A/N: Welp. I am a terrible person. I have no excuse. I was sucked into tumblr(blame tumblr). But here is the next chapter, and I shall try to finish the last one sometime soon. Forgive me, and thank you EVERYONE who has faved this story even though it's been like a million years. I hope everyone enjoys, regardless of how long it's been. I love you all!

Bridges to Cross

4. Thor

Loki sat on the edge of his bed, hunched over, elbows resting on his knees and his eyes downcast as he stared at a small bug, covered in ice and frozen to the floor. Such a sturdy little beetle it had been, bright and shiny black, six little legs ever moving, every carrying its awkward body toward some secret destination. So durable in its own might, and yet so fragile compared to the whims of men and gods alike. All he needed to do was step on it and the beetle would be no more, as if it had never existed. Would anyone mourn its name? Was that what fate had in store for it? If he were to kill the beetle, would he be carrying out fate's plan? If so, could he defy that force by allowing the bug to live? Would it matter, in the grand scheme of things, if one little insect were to just…disappear? Loki lifted his foot and held his heel over the beetle, biting his lip and willing himself to just do it, to just end the miserable little wretch's life…but he couldn't. He couldn't because…because he saw something of himself in the bug, something that made him reel back in disgust at himself. What was he?

Jötun, his mind supplied, freak, warmonger, monster.

His skin felt cold beneath his own touch. He had always noticed how the heat had bothered him more than it did Thor, and he had, of course, noticed that he never caught the chill quite so easily; cold weather scarcely concerned him and he even felt more energized during the cold seasons. How he had not realized what he was beforehand, how Thor hadn't…well, perhaps Thor wouldn't have noticed. The oaf had always been more concerned with his own handsome looks than to waste any time worrying about his brother. He was golden and bright, blond-haired and blue-eyed, the very picture of what an Aesir should look like. There was no doubt who he belonged to, no doubt that he was the son of Odin All-Father and Frigga. Loki had never fit in, it seemed, as he had always been dark-headed and pale, with eerie green eyes that seemed to grow brighter when mischief was afoot, and a slender physique that he somehow maintained no matter much he ate. He did not look Aesir. He did not even look as though he were sired by those who claimed title of parent. And Thor, poor, gullible, Thor, accepting him by word alone, accepting him no matter what he looked like, accepting, always so damned accepting of their brotherhood. Loki could only imagine the thoughts Thor might've had upon seeing the wretched blue pallor of his skin, the crimson of his eyes and the tribal runes etched into his face…there was no denying Loki was Jötun.

His entire room bore testament to his true heritage; great, sharp icicles hung from the ceiling as stalactites, frosted, dangerous, and beautiful. Ice spread over the entirety of the floor, suffocating books and precious materials used for spells and concoctions he had no desire to dabble in for the time being, perhaps never again should that be his wish. Everything was shining and fragile, like the beetle he had breathed upon, the one he had actually killed hours ago. Death. Death would be good, he mused. Death meant no more humiliation at the hands of those he once loved. It meant freedom from his current prison, his life spent trapped in a role that was not truly his to play, pretending to be the son that wasn't, the Nothing Prince…and soon to be the Nothing King. If he agreed to Odin's terms, he would likely be dead within the month, if not week, assassinated by his own subjects; an ironic and befitting end, seeing how he once sought to eliminate his entire race. His race, Loki's, as though he were so entirely different from the adoptive Aesir that he required the validation of an entire separate culture to explain why.

Loki sought no answers, for he knew there was nothing anyone could say that would soothe his troubled mind. What word could undo that which nature had wrought? What sweet, simpering condolences could change the course of time and history? He desired nothing. He desired no one. Neither words (that which had long been his comfort and his shield) nor company (idle playthings, more often than not) could soothe him. Not even the thought of his mother's warm hand against his forehead brought a spark of longing within him. She had as good as betrayed him. She had allowed this to happen and had not seen fit to warn him. Whatever tender words had passed between them were withered things, like browned leaves falling from a tree before winter, fluttering helplessly in the wind only to suffer death before the frost. What hurt the most, if he cared to label the pain he felt, was the fact that Frigga obviously sided with Odin. She thought sending him to Jötunheim was a punishment befitting of the crime of betraying all of Asgard.

He'd rather die.

He'd rather be beheaded; he'd rather his eyes be torn from their sockets, his tongue ripped out and his lips sewn shut. He'd rather be flayed alive and salted than be forced to return to the land of his birth—a land, not to mention, he knew very little about. Were he even permitted to actually rule, he knew nothing of the people or kingdom. There was only Asgard. Asgard and Hel. How sad that he much preferred the thought of Hel, in all its black comfort, than the icy realm he was being forced to rule. Well, they could not force him to take the throne; maybe if he refused they would simply agree to behead him. He thought of the executioner's block and he thought of axe, rising and falling against his neck, his head dropping, thunk thunk thunk across the wooden platform until it rolled right off the edge, bloodied and dirtied with eyes and mouth wide open, staring and unseeing. How absolutely plain. He had never given a thought to dying; could the gods ever truly die? If it were possible, he would not want it to be this way, not in so common a fashion, not while shamed and disgraced. No, there were other ways, surely…

A knock resounded upon the door, hesitant in rhythm, yet loud and resigned, followed by the soft and muted words of his brother, asking permission to enter. So shocked Loki was that the 'yes' fell from his lips before he could think better of it. The door creaked open and Thor stuck his great, shaggy head through the space provided, scoping the environment out before fully entering the room. Loki watched his brother's expression carefully, gauging what foolish, moronic thoughts tripped over one another in their haste to be foremost at Thor's mind. The oaf scarcely had room for one thought, let alone two; t'would be amusing to see which found its way to his tongue first. Thor closed the door behind him, his warm hand scraping the brittle ice from the curved handle. His heavy boots broke the surface of the thin layer coating the floor, but his gaze set upon everywhere but his feet. Loki felt a sneer curl his lips.

Yes, brother, he thought, take a good look—take a damn good look around you. This is what I am. This is my true nature.

He sat on the edge of his bed, back ramrod straight and shoulders set, his posture reflecting every inch of him as the prince he was, and not the monster he was intended to be. Both hands rested atop his thighs, loose and long-fingered, colored deep blue and black-nailed. His sleeveless tunic bared his sleek arms and he did not bother to hide his face. Why bother with such vanities? There was no more hiding what he was, no more need for masks or, ironically, deceit. What more could he lie about? Thor had seen his face, had seen that hideous and monstrous part of him that mocked everything that had once made their brotherhood strong. How many times could he recall where they had run through and about the courtyards, pretending to slay entire Jötun armies? How many times had he offered to play the part of Frost Giant, just for the sake of a 'realistic' sparring session? How many times had he lain upon the ground while Thor rested a boot atop his chest in victory? The things Thor must have thought, the disgust he must have felt, knowing he had shared the majority of his life with a Jötun runt… Loki's sneer intensified as he silently urged Thor to say something, anything so they might begin their war anew…and yet his 'brother' remained silent as he picked his way through the room, drawing ever closer to where Loki sat, poised like a bird ready to take flight…except there was no place for him to run. Unable to stand the thick silence hovering over them, Loki folded his hands together and leaned against his knees.

"Come to gloat?" he asked quietly, fixing Thor with his frightening crimson glare. Thor looked up, shocked disbelief on his face, followed swiftly by a strange hurt that made Loki's heart pound.

"What are you talking about?" Thor asked, stepping over a mound of books and the frozen remnants of candles used in Loki's last incantation.

His skin shone pale and colorless, and whether it was brought on by the chill in the room or disgust, Loki did not know. He cared only that everything about the golden son of Odin looked far less golden, as if the room somehow sapped him of life, color, and spirit. His reflection pitted on the iced walls cast him in a distorted light, imperfect and diminished in some way that inflated Loki's pride. He stared at the mirror-image as though it walked about the room instead of his brother, and he wondered what mad ritual he might perform to exchange perfection for defection; then they might share a life of misery together, as two pitiful creatures, alone. How utterly perfect such a glum life would be! How they might languish in each other's company, how poison might flow between them, carried by the rabidity of their words. How they might tear at each other's throats, how they might scratch and bite and claw until they were bloodied and sick. How wonderful a dream, how hideously beautiful it would have been…. But, of course, it could never be, not when perfect Thor stood there, perfectly tall and golden, and opened his perfect mouth to let perfectly stupid sentiments fall out.

"I came to see you," he said, forcing the perfection of his pity onto Loki.

How terrible. Loki would have preferred disgust and hatred for this unasked-for sympathy. Pity. Who needed such a tasteless, useless thing?

"Why?" Loki snorted. "This skin is nothing new to you—how many Jötun scum have you slain? You need not see me to know me."

"You speak in riddles," Thor frowned. "Your words mean to both disarm and beg pity. I came to see if you were…upset. I came to see if you were alright…. I could care less for the color of your skin."

Oh, Loki thought, how noble. How noble of him to completely disregard his 'brother's' race; no doubt he did so only because Moth—that woman begged him to show mercy to the weak, stunted Jötun. No doubt Thor saw barely a challenge in Loki's diminished true form.

"How thoughtful of you," he whispered, looking up to his uninvited guest. "Did the queen put you up to this? Or the All-Father? Come now, don't look at me as though you are some witless fool…you are smarter than that, I would hope."

"I do not know why you are doing this," Thor swallowed, "But you are wrong on both counts. I am here of my own choice."

"I don't believe you."

"That is your choice, my brother. It changes nothing. I am here because I am worried."

Loki sneered and took up a book that lay by his thigh, grasped it by its brittle pages and felt them crack beneath his fingertips. He flung the tome as hard as he could toward Thor's fat head. It missed, but just barely. The look of fury that creased that handsome face, though…so worth the trouble. His fists clenched and his jaw set, stiff and unyielding, as hard as Mjolnir itself. To hand him his weapon in that moment would be to unleash Hel, and Loki very nearly looked forward to it.

And now, Loki thrilled, now we shall see what he truly thinks! Now we will see true Thor, the man who cares not for masks and pretenses, but makes bold with his lofty opinions!

"You are the worst liar I have ever met," he jeered, fanning that spark of rage he saw ignite within Thor. "Yours is an open face, one prone to honesty out of some noble idea that it is better to remain truthful than be caught in the wily throes of deceit…so tell me, Brother…why are you here?"

Thunder cracked overhead and Loki could picture just how the dark, angry clouds clashed and swirled; he could imagine those great thunderheads building and mounting, swelling with rage, preparing to unleash all hell upon Asgard. He had seen his brother summon storms to rival the realms themselves, sweeping nations of cloud formations that turned black and grey and threatened rain and hail and ice, winds of speeds unknown to even the swiftest horse, and lightning and thunder that was known to deafen giants. Loki had seen these storms topple mountains and raze cities. He had seen the very worst…and he could see it now, in his mind's eye.

He could even see the faces of those dimwitted and sheep-like followers upon Midgard, those worshipers who might look to the burgeoning sky and wonder who or what incurred the Lord Thor's wrath this day—Loki no doubt, they would whisper, Loki and his mischief, causing trouble once more. He nearly crowed with delight at the thought, for though his mother and father might formulate plans to tuck him away un some frozen corner of Yggdrasil, though they might try to blanket him with a crown far too large for his stature, and though they might bequeath unto him his own death sentence, Loki would never be forgotten, not by the gods, not by the Jötun, and not by the mortals. Wherever Thor's thunder begat the question, "Who hath angered our Lord?" the answer would follow, as simple and natural a response as anything: "Loki's mischief is afoot." He would be immortalized in the wake of Thor's wrath, cloaked in his shadow and riding the bolts of lightning that fell to Midgard. In Thor's anger, there would always be Loki; in his love, there would always be Loki; in his unending rage, there Loki would always be, the dark spot upon the golden horizon, the Betrayer, the Deceiver, the Godkiller…

Send me to Jötunheim to perish, he thought as he searched for something else to throw, lest Thor not learn his lesson, I will live on in the hearts and minds of mortals, trapped in Thor's stead, forever one with this man whom might've been my flesh and blood in another life, and always my brother in the lie that brought me to this place!

"Are you mad?" Thor shouted as he shielded his face from another well-aimed missile.

"YES!" Loki cried out. "Yes, I am mad! I am daft! I have lost myself to the insanity that has pieced our family together all these years, noble Thor, and I have embraced it! I am Loki, He who hath fathered Deceit, and I find that Father begat Son and Son hath begat Father, for was I not borne into a lie the moment Odin first held me in his arms? Was I not clothed in the very skins of falsity and fed the finest of deceits? You too were fooled into thinking I was your bloodkin! So yes, Brother, I am mad; 'tis a wonder you have not yet joined me."

He sneered at Thor, perfect Thor, who stood there, mired in profound confusion, hurt and tired. Good, let him wonder, let him wallow in his own ignorance. He, who knew nothing of rejection, naught of hatred; he , who had never known the terrible, cold feeling of being caged in one's own body, who had scarcely known a harsh word, who loved and was loved by all. His 'brother', who knew both mother and father, not as an outsider, but as one whose blood surely burned with the excellence of his heritage. He did not know of pain, not truly, not the pain that came with the knowledge of un-belonging. Thor…he would always have a place in their world, a pedestal erected tall and strong to last ages of gods and eons of men, and to be, like Thor himself, worshiped and loved. And where would Loki stand among these glorious monuments? He would not stand, but rather crawl, on his belly, around the roots of these pillars, hidden, made invisible by the glory of the true Aesir. It was his place. It was all he had ever known, and it was all he could ever hope to achieve.

Loki spat at Thor's feet, his gaiety drowned in the sudden revelation. He had nothing anymore, not even pride; he had nothing to his name and barely even that, which he did not know was truly his. What if he had been given another name at birth, some name lost to the Frost? What if he was not truly Loki? Who would he be then? What would he be?

"I hate you," he whispered, chapped lip moving numbly. "I hate you."

"Brother," Thor said, taking a cautious step forward, "why?"

"Because you seek me out for comfort's sake. Because you are not enraged by the mere sight of me…because you do not strike me."

"I would never hit you," Thor hissed, insulted that Loki could even insinuate such a thing.

"And so you have stolen from me the one thing left I could call my own."

"What?"

"You have robbed me of myself! You have stripped me of my name and my being, and you have disowned me of our brotherhood! You have left me with the skin I was born with, the heritage of the Frost, and you refuse to show me the courtesy of your rage. You, who are legendary for your prowess in battle, who have never before shown mercy to your enemies, who have long boasted of slaying hundreds of Jötun with naught but your bare hands! You say so much and do so little—you refuse to treat me as an enemy, when I so clearly am...you have denied me the only identity left to me."

"Loki—"

"I am not your brother. I am Jötun. I am a—a monster…you cannot deny this, Thunderer; the color of my skin speaks for itself. I deserve death. I deserve imprisonment and scorn. I deserve to be kept as a pet or a slave…and yet you…you come here…you dare come here, and you dare to gaze upon my terrible form with kindness and mercy! You dare! You DARE!"

"Yes I dare!" Thor roared. Thunder cracked and the entire room trembled; icicles fell and a dusting of drifted lazily from the walls. Loki, having stood up in misery, teeth bared and fists clenched, sat back down upon the bed, eyes wide and mouth agape. To him, Thor looked the part of vengeful wargod, dark eyed, ready to strike him down with the hammer that hung at his hip. Loki wished he would, wished Thor would just take hold of Mjolnir and smash it across his face, just end his life. It would be kinder than sending him to Jötunheim.

"You are insane," Thor snapped. "You may sit here and wallow in your pity as you like, but do not sit here and blame those around you for your misery. You insult me with your hateful speech of neglect and disownment. How little you think of yourself you must also think of me, if you believe that I would turn on you simply because it has been made known that you are not blood."

"It is more than that and you know it!" Loki retorted, the middle of his brow creasing in distress. He held his arms out, his fingers splayed and palms facing up, begging Thor to look. "I am a monster! I am the reason children fear the night and the winter! I—I am nothing to you!"

"No! You are everything to me! Everything!"

Thor's hands were upon his hands, thick fingers closing about his wrists like vices. Loki winced and tried to withdraw, but Thor was powerful and angry. He pulled Loki from the bed to his feet, and Loki allowed himself to be drawn close to Thor, until he was very nearly held in his brother's arms like a dewy eyed lover. Thor held onto his wrists and pushed them before his face, until his own fingers brushed his cheeks; he saw, to his horror, Thor's skin began to blacken and turn brittle with the touch of Loki's skin. He tried to pull away again, but it was no use. He hung there in Thor's grip, unable to summon even the smallest amount of magic with which to defend himself.

"Now you listen to me," Thor said, "you listen and you listen well—I do not ever want to hear you say such things again. I do not want to hear you question my affection for you; I do not want to hear you question our brotherhood again; I do not want to hear you speak so lowly of yourself, not ever again. Do you understand this?"

Loki shook his head, frantically, because he did not understand. He did not understand how Thor could say such things and mean them.

"You daft old snake," Thor said, giving him a rough shake, though his hands were swiftly bruising with the effort of keeping hold on Loki's flesh. "You crazed…I should break your neck for speaking such blasphemy against our family! You think the color of your skin matters to me? You think I rightly care that you are not of our father's loins and mother's womb? After all we have been through, after eons of friendship, after countless ages of men, you would think I would throw something so precious away? Can you justify those nights we would spend curled in bed, sharing tales of old and wishing for the days where we would be men? Those long days spent exploring the forests, hunting, camping, feasting! How could you think I would toss those memories away? You think I would take thousands of years and throw it away? Loki, you—you are my brother. You have always been my brother. You will always be my brother. Nothing can change that. Nothing."

"But—"

"But nothing. We are brothers. We were babes together. We grew up together. We slept in the same bed until we were nearly young men. We experienced heartbreak and war and death together. We've cried and cowered and laughed together. We have been there for one another since the beginning. That you were adopted is…it is immaterial to me. It does not change the fact that we are brothers…should the very knowledge not make our bond stronger?"

A small noise escaped Loki and he wrenched his hands free of Thor's, stumbled back and struck the bed once more. What was Thor doing? What was Thor saying?

"Stronger?" he asked, breathless, hopeless. "How?"

"Because now we are brothers through choice, instead of blood."

He choked and covered his mouth. Thor still…still wanted him. There had been nothing within his demeanor, no indication within his tone or his words that said 'You are no longer my brother.' He said, instead, that they were stronger, closer, somehow more, despite the facts. He was not Odinson. He was Jötun. He was no prince of golden halls and gleaming towers; he was rightful prince of ice, the unwanted son of a king who had no use for runts. He was…he was nothing. He was Loki, Son of None, Prince of Lies and King of Dirt. He was the snake that crawled through the mud at their feet, and yet Thor stood there before him, offering his love, offering brotherhood and family, offering him a chance to renew that childhood attachment that had lasted thousands of years. He offered all this and served Loki mercy and forgiveness when others might have laughed and spat in his face. It brought tears to his eyes, thinking how good and noble Thor was, how loving and understanding, how good. Loki did not deserve it. He deserved nothing.

"You are…too good," Loki said, voice thick through the emotion welling up in his throat. "You…you are not real. No one can be as—as noble and good a man as you…it is not possible."

"Aye, it is," Thor sighed, "and I would not have you prove me wrong in this. I would have thought my feelings obvious; after all we have been through, especially these past few months, I would have you believe me when I say that I love you."

The words struck Loki's heart, cleaved it in two where it sat, black and barely beating in his chest. He had not expected such a sweet declaration, but then, he had not expected much of anything. Tears leaked from his eyes at the unexpectedness of the sentiment, and his hand felt to his chest, over his heart, where something came to life. It hurt, those first beats of his heart in that moment. It was as if he had never before known the slow pulse of that fat organ until that moment, when Thor dared to give it life by daring to speak those three words that meant more than he could ever know… He cried, though he made little noise, and as he cried Thor took the opportunity to invade his space with a gentle touch to his shoulder and soft, soothing words—Loki's cries turned to sobs and he did not know what else to say in the light of Thor's warm hand squeezing the joint of his shoulder and neck. But, if Thor were to incline his head and tuck his hair behind his ear so that he might better hear the words that dripped from Loki's lips in quiet succession.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…"