Well, Thor has grown into an arrogant buffoon, a danger to himself and the people of Asgard. Asgard deserves more from her ruler, and Loki is confident he can provide better leadership than either his childish fool of a brother or his deceitful and enfeebled father.
Loki has known from his earliest days of childhood that he was fit to rule. Born to rule.
And he supposes the truth changes none of that; he is still the son of a king after all, if not the one he had always thought.
But this truth of his parentage, it is… inconvenient.
He must take steps to ensure it never spreads beyond Odin’s family. Should the Asgardian people discover they have a Frost Giant on the throne… Well, he simply won’t allow that to happen.
Instead, he will prove himself invaluable, loved and admired—a hero, not only to this land and its people but also to his parents should they harbour any doubts of Loki’s aptitude.
Show them how a true king can rule.
And as for his birthplace…
He remembers the icy wasteland, where he had stood mere days ago. A shadowed, broken, ugly landscape. There was nothing of beauty or elegance there.
Jotunheim. He toys with it in his mind. Even the word itself is distasteful.
And its people—no more than hulking brutes, fools who had brought their own realm to ruin.
Every Asgardian child was taught the Jotun’s history as a cautionary tale, how driven by greed, they had spread across their land, devouring everything of value and beauty, without thought to consequence, until there was nothing left to devour but themselves.
He may have been born among them, but he is not of their ilk. Loki has always been destined for better things. It is a truth he has known to his very core for as long as he can remember.
The Frost Giants are hardly better than vermin. There at least is one thing he and Thor can agree on.
Enough of Odin’s tolerance—if Asgard is to maintain its power and supremacy, it needs to extinguish such lesser beings.
But not in the way of his brother Thor, no, something more clever, more subtle… Perhaps—something that would rid Loki of several of his problems all in one sweeping blow.
And then a plan as cold and ice-hard as the Casket of Ancient Winters itself begins to solidify in Loki‘s mind, and the edge of a small, sardonic smile reaches his lips as he relaxes back into his throne.
Then, an interruption to his musings—the footsteps of a messenger echo crisply through the hall. Loki lifts his gaze to eye the man as he hurries forward, reaching the foot of the dais and bowing sharply. “Lady Sif and The Warriors Three request an audience with you, my king.”
My king. He feels the thrill of pleasure at the sound. Such sweet words.
Loki inclines his head, great horned helmet casting shadows on the far wall.
Lady Sif and those three fools? Oh, he can guess what they are here for. He looks forward to the expressions on their faces when they learn of his new appointment.
But then his smile threatens to become a sneer.
How eager they had been at Thor’s coronation. Loki knows his ascension will not be greeted with a similar reception.
Friends of Thor, perhaps, but no friends of his.
It is time to pass his first trial as king, then to set in motion a scheme that no past revelation or future challenge can hope to unravel.
He leans back.
“Their request is granted. Send them in.”