Chapter 2 : THE MOTHER'S EYES
The palace corridors stretched endlessly.
Gold walls. Marble floors. Einherjar guards at every intersection, their armor catching light, their faces blank as stones. They acknowledged him with slight nods—the formal courtesy due to a prince who'd never earned their respect.
Loki's memories offered context: they thought him strange. A sorcerer in a warrior's realm. Too clever by half. The kind of man who won fights through trickery instead of strength.
At least that part fits.
He walked with what he hoped was confidence, letting muscle memory guide his steps while his mind raced through contingencies. Frigga had summoned him. Frigga, who the memories painted as perceptive, patient, and impossible to fool.
She taught Loki magic. She knows how he moves, how he speaks, how he thinks. If anyone will notice something's wrong...
The doors to her chambers appeared too quickly. Handmaidens flanked them, young women in flowing white who curtseyed as he approached.
"The Queen is within, my prince."
He pushed through before his nerve could fail.
The room smelled like flowers and ozone—the particular scent of Asgardian magic at rest. Tapestries lined the walls, depicting battles and coronations and feasts that had happened before humanity existed. Windows twice his height let in cascading light.
Frigga stood near a mirror, adjusting her own ceremonial dress. Gold and white, elegant without ostentation. Her hair caught the light like spun copper.
She turned when she heard him enter.
The smile hit him like a physical blow.
She dies, his mind supplied with academic cruelty. Dark World. Malekith's blade. She dies protecting Jane Foster, buying time, refusing to surrender.
"Loki." She crossed to him with a mother's easy grace, taking his hands in hers. Her palms were warm. "You look troubled."
He forced his throat to work. "Nervous. For Thor."
She studied his face. Her eyes were the same color as his—or rather, the same color as the body he now wore. Green, knowing, missing nothing.
"You've never been nervous for your brother before." A gentle observation, not an accusation. "Usually you're hoping he'll trip."
A surprised laugh escaped him. The memories confirmed it—Loki's petty sabotages, his small cruelties, his desperate need to see his golden brother stumble.
"Perhaps I'm maturing."
"After a thousand years?" Her thumb traced circles on his knuckles. "What's changed?"
I died. I woke up wearing your son like a costume. I know exactly how and when you're supposed to die, and I have no idea if I can stop it.
"Perspective," he managed. "Watching him become king has... clarified things."
It wasn't a lie. He did see things clearly now. Thor's arrogance would lead to banishment, would lead to humility, would eventually lead to the brother who'd mourn Loki's various deaths with genuine grief. The story was already written.
Unless he could rewrite it.
Frigga's hands squeezed his. "Walk with me."
She led him to the windows, where Asgard sparkled beneath a perfect sky. Servants rushed through distant courtyards. Banners unfurled from towers. The realm was celebrating a moment that wouldn't happen—not today.
"You think Thor is ready?" she asked.
The original Loki would have lied. Would have said yes, hoping to accelerate his brother's failure. But this wasn't political maneuvering anymore; this was intelligence gathering.
"No."
Frigga's expression didn't change, but something in her posture shifted. Interest. "Tell me."
"He's brave," he said, selecting words with care. "Brilliant in battle. Beloved by the people. But he's never faced true loss. Never questioned whether his choices might be wrong. A king needs more than courage. He needs wisdom, and wisdom only comes from suffering."
The words hung in the air between them. Frigga watched him with those impossible eyes, and he felt suddenly, horribly exposed.
Too insightful. The old Loki would have been bitter, not analytical.
"You've thought about this," she said slowly. "More than I realized."
"Ruling is complicated. Someone in this family should acknowledge that."
She laughed—a soft sound, genuine and surprised. "There's the sharp tongue I know." She touched his cheek, and the warmth of her palm almost undid him. "You've always seen clearly, Loki. Your father may not appreciate it, but I do."
Your father.
Odin wasn't his father. Laufey was—the Frost Giant king who'd abandoned a runt of a child to die. The heritage reveal was coming, an explosion of identity that had shattered the original Loki completely.
I already know. I don't have to be shattered.
"Mother." The word came out rougher than intended. "I... thank you. For everything."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. The perceptive gaze of a woman who'd raised two sons and buried a thousand secrets. "You're different today."
His heart stopped.
"Different how?"
"I'm not sure." She dropped her hand from his cheek, but didn't step back. "Something in your eyes. Like you've... returned from somewhere far away."
Because I have. Farther than you can imagine.
He manufactured his best smile—Loki's smile, practiced in a mirror he'd never used until an hour ago. "Perhaps I'm simply resigned. Thor becomes king. I remain the shadow. The story writes itself."
"Stories can change."
The words hit him harder than she could have intended. He had to look away, toward the window, toward the impossible golden city that was now his reality.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I suppose they can."
A horn sounded in the distance—deep and resonant, felt in the bones more than heard. The coronation call.
Frigga straightened, mother becoming queen in an instant. "We should go. Your brother will want his family present."
"Of course."
She walked toward the door, then paused. Looked back at him with an expression he couldn't read.
"Loki... whatever's changed in you, I hope it stays." A small smile. "You seem more... present. Here. Like you've decided to actually inhabit your own life."
Before he could respond, she was gone.
He stood alone in her chambers, surrounded by her scent and her warmth and the knowledge of her death playing on repeat in his skull.
Two years. Maybe less. Malekith comes. The Dark Elves invade. And she dies because no one prepares, because no one sees it coming, because the original Loki was too busy burning everything to protect what mattered.
He clenched his fists until his nails—Loki's nails—bit into his palms.
Not this time.
The horn sounded again, more urgent. He adjusted his armor, checked the dagger at his belt, and walked toward the throne room.
The sound of her voice stayed with him all the way there—warm and knowing and alive. He memorized it. The exact tone, the slight rasp, the way she said his name like it meant something.
Whatever else happened, whatever he had to become, he would hear that voice again.
He had to.
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