The Prince

I.

The first time Loki realizes the presence of his guard, he clues in on the little things. Oh, undoubtedly, he sees those guards- the ones that pace outside his chambers- his cell, his cage – so nervously. But, this particularly guard was one of them, yet not at the same time. He was not one of the puppets on strings that his father loved to keep in his grand employ. No, this is someone with spine, he thinks. He idly wonders how long it will take for Odin to break it. He sees his water pitcher and fruits refilled every time he wakes in the morning (or so he thinks). He sees his furniture- broken, bent, and askew from his uncontrollable temper, fixed and pristine. He sees his feet- previously cut and bloody- clean and bandaged.

Reluctantly, Loki is impressed, for this mysterious presence manages the feat without being ever detected by him. He left no prints, made no sounds, and had no presence. Loki, being the reigning deity over mischief, was naturally hard to sneak up on. He was never a deep sleeper- not like his not-brother, whose snores (and not his battle prowess) earned him the right to be the God of Thunder. Even when he was in his own chambers-ones he will probably never see again- he did not sleep- he rested and waited with his eyes closed for the coming of dawn. In a cell such as this, with harsh artificial light blinding at every moment, sleep was even scarcer. In his current state- sedated with ennui- sneaking past his awareness was a feat worthy of respect.

Thus, Loki is very reluctantly impressed. His curiosity rises each time he fails to catch the little guard in his act.

With nothing else to occupy his mental capacity, Loki waits, day after day.

II.

The guards jest; they point their spears at him, laughing and mocking him wordlessly. He does not hear them- does not feel the way they cut into his thick (Jotun thick) skin. He doesn't need to; his mind helpfully fills in the blanks with the appropriate insults and cutting words. It is himself, perhaps, who is the harshest of all. He thinks of the respect he once longed for, the attention that he once craved so desperately for, of the people who once called themselves his friends- now gone like a fool's midnight summer dream.

The familiar, encompassing presence of his rage wells up in his soul. He feels the burning inferno of hate and finds solace in it. It was comforting to him, the feel of fire though his veins (his lovely element- all his), the red he sees obscuring the cruel mockery from his eyes. His rage is one of the few things that no one can ever take from him.

How dare they joke and jest at my expense, it shouted. How dare they, these insignificant ants! His fury swelled, demanding to be released. It wanted to tear these pathetic fools apart and rend them limb from limb. Of course, his rationality protests the action. There are much more elegant ways to go about dismembering a person. To pull their limbs off is crass and uncouth, it quipped.

His magic, wild and unbalanced-but much much less than what he had before- strikes, a shockwave sending the furniture in the cell smashing against the barriers of the cell.

Behind him, the guards laugh harder. Their expressions of cruelty and glee are etched into Loki's memory forever. He resolutely vows vengeance a million times over. The promise he makes brands itself into his skin- a mark of hatred tattooed there forevermore.

That night, he dreams of falling: to where, he knew not.

III.

It was day sixty eight, when Loki finally glimpses his elusive prey. He was just leaving when Loki sat up in his bed. He has the same wavy black hair –like him, so uncommon in Asgard, it was practically unheard of.

"Wait," he commands his voice hoarse from disuse.

The man stops, his foot halfway out the door. His whole figure freezes as if that one word was a spell.

"To what honor do I owe for your time and presence?" Loki says slyly, cunning as always. In truth, he was bitter to the core and used that to banish the gratefulness he feels. A prisoner's illusion, he thinks. Kindness- to him, a monster- what a joke. Or perhaps he was grateful, after two months of disappointment and aching curiosity. "Perhaps you come to goad- as your peers delight in? Or face me, as your cowardly brethren dare not to?"

In spite of Loki's vitriol, the dark haired male never once tenses. He turns around, slowly, and for once, Loki's silver tongue is rendered speechless.

The man's eyes- the same green as the one he sees in his own reflection- peers back at him with the slightest hint of confusion.

IV.

Even though he knows of his mysterious ally, the guard is still an enigma, much to Loki's frustration. With his newfound object of interest –a puzzle cube with far too many sides- Loki is less prone to fits of wanton anger. His rage still prowls, dominant in the forefront of his mind, but it has quieted- for now- which is good enough for him. He sits and stares for hours at the sole doorway to his cell, thinking about the guard. He previously thought the man to be faceless and nameless, as one of his not-Father's many useless, harebrained, canon fodder, but now no more. He ponders on the man- his lack of antipathy (most strange, considering who he was talking to), his pale skin and wire thin build, his dark hair and intensely green eyes. He looks as if he could be his twin, yet his own appearance was but an illusion- a glaze of gold stretched thin over the retched blue skin of his enemies (He refuses to call them kin. He refuses to belong). He thinks, and he can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, he is running himself in circles.

Frigga, of course, picks up on his change in mood. Her eyes were always disgustingly perceptive, Loki grumbled.

"My son, what brings you such good mood?" She asks, her illusionary image life-like yet not at the same time. It wavers slightly, reminding him that it was but a hologram- an echo of the woman who calls herself his mother. A smile plays lightly on her lips, and she notices the interested glint in Loki's eyes- one that would have once sent the palace servants running for their hiding places. Now its mere presence will do, no matter his mood for mischief.

He raises a charcoal black eyebrow elegantly, his expression showing none of the rage that simmers beneath the surface. "Whatever do you speak of, My Queen? Hardly anything here, least of all my mood, is good."

He tries to keep the venom from his voice, if only for the respect he once held for the only person to ever care for him. The words spill out of his mouth, framed by an arrogant and challenging smirk.

Judging by the frown that mars her expression, he wasn't too successful. Nonetheless, Frigga was determined to reach her estranged son past his barriers made of words and thorns and fangs.

"My Son," she emphasizes, her hands hovering as if they wanted desperately to touch his face, "look at you. Look at everything around you."

"There is naught upon which I can rest my eyes on, Mother- none other than the usual," Loki turns away, a fresh surge of anger and uncertainty lining his every action. "I am woefully unpresentable, though my appearance is no less than what is expected of my station, I should suppose."

Frigga is not fooled in the slightest by her son's acerbic words. She does, however, wince from the jab at the secret Odin failed to hide (a secret that she helped hide, Loki reaffirmed in his mind). Nonetheless, she withdraws her hands, folding them across her chest. Her image spins around, wavering again with the motion.

"Everything I gave you is intact," she says, a hint of surprise in her tone.

"Why of course," Loki shrugs nonchalantly. "It is after all built to be repaired."

Frigga, in all her wisdom, blinks at him. "Repaired? Dear son, you do not have to…"

Loki barks an incredulous laugh. Him? Fix this mess? Preposterous. "Me? Is it not on your orders, that my lovely gilded cage gets repaired every day? That I be fed and watered like a common beast? Kept alive until the day my Father has use of me and the magic that he once scorned?" That was why his guard was there every day, wasn't it? If not to goad? Surely he was here on someone's orders.

Frigga hesitates. "The fruits of my garden are always yours to sample, of course, but I do believe that your guards were assigned not by me…"

Her admission catches Loki off kilter, for all he was sure that Frigga would be the one to send his mysterious benefactor to his side. Who else would bother to?

"… It is by Odin's will, that the guards are there," she adds hesitantly, referring to the brainless clones walking about in the halls.

Odin. The name sends a familiar white-hot pillar of rage through his core, and his magic explodes out, flinging furniture into every which corner of his cell. His water falls, spilling across the floor. He was right. Still, two words ring in Loki's ears. No, Loki. He hears them as clearly as if they were spoken yesterday.

His frustration coupled with anger forces his hand, and he dispels Frigga's spell with one angry wave. The last he sees of her is sadness- sadness and regret.

He is left alone once more.

V.

NoLokiNoLokiNoLoki, the voices whisper in his mind. NoLokiNoLokiNoLoki

They grow louder, and Loki screams. He tears at his hear, he rips his furniture apart. His mind cracks, his psyche turns into sharp shards of glass, cutting everything in reach.

Please, Father, he hears his younger self plead hopelessly. Please, Father.

Don't let me fall.

But he does. He always will. Disappointment has never tasted so bitter on his tongue before.

VI.

"Wait," Loki commands the second time he sees his guard. He spreads his arms afar, his speech still belaying royal authority even with his titles stripped and his powers locked. "Stay."

The guard turns (Loki is secretly still startled by the vibrancy of those green eyes) and blinks. He comprehends the command and slowly walks until he is in front of the sitting Loki. Rather than looking down at the god of mischief, the guard drops to one knee immediately, his head bowed.

He kneels at Loki's chained feet willingly without once being commanded to do so. His scarlet cape falls about him, splayed out on the floor like the train of a gown. Metal clacking reaches Loki's ears as pieces of armor rearrange around the kneeling guard's form.

"My Prince," he murmurs. His voice is a light tenor (the voice of a man yet to see much of life, Loki thinks, amused).

"Rise," Loki replies, inwardly surprised at the deference still shown to him. To his knowledge, the food brought to him has not been poisoned. No act of ill will has been done to him, the powerless villain trapped for eternity. It was a surprise, and Loki warily waits for the day when "the other shoe will drop" as the common Midgardian saying goes.

For a moment, the guard hesitates, looking for a chair. He sees none, as there was none.

A moment later, the guard rises… then drops back down on his knee- his other knee. Loki almost snorts (if such a plebian action wasn't beyond him), rage momentarily paused by the absurdity shown before him.

"What is your name?" Loki purrs dangerously. His mind calculates the ways he could rip the man apart, the feel of his fingertips curling around those green eyes. He feels what's left of his magic rise up, green streaked black with hate and anger. He mentally shakes his head clear of such cobwebs. Focus.

"Harry, son of James, Your Highness," the guard says. His voice belays his young age, truly. By appearance alone, the youth before him was probably not even past a millennium in age. Yet, if the stars on his shoulders are of any indication, the man is the captain of the royal guard- the commander of Odin's forces in the palace. How very curious, for a common man of his age to reach a position of such influence.

"Tell me, Harry Jameson, were you sent here by my Father?" Loki spits out the last word, his eyes flashing with barely concealed madness. His manacled hands- bloody and picked at- curls into white knuckled fists.

"Yes, Your Highness. All Royal Guard assignments are dictated by His Majesty." Harrison replies, calm as the cloudless summer skies, for all intents and purposes oblivious to Loki's growing anger. "However, my actions are my own."

"Why?" Loki spits bitterly, one word holding a million questions. Why do you care? Why would anyone care? Why would anyone care about a Jotun like him? In the back of his mind, his voices –always so traitorous, always so comforting- jeers at him. Never once have Thor visited his cell. Never once has Odin visited his cell. He counted. He waited. The child in him- a small, fractured runt of the litter- was so sure that they would come for him. They never did. They were never there, and a part of Loki wonders why he even bothers anymore. How naïve, he snarled at himself. How foolish of him to expect anything less from those two.

"Why?" The guard echoes, confusion written plainly on his face. "Why not?" He asks in return.

Why not indeed… Why not. Loki's wizened black heart wrings painfully. He knows why. He knows perfectly well. He can recite them; a thousand reasons why he should just be left to die (left in that frozen temple to die of hunger)- to rot until the end of his days. It is no less than what he deserves. No less than what a monster like him deserves.

For minutes, maybe an hour, Harrison stays kneeling, his eyes never wavering from Loki's. Likewise, Loki stares back in silence, not quite sure what to make of the man who still refers to him- the offspring of an Ice Giant, a charity case found in a dump- as a prince.

Absurd, he thinks. Madness- absolute madness, he half snarls in his mind, thinking that all this is yet another blasted trick played on him by the cruel conquerors who dare call themselves his family. He rages, yet his rage finds no foothold in this warrior kneeling before him.

"Leave," Loki says finally, quiet and unsure in ways he has not been since his fall from grace.

The man goes, leaving Loki with his thoughts once more.

VII.

The next day, he finds a new addition to his barren cell. A chair- a wooden chair, old and doubtlessly creaky. It rests in a corner near the tea table, far enough not to be a part of the set, yet out of place from the fancy, gold and jewel inset furniture Frigga sent him. It was worn and looked as if it belonged to an outpost of sorts.

He isn't surprised in the slightest at the sudden addition of furniture (though he really is, deep past the lies he tells himself).

VIII.

The days after, Loki would sometimes catch Harry, son of James, and sometimes not. Each time, he would command the guard to stay. He follows unfailingly, sitting by the side of Loki until he is dismissed. Sometimes, they would talk. Other times, they would just sit still in silence (comfortable silence, Loki reluctantly admits to himself).

"Who are you?" Loki asks almost-casually one day. His curiosity probes for an answer, like a child with a new toy. In their time together, they have grown familiar with each other. His guard is surprisingly knowledgeable about him (he would feel flattered, if he had any recall of the man), yet Loki cannot say the same. "Why have I not heard of you?" Asgard was large, but Asgardian lifespan was far longer than most. The birth of a child does not go uncelebrated throughout the realm. And surely, for all his spotty memory, he would at least remember if a stranger constantly hovered over him.

Harrison tilts his head to the side, contemplating his answer. He is used to Loki's tendency to demand answers he had no right to. He doesn't mind, but he thinks before he answers.

"I was not born in Asgard," he says at last within the confines of the soundproof cell, a confession before a fallen god.

Loki freezes. A very faint feeling- he could not put a name to it- resonates in his chest. Is he…?

"I was born Harry James Potter on Midgard, many centuries ago before your birth. Back then, humans still worshipped Asgardians." Harrison says calmly. "Like all societies, we eventually fell through a number of reasons. When Odin found me, I was given a Golden Apple and asked to take a place in his guard in return. I was not born Asgardian, which is why you have not heard of my birth, My Prince." It went unsaid that he had to gain acceptance the hard way, regardless of Odin's mandates. It was even harder for him, given his Midgardian background.

"How?" Loki whispers, surprised (and a bit startled that someone in Asgard besides him was not Asgardian). "How is this possible?"

Harrison is unflappable even at the sight of an alarmed God. "I was from a race of humans who can wield magic. We were a proud people once- wizards and witches; our magic was even beyond that of Asgard. From the Celts to the desert shamans of the Sahara, we were known and worshipped in our own right. We celebrated our magic, and we fought alongside your warriors, once upon a time. We were once close with Asgardians; we followed the days of powers, the rituals and sacrifice. We gave our reverence to Asgardians, and we received aid and blessings in return. I was the last of that race, and at the end of our time on Earth, I was invited by Odin to Asgard out of respect for my fallen brethren and the history that we shared."

Loki breathes heavily, his body hardly able to contain the monster that lives within him. Deep down- very deep down- he is grudgingly impressed; what did this man do? To earn the respect of Odin of all gods?

"That is the reason why you have not heard of me, My Prince," Harry bows his head, calmly. "I did not want to attract undue attention."

Loki hid a wince. Both of them knew just what a bad idea that was.

IX.

Despite his disgust with Midgardians (the ants they are, though perhaps the mysterious extinct race was worth more), Loki is bored and curious, a very dangerous state to be in for a god of mischief.

Through half clenched teeth and meandering words, he asks Harry to tell him what it was like- to live in Midgard when Asgard still cared about the planet.

He asked for history, but what he gets is more along the lines of poetry and epics. Harry regales the prince of bloody battles on the plains, fearless Vikings that sailed far and wide to lands undiscovered. He tells of the Celts, whose healing spells and rituals were unrivaled. He tells of the nine tailed foxes of the east, of staff wielding monkeys and priests. He tells of discoveries, setbacks, the rise and falls of empires and emperors alike. His voice is tinged with humor when he recalls the way Asgardian deities would frequent Midgard- sometimes drunk- spinning half truths for the mortals to gawk at.

It was hard to believe that Sif was thought to be the goddess of earth and fertility and have golden grain for hair. If he ever gets out of this cage, he will never let Sif live that down, Loki thinks gleefully. For once, he grins, and his madness abates- retreats- in the light of the fascinating words that fall from Harry's lips. Idly, he wonders what manner of drunken bet that was- and who won it.

Truly, Harry is a good storyteller. He can give the court bard a run for his money, surely. He more or less conveys the complement to Harry, the complement covered with enough lies and half-veiled riddles to almost be an insult, but the guard sees through them just fine. He doesn't see the need to dismantle Loki's defenses- the only defenses he has left; he merely responds that he has had many children, nieces, and nephews (some of which were hyperactive, and all had the genes of a trickster, including one that could shapeshift). He has had the practice.

Loki does not dismiss Harry until long into the night, when Harry's throat is parched, and his voice all but gone from the talking. Even then, Harry does not stop or even excuse himself for a break. He merely talks and keeps talking, never breaking the magical spell that seems to fill the cell with wonder.

Harry bows when he leaves, gently closing the door behind him. That night, Loki's dreams are filled not of screams and fit of ragefirepassionbetrayl but of battles in far off lands and victories that go to the damned. He dreams of enchanted forests with elves and dryads, nymphs and mermaids. The dream ends all too soon, and for once, Loki wishes that it could have lasted longer.

The next day, he notices an extra water glass on the table.

X.

Frigga catches on eventually, of course.

Loki was once again enraptured in Harry's retelling of the rise and fall of the Roman Empire (their creation- from Romulus and Remus to the fall of the Byzantine Empire- their faults, their strengths, their strategies, their management, their emperors- both good and bad), and he was too late to dismiss Harry when the portal next to his bed glowed bright blue.

Frigga's immaculate illusion had appeared once again, and Loki scowls angrily at it, his fascination dissipated like fog on a hot summer's day.

"Your Highness," Harry bows from his waist. He stays seated from where is. Loki feels a keen sense of betrayal and jealousy- Harry is his. Powerless as he is, he will not let anyone rip away his sole source of entertainment (or rather, that is what he tells himself).

On a closer inspection, Loki narrows his own viridian eyes. Harry's bow was by far more shallow- though still within the acceptable range of protocol- and he had not kneeled. Even his voice was the robotic drone of guards everywhere. It lacked the warmth he heard at times.

How very curious, Loki thought, that he would show more deference to a deposed prince than the current queen.

"Loki, my son," Frigga cried, joy in her voice. "My son, my dear son, are you well?" Worry colored her tone. Undoubtedly, she still remembered the manner in which she departed from his cell last time.

As well as one could be in a state like this, a part of him sneers- almost hisses.

"As well as can be expected in this gilded cage, put in here to be an artifact on display for eternity" Loki scowls. Hurt shows in Frigga's gaze. He could tell- every time his mother visited, he only got more bitter and angry. He takes a wicked sense of delight in causing pain in those who deserve it. She helped hide the secret, the voice in his mind whispers. She is just as bad as Odin.

Yet, she never stopped visiting, a small part of him (the voice hovering above his left ear) whispers.

No, not like Father and Brother who can't be bothered to, the previous part bites. It is enraged- and hurt- Loki thinks, dazed.

No one would bother to visit a worthless runt, an adopted, despised dredge of the nine realms, an insidious voice claims to his right. No one should. You don't deserve their time. You don't deserve their love.

Worthless, worthless, the voices mockingly sing. Only the spare, never the heir. Never was meant to be.

Harry says something, to his right. His voice and physical presence snaps him out of his reverie, and he realizes that his mother must have asked Harry a question. The guard nods, surreptiously taking a quick glance at Loki.

Loki only raises an eyebrow in return, trying to shove his thoughts back into the recesses of his mind. He tries to hide the fact that he is falling- falling apart at the seams. His hands are trembling, yet he wills them still. He thinks himself successful of deceit, but judging by the way his guard's eyes flickered down at his hands, he is less successful than he thinks.

"I thank you, Harry Jameson, for taking care of Loki," Frigga says solemnly. "Please, look after him, as I am unable to."

"I shall do so to the best of my capability," Harry promised, his voice monotone, but his words ring true.

Deep down inside, he starts to cling to Harry's words desperately, hoping against hope that they are true.

Frigga surveys the undestroyed room, the extra chair, the glasses and silverware in sets of twos. He notices all that and smiles knowingly at Loki. The worry lines in her forehead eases slightly, though she still frets.

Loki scowls back at her, forever the unrepentant psychopath. The rest of the meeting passes by in a blur, and Harry stays for a while after. Loki only hears Harry's promise ringing in his ears.

XI.

The next morning, Harry brings books, much to Loki's surprise.

"These are plays written by a man named Shakespeare. Even though my race was long dead by then, the works he has written are well respected millennia after his death. His plays are even enjoyed by Asgardians here, though they tend to leave out the fact that the author is a Midgardian." Harry explains behind the tower of books that threaten to topple over him. He is quite short, Loki thinks with some amusement.

Loki glances at Harry, then at the books, and asks, "Why ever should I care for the literature of a long rotten corpse?" he says scathingly. "Am I to waste away my days here, reading?"

A small part of him thinks, don't leave. Don't bring the books here and leave me. I don't want those books. He stomps down that part of him with a vengeance.

"Of course not. Even though he was born without magic, he found it through his words. William Shakespeare is a highly respected wordsmith, perhaps the best that Midgard has found thus far." Harry says patiently. He picks up one from the top of his stack, one with a particularly colorful bookmark stuck in the middle, and opens to the first page. His crosses his leg and balances the book on his lap. "I shall read his plays to you; I thought you would appreciate his riddles and wordplay far more than most. They are truly quite entertaining. Hel forbid if I bore you to your demise with tales of my past."

His past is hardly boring, Loki thinks with a raised eyebrow. In fact, it was far more colorful than most. Hamlet, Loki spies the title from the spine of the book. His curiosity rises- what does his guard find entertainment in? What does he do, when he is not surrounded by worthless imbeciles? With such glowing praise, perhaps this Midgardian "Shakespeare" would be worth his time (which he had plenty of).

That day, Loki learns that on top of being a good story teller, Harry is a good actor too. He changes his voice at will without the aid of magic. Loki is reluctantly impressed.

XII.

One day, he absently wonders what will happen if he doesn't dismiss Harry at all. It was but an idle thought, a stray from the flock of monotony that is now his mind, yet he doesn't dissuade the idea.

"Stay," Loki commanded as he slid to sleep, covered in a down comforter brought to him by Harry. (He half suspects that the blanket is Harry's own, as it is too comfortable for standard Army fare.)

"Of course, My Prince," Harry promises as he flips to a new page- this time, from Macbeth. The pages are old and yellowed, and the spine creaks with each turn of a page, but the sound is one that Loki finds solace in. It reminds him of days of his youth spent in the vast libraries of the palace.

"Prithee, peace:" Harry says as he falls back into character. "I dare do all that may become a man; who dares do more is none."

That night, Loki drifts away to sleep, lulled by the voice of the one who is always next to him.

The next morning, Loki wakes to find the man still sitting in that chair. The fool, he thinks, a small tendril of exasperation daring to emerge from his crooked heart. All the more fool of him. His ever faithful guard was asleep, his neck tilted at an unnatural angle (he'll be feeling that for a long time, Loki thinks). Macbeth was face down on the ground, fallen where it had slipped from his guard's fingers. The man himself was snoring softly- baby snores, not like Thor's monstrous ones. In his sleep, the fine lines around his forehead and eyes give way to smoothness. His bright viridian eyes are closed, lined with thick dark lashes. In his sleep, Harry looked even younger, Loki thinks with a hint of amusement. Perhaps he picked the wrong time to stop aging- surely he has not yet even hit his last growth spurt.

He is surprised, that the guard would trust Loki enough to fall asleep in his presence. He is, after all, the God of Mischief and Lies. The Liesmith. The Silvertongue. He does need magic to cause great harm to someone, should he truly wish to. He does not need to use his hands to kill. Yet, the guard is soundly asleep; Loki raises his head to look at the calm face of his guard. The worry lines fade from center of his forehead when he sleeps, and the man is unburdened.

Loki absently wonders if that is what his own face looks like when he sleeps. Does he scream from the horrors in his mind?

Without anything more to do, Loki lies in bed and stares at the ceiling, waiting for his guard to wake. For once in his life, he was unsure of how to handle the situation. Someone cared about him- even if this someone was just a guard- a complete stranger- and he did not know how to handle that. He was baffled and perplexed (with good reason, he argues). And thus, Loki merely lays there and listens to the quiet breath sounds of the person who willingly shares his confinement with him.

XIII.

Two hundred and fifty six days into his imprisonment, Loki suddenly falls sick. It builds, the illness, he thinks. It grows, like a mass that fights to break free from him, the embodiment of the monstrosity that shares his immortal shell. It was like an uncontrollable fire- one that refuses to listen to the demands of its god. It runs wild through his veins and arteries, searing them; Loki feels as if he is on fire, a piece of metal in the forge, to be melted, remade, and melted again.

He wonders what is wrong with him through the haze of fever. The ever glaring light is harsh on his lids, and he writhed about in sweat soaked clothes (which was changed the day before thanks to his guard). He coughs onto the floor, saliva mixed with strands of blood red crimson dripping into a puddle of spittle. His comforter is tossed in the far corner of the room- far away from the blood at his bedside.

Harry enters, and for the first time in a long time, Loki does not notice until a hand is laid on his forehead.

"Mother?" Loki croaks weakly (as much as he loathes to admit), his lashes fluttering. "No…" This is the first time his guard has ever laid a hand on me, Loki thinks, and it was done in kindness. He fights through the haze and opens his eyes, his vision doubling over and then focusing.

There is an unreadable expression on Harry's face- not one of pity or sympathy, but simply of understanding.

"My Prince," he mutters… "How did this happen?"

If I knew, I would not be suffering, Loki thinks sarcastically, lacking the strength to verbalize his thoughts. It is disgusting, what sickness does to him. He has not been sick since his toddler days; as a whole Asgardians- particularly mages- were rarely if ever sick.

Harry frowns in confusion, and he sends a mild temperature reading spell to his hand. Forty degrees. It is dangerous, for him to be in this kind of condition.

He did his best to make sure that Loki had adequate nutrition and was properly hydrated, but with most of his magic stripped from him, his immune system was left as bare as a baby's. Normally, mages have their magic to burn away any infection that manages to infiltrate their bodies, but Loki did not have that anymore. At this point, a serious illness could be lethal for Loki.

Still, he was cautious and thoroughly disinfected himself and all the items that he brought with him. So how…? How did the Prince get sick?

Harry's hawk-like eyes spy a flash of scarlet cloth from the window of the cell. It was a soldier- a junior guard; he moved to take a closer look at the suffering prince, a snicker on his lips. Beside him, the other guards jeer and laugh (as they always did, Loki thinks). They dare revile in the pain of a god.

Harry looks up and sees the air vents- the filters were torn away. The next thing he sees is red.

XIV.

Loki drifts in and out of consciousness; he briefly feels the tingling coolness of magic running through his body. A powerful healing spell, he thinks. He feels his aching bones breathe a sigh of relief at the feel of magic even though it is not his own. He latches on to the spell, drinking magic from it with vigor. Never has he missed something so much in his life.

To be torn from the magic he loves dearly was a cruel punishment, and his body was paying for the price. Still, he would take whatever sustenance he could get right now. His body clings to the energy presented to him and didn't let go, like a baby to his favorite blanket.

And so, Loki lies back, closes his eyes, and lets the fever reducing spell run its course. How odd, he thinks, that the healing spell seemed almost angry.

XV.

His mind is clearer the next time it wakes, but perhaps that is solely due to the manner in which he woke up.

Loki gasped as he felt a large jolt of magic- practically a shockwave, if the confines of the dungeon were not warded up to the ceiling- exploding from outside his cell.

He sits up (a little too quickly, as the world spins unsteadily around him) and watches from the sole window in his cell.

In the hallways was his missing guard; the magic too, was from him. However, what Loki saw was… astounding.

In the dimly lit dungeons, Harry, his faithful companion, was holding up a guard by the throat. Upon closer inspection, he realized that it was one of the (braver) ones that constantly taunted him. His magic- his fury- was escaping in waves. His eyes were glowing with tightly contained power (now let loose and free to run wild).

Were the pupils slitted? Loki's gaze sharpened (try as he may, though the fever still dulls his mental acuity). From his vantage point, he saw how Harry snarled words directly into the guard's ears. He saw how the choking guard turn pale and gasp. He saw how the other guards (they like to mock him so- never stopping, always laughing. They deserve every moment of the pain, Loki thinks viciously) hover uneasily, hardly able to stand against the force of angry magic pressing against them from all sides. They tremble, like lesser beings before a wrathful god.

Harry holds his captive by the neck, shakes him, slams him into a pillar, and lets him go. His magic reaches to the point that it is bypassing the wards on his cell- the mage prince. Loki observes with hitched breath as ice began to form on the edges of his windows and on the columns out in the hall. It frosts over the delicate stone carvings, creating tiny crystals that reflected the dim torchlight of the dungeons.

Then, he does something Loki never thought he would do: he forced them to kneel.

He could see the words forming in the sneer on Harry's face- on your knees, he roars. And they fall at once, like a house of cards against the Northern Gale. They wince as their knees slam onto the floor jarringly. He makes them all recite something- he can't see what from his angle, but they recite it obediently, quavering in their boots all the same. Harry's expression twisted into a cruel grin. Even with the protective wards, Loki could feel his guard's power thrumming. The intensity of it was simply too much for one mage to control, and he was sure that his guard was drunk on power.

It was the first time he has ever seen his guard angry, and a small part of him is –dare he say- touched (foolish human sentiment, his voices whisper) that the captain of the guards would go to such lengths with his own subordinates- for Loki. For the bastard child, for the monster who was never worth more than a tool, a grand joke of the cosmos, abandoned by all and loved by none.

Was this… Was this the same guard that spoke quietly to him and recited poetry in the dead of the night?

All too soon, it was over, and the ice vanishes as if it has never appeared. Loki takes a deep breath as air fills his lungs. Harry's anger is ice cold, he thinks. It is frostburn (is the only kind of cold he is not immune to), unlike his own fiery inferno. It is no less dangerous- perhaps even more so- and Loki is both awed and a tad impressed.

A moment later, his guard enters once more, bringing with him a Midgardian paper bag. Loki is understandably puzzled, though he was still shaken by what he saw.

"Medicine, for your illness," Harry said. There was no sign of the altercation- no stray hair, no residual magical signature- just calm and collected Harry once more. Eerie, Loki thought.

"The filter your air vents have been replaced. I cannot let you have magical medicine for now- your body is not used to magic now, after such long disuse. To give you too large a spell might cause your body to go into shock," he explained as he laid out the medication on the table with the labels faced towards his patient.

"My Prince, please take them on time. I will bring you food to go with the medication," the guard bowed.

Loki agrees, if only because he will be able to see the guard more. Before he dismisses his companion, he gave one extra order (albeit hesitantly).

"Kneel," Loki says idly after a bit of thought.

As usual, Harry drops smoothly on one knee. He says nothing but merely complied willingly in one smooth motion. His cape falls about him, like a crimson train of a grand ball gown.

"Dismissed," Loki nods, his insecurities abated.

XVI.

Harry knew without a doubt that the stunt he pulled that day would have repercussions upstairs. He wasn't mistaken when he was called to Odin's chambers one day (he made sure to 'receive' the memo after Loki had dismissed him). Undoubtedly, one of the brats went and squealed to the powers that be, and at that moment, Harry has half a mind to string them up by the ankles. The Elder Wand thrummed in its hostler, its version of a laugh.

"Harry son of James, Captain of my Guard, explain your actions!" Odin's voice boomed in the hall. It bounced off the walls and caused a vase to vibrate in place.

Harry stood tall against the soundwave (and possibly voice magics) that came with the demand. He was unfazed before Odin's anger, just as he was against Voldemort's, Loki's, and many others.

"I was correcting an oversight- simply doing my job. Apparently, someone thought that it was a grand joke to try to murder Loki in cold blood," Harry's eyes glowed green in anger.

A moment later, he is disappointed when he sees that Odin was not in a rage over the matter. The old king simply looked tired. Trust that decrepit old man to get angry over all the wrong matters (and not get angry over all the right ones).

"Continue," he gestured tiredly with Gungnir, swinging the spear about like a toddler would.

"As you know, your son is drained of most of his magic right now and thus immunocompromised." Harry tried to keep his displeasure of the statement. "Some fool of a guard thought that it was a grand prank to remove the air filters on his air vents so that all that lovely bacteria from the outside can get in when Loki is sorely lacking a good immune system. You are lucky that you still have a son left. If I had not found him, he would most likely be dead by now."

"Perhaps that would be for the better," Odin mutters quietly to himself. Harry hears it (as he is prone to hearing all the things he shouldn't), and is disgusted with the monarch. The feeling pools in his gut. The righteous anger spikes, and he fights to keep the grimace off his face. He feels the Gryffindor lion roar within him, awake with rage after so many millennia. Great King he was, father he was not.

And this was precisely why he needed to step into the role of a caretaker to Loki; quite frankly, no one else (besides Frigga) gave a damn.

"Your actions are excused this once. Why would you take such pains to care for my wayward second born, Old Friend?" Odin asked. And not my first born, was the unsaid part.

Harry takes a deep breath and counts backwards from ten before he answers the question. His temper simmers beneath his skin, and a white hot flash of rage- on the behalf a prince worth nothing to his father- rises to the forefront of his mind. Nope not quite there yet- he counted ten more. There are a million reasons he could cite, none of which would do any good. He pauses to collect his thoughts, and does what he does best- he tells a story. "I am sure you know that I had children once."

Odin remains quiet, wondering where he is going with this.

"I was a hero to my people, the lord of two ancient families, and a warrior of great repute. I was practically their king, for I had won their respect by conquest. I had children to whom I passed my legacy to; two sons, and a daughter who found her true love. My sons were a lot like yours, did you know? James Sirius and Albus Severus- two polar opposites. James was brash, charismatic, and loved. He looked almost exactly like my father. Albus was quiet, dark, and intelligent, almost exactly like Loki when he was a child; if I didn't drag Albus away, he would gladly take his meals in the library. When it was time for me to retire, I gave my legacy to one of them. It was undeniably their birthright- both of them- to inherit what my forefathers gave to me, but I only passed it to one of them." Harry took a breath. "Can you guess which one, Old Friend?"

Odin remained silent and unblinking as a statue.

"Albus. I gave it to Albus," Harry's lips turned up. His eyes lit up with fondness. "For all of Jame's charm and charisma, he lacked cunning. He rushed into battles without planning; he had brute force but not the ability to use that force to its maximum potential. He could lead; the people would have loved him greatly for it, but he was not suited to do so. He loved greatly, but he loved too much; he would sacrifice the lives of many for the few he cared for. He would have been played by the politicians, his goodwill taken advantage of. I sat them both down that night and explained my actions. I told them exactly why I chose one over the other, and I told them that I loved them both- more than anything else in the world. I even swore on my magic for them. They understood, and James stayed by Albus' side from that day on. They were a formidable pair, those two."

"When I swore an oath upon my arrival here," Harry continued, "I swore to uphold the peace of the nine realms. I wore my fealty to the realm, not to you, Odin Borson. I do what I do for the good of the kingdom. I use what experience I have to protect what I can. I will be here long after you turn to dust from age. I will be here after your heirs ascend and fall to the rhythm of time. In this game of thrones, I am the checks and balances of power. I do the best that I can for this realm- the realm that I hold as dearly as my homeland- and I have made my choice."

"I suggest you do the same, King Odin. Never forget that I am the Master of Death before I am your guard." the Master of Death says quietly. Never forget who truly holds the power here. The sunset casts his shadow long over the hallway of the throne room, and in that shadow, Death lurks, twisting and turning in the darkness.

XVII.

To Loki's eternal surprise, Odin does visit once; he swoops in without announcement like he owns the place (which he technically does). The guards fold in half like cards as he passes, arranged in neat little rows- decorations for the king who is the father of all.

Loki watches with part fear, part hate, part surprise, as Odin makes a bee-line for his cell (he watches the procession and notes with pride that his guard didn't fold in half for Odin. He merely bowed his head to the king, green eyes intensely focused on Odin's every move. They shared a few words (try as he may, Loki cannot read their lips- evidently, the guard knows him a bit too well).

When his cell door opens, Loki's heart starts hammering in his chest. He hears the monster in him push against the confines of his mind, wanting to tearshredkillmaim the not-father, kin-killer in front of him. Before he knows it, the first words of an insult are already on his lips.

XVIII.

Harry leans against a pillar and watches the father and son duo talk; well, talk was not strictly the right word for describing the situation. He shakes his head as furniture goes flying, falling into pieces. Books are torn apart at the seams, their pages drifting through the air like feathers through the air.

Yet more work for him to repair, he thinks, mentally making a list. He hopes that Loki's mind would not be on that list- not any higher than it already is- but apparently he thought too well of Odin.

Then, something catches Harry's eyes. His back is off the pillar, and his feet are on the ground before Odin even swings his hand. He sprints, flying up the short flight of stairs to Loki's cell. He yanks the door open with one hand, just in time to hear the loud smack of Odin's fist against Loki's cheek. The prince falls to the ground with the force of the blow. He clutched at his bleeding face, his jaw clenched tight with hate.

"Tomorrow, you will take the prisoner to the chambers for a whipping. You will take him there and whip him personally. Twenty lashes- no more, no less. Do you understand, Guard?" Odin snarls, his magic rising up with his anger. His face is a mottled red- highly unattractive on a man of his age and stature.

XIX.

For a second, Loki fears that Harry will strike back. His cheek stings, though his pride stings more. Because what else will Odin do but strip him of what's left of his pride?

He watches with morbid curiosity as Harry Jameson, the Midgardian turned Asgardian, looked back at the NotFather unblinkingly. His expression is one of shock (can he really expect any less of Odin?). A flash of rage appears in his eyes (almost as potent as his own, Loki notes). His magic swirls; it is an angry tempest stirred to life, eager to be unleashed. In the blink of an eye, it is drawn and locked up tight behind a mask of blankness. Loki is impressed and jealous at the degree of control his guard shows (the same level of control eludes him). He does not reply the king though- does not even bow or acknowledge the deity.

"Do you understand, Guard?" Odin roared, his voice reverberating through the tiny cell. His magic flows from him, nearly visible pulses of white hot power.

Harry stands in the face of his rage, completely nonplussed and unimpressed. To stand in the face of Odin's temper and not blink an eye was… impressive, to say the last. To Loki's keen eyes (and with a little help of his patronage), he spies a small- the tiniest of slivers of mischief in Harry's expression. It was wiped away quickly, perhaps a trick of the light. Then, without a twitch, he replies. "Of course, Your Highness."

Highness. Not Majesty, Loki raises an eyebrow behind Odin's back. Highness could be applied to anyone in the royal family- even ones that are not on the throne. It was a veiled insult, if he ever saw one.

Odin predictably, storms off in a fit.

"I apologize, My Prince," Harry drops to his knees next to him and raises a glowing hand to his already bruised and swollen jaw.

"There is naught to apologize for- not from you, at least" Loki's expression was thunderous with anger and madness, thinking of the cruel words that his NotFather delivered- ones sure to cut worse than any whip. The cracks in his psych widens an inch more.

Don't let me fall; catch me, he thinks silently.

The hand on his cheek lingers for a while longer.

XX.

The next day, Loki is escorted out in chains. The guards are gone, presumably to feed the other prisoners breakfast. Harry knew and chose to spare Loki the snide remarks, and for that Loki feels a small tinge of gratefulness.

As they walk, the prince's chains clank on the cold stone tiles. Harry procures a pair of shoes for him without being asked, and Loki accepts them gracefully without a word of thanks; he takes them with a flourish of arrogance, as if they have always been his. Harry nodded, as if he expected no less from the prince. Loki feels a hint of foreboding at the glint of mischief in his guard's eyes and wonders what his guard will do next.

Thankfully (or not), he doesn't have to wait long.

Suddenly, Harry takes him by the shoulder and yanks him to the left. In his surprise, Loki almost asks what the man is doing when he is suddenly shoved hard against a stone pillar- and goes through it.

"What…?" he mouths. His voice is strangely disembodied from within the solid structure. His manacles are not present, but his limbs are frozen still (perhaps frozen with the stone in the pillar). Yet, he could still breathe- he felt no different than he did a moment ago. There is no crushing weight in his chest, as he expected of the pillar made of stone. The mischievous side of him marvels at the magic- one obviously not from Asgard. Oh, the things he could do if he could get his hands on that spell…

"My Prince, surely you do not think so poorly of me as to allow a whip to touch your back," the captain of the royal guard says dryly, one hand on each hip, conveniently forgetting (or not caring) that disobeying Odin's mandate counts as treason. He summons to his hands a polished stick, much to Loki's confusion. He senses a deep, resonating power within it, older than anything his has felt. Older even than Gungnir, almost.

Then, with a wave to the left and a jab to the right, an amorphous beige blob drops from the ceiling (Loki has walked these halls a million times, and he is sure that nothing of the sort ever existed there) and begins to move before his eyes. It molds itself like wet clay, following Harry's muttered words like an orchestra to a conductor, before it finally settles on a form.

More precisely, it settled on Loki's form. It was complete doppelganger- comprehensive in every way, down to the last bloody cuticle and the healing bruise on his cheek. It amazes Loki to no end- a flesh clone and not an illusion. It was eerie, really, staring into his clone's green eyes It was as if the man brought the prince's mirror image to life- extracted him from the silvery confines of his reflection and gave him life.

Harry's magic is tightly controlled (a good mage's magic always is), but Loki picks up the smallest hint of simmering anger peeking out from behind that calm, collected façade. Perhaps his guard still holds a lingering grudge towards his (supposed) liege?

Once formed, it falls from the air like a puppet with its strings cut (not an inaccurate depiction, Loki thinks bitterly), but Harry catches it (Like he promised, Loki thinks). He waves the stick around some more, and the body is levitated up and moving. The coloring sets in, and the doll blinks back. It breathes, and it walks. The eyes though, are dead- devoid of soul. Loki is still gaping at the blatant display of ancient magic- spells such as these were thought to be long lost. The spell to create life… It was simply unheard of, even to the Aesir.

"Please wait here for a few moments, My Prince," Harry smirks slightly, the laughter in his eyes bringing the slightest hint of hazel into the bright green.

His guard is a prankster, Loki thinks dazedly. A master of it too, to prank Odin of all people.

XXI.

Harry returns moments later with one arm supporting the limping doppelganger; it looks to be in fairly rough shape, Loki notes. The dark green tunic it wears- a duplicate of his own- is stained brown, darkened by seeping blood. The dark lines criss-cross its back, and Loki hides a wince. If Odin had ordered any other guard to dole out the "punishment", that back would be his. The thought is not pleasant in the least.

Harry stops briefly in front of the pillar (a guise, for the doppelganger conveniently starts a coughing fit), and he reaches one hand into it.

"My Prince, please excuse me," is the only warning Loki gets before he is yanked out of the pillar by the wrist and nearly thrown onto the ground. In a flash, the doppelganger is shoved into the pillar, and the real prince takes it place- with none the wiser.

This time, Loki doesn't have to fake a coughing fit; the experience of turning corporeal was not pleasant in the least. It doesn't take long for Loki to start coughing for real. His lungs work overtime, catching up on all the breaths he didn't take while confined. Once he was sure that his visceral organs aren't attempting to crawl out of him, he notes a damp, cool sensation on his back. The coppery tang of blood (his –fake- blood) reaches his nose.

A true prankster attends to details well, and Harry Jameson has that spades. In one smooth motion, he swapped the doppelganger's shirt.

A warm arm curls around his waist, the touch feather soft. "My Prince, are you well?" a glimmer of amusement illuminates his green eyes.

Still huffing slightly, Loki glares a thousand deaths at his trickster of a guard. The guard's should trembles with laughter- celebratory, for a prank well played.

XXII.

"Tell me, how did you learn such ancient magic?" Loki asked, curiosity burning in his eyes. The prince sat on his bed, manacled feet barely brushing the ground. "Such spells are thought to be lost to the Aesir many centuries ago."

"Our people were lost, but our magic was not," his guard says cryptically. "We were taught our magic in a school called Hogwarts, in what is now Migardian Scotland. It was a grand castle, once upon a time. I believe the castle itself has now faded into ruins with time."

"Hogwarts?" Loki raised an eyebrow, his anger and grudges momentarily forgotten. "The warts on the back of a hog?"

"The warts on the back of a hog," Harry Jameson confirmed with a chortle. "The neighboring village was called Hogsmeade, and there was a bar there called Hog's Head."

Loki blinked blankly for all of a second while his brain struggled to compute. "Hogsmeade and Hog's Head," he said incredulously. Surely, Migardians have better imagination than that. Are all Midgardians incapable of naming? And what is with the fascinations with bovines?

"Quite," Harry said dryly. "I believe that was the same reaction that I had, at first. But, questionable name or not, Hogwarts is a truly magical school for all who choose to call it their home. Many generations of witches and wizards do; my line is only one of many who enroll their children in Hogwarts upon birth."

Loki raised an eyebrow. That is quite a recommendation, coming from his normally unflappable guard. "And pray tell, what makes the warts on the back of a hog so appealing?" He was honestly a bit curious about that question- of all things to name an institution…

Harry snorted- apparently, Loki finds Hogwarts' name vastly amusing. It was no surprise, really.

An idea blooms in the back of Harry's mind. "Well, My Prince, how about I show you instead?" He withdrew his Elder wand and tapped lightly on the Resurrection Stone that he now wore as a ring. From the stone, he retrieved his Pensive from storage- the same one that he inherited from Dumbledore, and him from the master before him.

Loki stared at the bowl that could barely be called a washbasin for feet and then back at his mirthful guard…. Who was pulling a silver strand of mist out of his head?

Surely, he'll learn to stop being surprised one of these days, Loki dryly thinks to himself.

XXIII.

From then on, Loki lives years and decades within the span of minutes. He sees into the past and comes back with ideas and visions for the future- how he can revive the magic that was lost. He sees (lives) a different life, and a different war. He sees the boy that his guard was, and the man that he grew to become. Grudgingly, he concedes his respect.

Magic was once beautiful, he thinks with open awe. His anger and rage holds no place here, for even they agree that magic was so much more vibrant in the past. Truly, what Asgard has now, their "technological magic" can barely hold a candle to the true magic of the past. For all its glitter and gold, Asgard is but a gilded cage, a gold plated apple covering the rot within. The magic he saw within his guard's mind (a treasure trove of knowledge that can only come from the many lives he has lived) was fascinating- it was almost strong enough to become sentient. And it was only because of these people's worship and faith that magic survived the end of their time.

He lived the life he longed to have from within Harry Potter's memories- he felt his feet roll under moving staircases, he smelled the damp from the Forbidden forest, felt the burning pain of a great beast's fangs as he struggles for his life. He was given freedom and life again, from within another person's mind. He shouts his triumph and mourns his loss.

Nights turn into days, as quickly as days turn into nights- they meld together as dreams and reality blend. By day, he sees more- learns more about the world that he envisions in his dreams. He ceases to care about Odin. He forgets about Frigga's worry, and he loses counts of the days that go by without Thor. His world was not Asgard- not anymore (or perhaps, it has never been). His world was one that has long since fallen and crumbled, but yet lived on in the memories of an immortal.

Now two immortals, he supposed.

He has enchanted me, Loki thinks, an enchantment, an enthrallment woven with words and thoughts. He falls to it, crawls to it willingly, like a moth would to an open fire. It is undoubtedly dangerous, to lose sight of reality, but to someone like him, there is nothing left to lose (Is he really losing something? Or is he being given something more?)

And so, he lets go.

XXIV.

Days pass quickly as Harry continues to spin tales and songs, like the siren luring its prey. He weaves grand tails of Merlin, the sorcerer revered as a deity by his people, the sorcerer who aged backwards and became advisor to Arthur the King. He tells of Morgana, the Dark Lady, and Lancelot, the Knight. It is from a book that even non-magical Migardians have, Harry says.

"It is perhaps the most well known piece of our culture that survives today," Harry says. "It was rediscovered and rewritten by an author named T.H. White in the 1950's, but it was our history that was long buried and forgotten."

"And this land- Atlantis- does it exist? Surely it has not gone undetected by the Midgardians of today," Loki points out. Loathe as he is to admit, Midgardian technology is only second to their damned curiosity of all things undiscovered.

"It has indeed," Harry says, pride evident in his voice. "Our legends have it that Atlantis was wrecked by a great tsunami, yet others have said that Atlantis has disappeared to a different dimension. Either way, the way to Atlantis has been lost forever- even to our people. If we could not find it even with our magic, what chance do Midgardians have with their technology?"

He has a point, Loki grudgingly admits. From what he has seen from his guard's memories, the magicals of the past are clearly superior to anything Midgardians can possibly produce today. It was truly a shame that they have ceased to exist.

"Is there truly no way to Atlantis?" Loki pressed.

"No, My Prince," Harry shakes his head. "None that I know of- the magical people consider Atlantis to be the pinnacle of magical prowess. It is said that knowledge and power beyond man's riches lie in the ruins of Atlantis, wherever they may be."

And thus, Loki vows that he would find Atlantis (if only as gratitude for the life he has been given), no matter what it may cost him. Gratitude was an odd feeling, Loki thinks. It is a feeling that he is unused to, one almost foreign to him. Everything he has been given- he deserved (the jeers, the hate, his punishment and fate). But now, this life that he has lived- it was a privilege to have. Something that his guard was not obligated to give to him in anyway. From beyond the ledge of madness, a warm hand has pulled him back into safety.

It was not Odin's, as he once wished. It was not Thor's, his almost-brother for all of his life. It was not Frigga's, the never ending love of a mother. It was the hand of a stranger, though now, the hand of a friend.

And for all of his crimes, for all of his mistakes and sharp acerbic words, deep inside, he was grateful.

XXV.

One day, his guard comes in, upset. Immediately, Loki wonders who he needs to kill.

His crimson cloak billows about him, and his magic surrounds him in an agitated buzz. His hair is frazzled- a mess beyond usual, and his clothes are askew.

Loki sensed the change the moment his guard opened his cell's door. He slipped an ornate metal bookmark over his current page (he was only about midway through Most Potente Potions- the book was beyond fascinating), and raised one eyebrow in question.

"My Prince," Harry huffs in exertion and drops down to one knee.

"What has become of Asgard?" Loki asks- almost demands. "For all of the amusement that I have gleaned from seeing the palace become an upturned beehive, the magic in the air is restless." Your magic as well, he thinks and keeps one wary eye on the way Harry's magic jumps about like sparks. His own magic (all thorns and angry half thoughts and snarls) reached out hesitantly.

"Your Highness, I fear the palace is no longer a safe place for you to be," he frowns. Jade eyes darken in worry, and stress mars his youthful face.

Loki frowned. "How so? Has Thor caused an interdimensional war once more?"

"No, My Prince," Harry shook his head. "I could only wish. Trouble is brewing on the horizon- the Convergence is nearing upon us, and there are whispers of Malekith's revival. The Aether is still kept confined, but I do not know for how much longer."

Malekith. The dark elf of Svartalfheim. Loki's mind recalls what he knows of the ancient wars; it has been a long time since he has last received Asgardian history lessons from his childhood tutors.

"And the court?" He asks. He doesn't care. He doesn't. He would sooner see Asgard go up in flames.

"The court is restless," Harry reports. He contemplates the issue for a moment, adding: "but no less useless."

"As always," Loki remarks dryly. It would take more than rumors and conjectures to pry them out of their ivory thrones.

"As always," Harry agrees with a small smile.

"Does that worry you?" Loki asks, one hand propped under his chin.

His guard frowns even more and sighs. "My Prince, I do not believe that it is merely a rumor. I can feel the magic in between the dimensions shifting in unease. Nothing good will come of this, and I only fear that you will be called upon to deal with Malekith's magic, for you will be the first one Prince Thor will come to for assistance."

"Will he?" Loki snarls. His eyes flash in rage. Of course, Thor would only remember him when there is need of him. It was as he had feared- he had been turned into an artifact- merely one out of many, in that vault of Odin's- to be used as needed. He does not question how his guard manages to feel the magic that even Odin cannot, for he has long since come to the realization that Harry's prowess in all things magic is unmatched.

"Yes," Harry says with the surety of someone who can see into the future. "I believe it is his mortal love that the Aether is targeting."

"Ah," Loki nods, barely recalling the brown haired woman. She was pretty enough, he shrugged- nothing special and hardly someone worthy of becoming consort to an immortal prince. "And so he will come to her rescue, that fool."

Harry nods, troubled.

How odd, that even now, his guard is worried for his sake and not for the possible demise of Asgard.

"And what would you propose we do?" Loki asks, testing his guard. He himself only needed one chance. Thor will surely set him free- what else can he do from within the borders of these four walls? Once his manacles are off, he will be free, and they will never bind him again.

A pause. Then, mischief lights up his guard's troubled visage. "Why, My Prince, we leave."

XXVI.

It takes planning, their little trip to the outside. It will take time to have everything in order (or so Harry says), and thus, they start right away.

With their combined efforts and wit, they slowly work through the hardest piece of the puzzle; the key to Loki's magic. It was locked up by the palace mages in a seal over Loki's wrists- inked on there in gold. Fortunately, Frigga took no part in the binding of Loki's magic- she refused to, even on Odin's urging. If Frigga was the one to bind Loki, then freeing him would be much, much harder. The palace's mages are lazy and merely half competent- their enhancements can hardly stand the wrath of the Trickster God and the Master of Death.

Still, it would take them months to undo the enchantments without Odin's notice. It was time that they could not afford to waste.

"Subtlety is key, My Prince," Harry repeated, long used to Loki's impatience and temper.

Midway through, they gain an unlikely ally.

"And what, do you think you are doing?" Frigga's hologram intone from behind them one day. Neither of them jump visibly, through Loki's heart leaped through his throat.

"Undoing what should have never been done," Harry says calmly without turning around. He addresses the queen casually, without any royal address. His tone is steely and challenging, without regard to his own health.

"Are you?" Frigga steps one step closer. Her icy eyes are unblinking.

"Yes, I am." Harry finally gets up, turns around, and looks Frigga full in the eyes. His power swirls about him, an invisible cloak that settles over his crimson one.

And then, Loki was struck by how kingly his guard looked at that very moment.

Frigga and Harry stared at each other, neither backing down from the perceived challenge. Then, Frigga smiles, and her eyes warm up. She relaxes and straightens, like Atlas without the world on his shoulders.

"Thank you," she breathes, folding her hands before her chest. She turns her teary eyes to Loki, wanting to reach out but not daring to.

He meets her eyes blankly and without any emotion. Before he can say anything, his guard steps in between them, and the only thing he sees are his guards' wide shoulders obscuring his view.

"Your Majesty," he says politely (or rather, he finally addresses the Queen by her proper title, as if he finally acknowledges her as queen, Loki thinks.) "If there is something you need…?"

"No, not at all," Frigga smiles when she sees Loki's scowls, three parts petulant and one part fond. "Perhaps, it is time for me to atone for my sins- our sins. Loki, my son, for whatever little my words are worth, please, believe me. I am sorry." She bows her head and fades away.

Loki feels a lick of fiery anger rise within him. Sorry? Sorry? Was that all she had to say? How can a mere Sorry be enough of atonement for lying to him his entire life? For all that Asgard has sinned against him? A mere Sorry is enough? Do not jest.

He feels himself shaking with anger, and slowly, the objects around him rise in response to that anger. He feels numb, and his vision blurs and fades. Suddenly, a flurry of movement catches his attention, and two warm arms wrap around him from the front.

It is warm, Loki thinks, to be in someone's embrace. He can count on one hand the number of people who have cared to embrace him. Thor's embraces are crushing and suffocating, as if his arms are a pair of pliers trying to crush the shell that is his own ribcage. Frigga's embraces are, by contrast, soft and fleeting: the brush of silk on his hands, the perfume of flowers and fruits in her hair. Harry's embraces are warm, like the fire of magic within him. They are warm in the wise viridian gaze that has seen the rise and fall of worlds, the arms that have pulled him back from his madness time after time.

Slowly, the objects drop back onto the table, and he is left feeling drained.

"We will be gone soon, My Prince. Never again, will you have to see this place," he says.

Loki nods. "As we have planned," he says, when he is no longer choking on the words that threaten to strangle him.

"As we have planned," Harry agrees. He lets go in time to see Frigga's shadow appear once more. The guard turns, for surely Frigga had something of importance to discuss. Even she must know that Loki welcomes no one.

She whispers softly but quickly, as two objects materialize in front of the duo. It takes an immense amount of magic to send items through the warded cells, Loki knows. So to see Frigga attempt to send two at the same time was… odd. Alarming, perhaps.

In front of them were a brass key and a purple seal. Coincidentally, the same ones to unlock Loki's cuffs.

"My Son, this is the most I can do for you. I will not ask for your forgiveness- for it will change nothing between us. I can only do what I can now, with what I have. Go, and be free of this palace before trouble strikes. Wherever you go, I can only hope that you will stay safe, my son," Frigga says. She looked pale and unhealthy, and her shadow swayed unsteadily.

"Harry Potter, son of James- take your last order from your Queen- keep the prince safe, no matter where the winds take you." She says before fading away.

Harry nods, and his posture relaxes. With two quick clicks, Loki was set free.

XXVII.

They run, in the dead of night. Or rather, they walk calmly as Harry patrols the halls alone. Harry takes Loki by the hand and drapes the Invisibility Cloak on top of him as they climb out of his cell. Before they leave, they pulled out Loki's doppelganger (no matter how many times he sees his living replica, he will always feel disconcerted by it) and dropped it back into the cell.

"This is the same cloak of Ignotus Perevell," Loki breathes in wonder as he catches sight of the Deathly Hallows symbol stitched on the back. The cold air is harsh on his lungs, but the sight of the moon and stars is worth every stinging breath.

"The very same one," Harry smiles. "It is as old as these realms- no one will be able to detect you- magically or otherwise. Not even Heimdall's sight will be able to see you."

"He cannot see anything of your world, can he?" Loki realized. How else would have Heimdall missed Harry's daily visits? Their planning and their trips into the Pensieve? The guardian holds no fond feelings for the Trickster Prince, and he is by far Odin's watch dog than a guardian for the realms.

"No, he cannot," the guard says with a smirk.

"You are the Master of Death," Loki says, after a while of walking. He feels the silvery material of the cloak slip between his fingers.

"Yes, I suppose I am," Harry says languidly.

"You did not need the Golden Apple then," Loki snorts. He remembers the Tale of the Three Brothers quite clearly. After all, Harry was the one who gave the book to him.

"No, I did not. In fact, I believe that by now, I probably have a beautiful courtyard of golden apple trees growing in my home," he says with good cheer.

Loki snorts. Of course he would manage to get Frigga's golden apples to grow in another realm. Rules only apply to those who can't break them.

And so, they patrolled the hallways as usual, until they got to the palace's northern perimeters. Then, they ducked behind a pillar and disappeared with a pop.

XXVIII.

The spaces between Yggdrasil are surprisingly deep, Loki thinks as he fights off a shudder. Here, in the interdimensional space, he is reminded keenly of his fall. Here, he was captured by the Chitauri and bound to their will. It was not a pleasant time of his life, and definitely not something he wanted to be reminded of.

Harry's hand was warm in his, and he tugs the prince forward.

Whispers trail their steps, and small wisps of blue light flicker and disappear.

He picks up a phrase or two when the lights brush against his cheek playfully. They carry with them sound- women's voices melded into one, like a choir that only speaks.

'He comes in the night…'

'…brings with her light…'

'On the next coming of spring….'

'When Orion aligns…'

The sentences escape his ears; try as he may to strain them.

"They are the Norns," his guard whispers. "Pay them no mind- if you do not hear their words in full, then their words were not meant for your ears."

"The Norns," Loki's magic flared slightly in surprise. Immediately, he clamped down on his emotions. He would not want to attract undue attention now. Here, he is away from the defenses of the Asgardian palace- what lurks beyond the darkness, he does not know.

He knows of the Norns from dusty old tomes; as a kid, he would trace etchings of their figures with his fingers. He remembers

"Yes, the Norns," Harry says with amusement. He takes a deep breath and blows them away, like feathers in the wind. They drift and disappear into the darkness.

XXIX.

They arrive before one of the great branches of Yggdrasil. The weather is no less cold, and the tree is no less tall, yet the branch slowly bends itself down to Harry's outstretched hand.

"Thank you," he says politely, and the tree rustles its many leaves. It was only slightly disconcerting, Loki thought.

"Up you go, My Prince," he says, as he did in the past when the prince was a mere babe.

Loki gives the tree a distrustful glance. He has heard one to many tales of the Whomping Willow. And what if the Great World Tree decides that it is hungry?

With a small laugh, Harry pushes him upwards, and they are promptly tossed into a dark and misty realm, which Loki recognized as Helheim.

Well, that's the last time he's trusting a giant tree, Loki thinks as he sails through the air and lands with a thump. Surely this is not happens when one dies- and really, getting tossed by a giant tree is not how he imagined his death would be like. Luckily, he has retained his grace even with years of imprisonment, for he lands on his feet… which cannot be said of his guard.

Loki holds open his hand for his fallen guard; Harry was sprawled on the ground on all fours- an unseemly look for the Master of Death. But, this time, it is Loki who extends a hand and tugs Harry up.

"Thank you, My Prince," Harry says and dusts off his armor like this happens every other day.

"Where in the nine realms are we?" Loki looks around, partly afraid of the answer his guard will give.

"We are in Helheim," he says calmly. "Do not worry, My Prince, you are very much alive. I am a being in between, for I am the Master of Death. This realm is mine to call home, so I am free to come and go as I please."

To be ruler over the entire realm of death, Loki breathes sharply. And to think such a being was under Odin's thumb all this time.

Harry leads Loki to the bank of a river, where glowing yellow lanterns float on top of the water. At its misty banks was a boat made of elder wood. In the distance, Loki can barely see the shadow of an oar and a boatsman.

"Hel," Harry greets with a dip of his head. The giantess nods in reply, though she did not speak.

It was a gruesome scene, Loki thought. Hel was as tall as any Asgardian, perhaps even comparable to that of a Jotun. One side of her was rotting, with green and brown flesh hanging off her skeleton. The other side of her was of a lovely blond woman with kind blue eyes. Half of her was Asgardian, and the other half of her was dead. How this is considered normal, Loki didn't know.

Together, the three of them get into the boat. The night is cool, but the lanterns gently light the way. They pass through the dark river, and Loki dared not look into its depths for fear of what he might find there. The silence stretches between them, but it was not tense or stiff- rather, it was a sort of lulling peace that Loki has never minded.

"My Prince, I believe that by Midgardian legends, Hel here is your daughter." Harry's voice broke the peace that Loki felt.

At that moment, he wondered if his Allspeak was somehow malfunctioning.

"Pardon?" He asks in disbelief. Surely he heard wrong.

"The one to have spread the legends must not have been fond of you, My Prince," Harry says with laughter in his green eyes. "By the legends, Hel is your daughter. Fenrir, Sleipnir, and Jörmungandr are supposedly your sons."

"Sleipnir as in Odin's eight legged horse?" Loki asks, beyond shocked at the news. He was sure that the person- whoever it was- who spread the legends was on something far stronger than alcohol. If he catches the man who spread forth such rumors, he will make the mortal rue.

Harry laughed and fell backwards in his seat. Even Hel's visage twisted into one of amusement, though no sound left her lips.

"Odin ordered for an eight legged horse to be bred from our stocks because he has chronic back problems from age," Loki deadpanned. Apparently, Odin thought that an eight legged horse would have a smoother gait than a four legged one. Well, he isn't wrong per se, but it was hardly the easiest (or the first) solution that one would think of. And to think that he also "fathered" the Midgard Serpent and a monstrous wolf. Well, at least one of his "supposed" sons ends up killing Odin (by their legend anyways, which he was really starting to question).

The statement only served to make Harry laugh louder (Loki doesn't mind- he'll deny it until the day he died, but he too, laughed lightly). Their journey into Hel was bright with Harry's laughter.

XXX.

As he soon came to learn, Helheim and Niflheim are very close together, and on occasion, they overlap. Here as they stood before the halls of Hel (Éljúðnir, he thinks), he stares up at the grand wooden doors that disappear into the ceiling.

Their ferrywoman, Hel, had left them on the shore of the river with a bow and left Harry to lead the prince into the darkness.

With a gentle push, the great doors opened with a groan.

Inside, the hall was brightly lit. The first thing Loki noticed with a great shedding canary flapping into his face. He coughed and spat out feathers (part of him wanted to roast the damn bird on principles, but since when did canaries grow that big?) all the while cursing Odin's name (surely, this was his fault too).

Promptly, the canary popped into a red headed men (who looked Midgardian and was not rotting in places, much to Loki's relief.) In the background, he noticed a multitude of people- a blonde woman with odd glasses hovering over a puffy flying creature, a man snuggling up to a man-sized venous fly trap, a stag, a wolf, a doe, and a dog all chasing each other, a bushy haired woman shouting at another red haired man, and a family of blondes attempting to blend in with the walls. Two boys who looked related to Harry were setting off fireworks at each other while the girl in the middle was drawing an alchemical circle on a corner of the floor with another busy haired girl and a blond boy. It was… an odd scene. It was made odder when all of them froze as one and looked at them. Raw egg dripped from the chandelier while another person hiccupped.

"Harry! You're back!" The canary man said with a grin. His face was splattered with a copious amount of freckles, and a shock of bright orange hair lined his face.

"We've been-" He started speaking….

"-missing you!" Only to have his shadow reproduce and become a carbon copy of him. Still, Loki saw the spark of mischief in their eyes and recognized a prankster when he saw one. With a wave of his hands, the feathers turned into dust, and he straightened.

"Fred, George, meet Loki of Asgard, your supposed patron god," Harry said with a mischievous smile.

They gasped in unison and immediately turned as one to Loki.

"Oh Harry-"

"You would spoil us so-"

"We forgive you-"

"Just this once-"

"For disappearing on us like that-"

"We were so bored-"

"But we can forgive you this time-"

"Since you brought us Loki of all people!"

"We are not worthy!" They shouted at the top of their lungs and bowed down to the floor. They clung onto his hems of his armor like their lives depended on it.

Slowly, a grin stretched over Loki's face. For a god, it was always nice to meet worshippers. "I like them."

Harry barked a laugh. "I thought you would. Welcome home, Loki."

Home, he thought. It was an odd feeling- home. Was this really his home? After so long- was he home? He felt the magic in the air- the same magic of Harry's world, the same magic of Hogwarts- and it curled around him in an embrace. He looked at the faces around him, the swarm of people rushing to greet them (faces that he knew from the live he has lived in a different time), and he knew that he was home.

Mandy: Okay, so this one really got away from me. I'm really supposed to be working, but I somehow just spent the entire day working on stuff. The first 10k or so has been grammar edited (kind of) a couple of times, but the last 4k or so hasn't. Loki is really, really hard to write, and I have no idea how to write him. I wanted this to be more English lit related, with more tie ins to Shakespeare, Machiavelli, and the like, but I really don't have time to pull in quotes or anything, so that's that.

This is categorized as Thor because the world is set in Asgard, but to be honest, it's somewhere in between Avengers and Thor: The Dark World, so I really don't know where to put it. But none of the Avengers are mentioned, so I guess it doesn't really belong in the Avengers category. Anyways, I can't be bothered to edit it now.

I was in a rush to finish this fic (to be honest), so there was a lot that I didn't quite put in. Ideally, I'd like to write a second part to this that focuses more on Harry's side of the story, how he came to be in Asgard, why he left, how everyone is, etc. at some point, and maybe a bit more on Harry's interaction with Loki or what Loki does now that he's in Helheim. I believe that there was a turning point when Loki turned from misguided and betrayed to a villain, and I don't think that locking him up is the solution. In the movies, his situation made him the villain that he is (maybe his reactions aren't the best either, but to be fair, they wouldn't have happened if he wasn't snatched from his cradle as a baby). This story came from the idea: "What if there was someone to pull Loki back from where he was before he became a villain?" And so Harry happened. Technically, minus Harry, this could be canon.

Idk- I feel like I rushed a bit with the ending. Oh well.