Oh hi. I'm back from vacation! Let's celebrate with a... sad fic.

Woop, first of two pre-movie fics that take place in the Poetry Verse. I've got plans to do one with Steve at some nameless point in the future. (and have a lovely copy of the Cap movie finally acquired to mine from)

You actually don't need to know anything about Poetry verse or Quiet Poetry for this one, since it takes place so far in advanced! Wowza! That said, it still takes place in the same verse as Quiet Poetry.

This one I specifically wrote as a sort of mental exercise to figure out how to explain Loki being a virgin despite Angrboda being a thing that happened in myth. Well, then it got out of hand, and now you have this. Loki would be about oh 16 or 17 translated from god to mortal in this fic? Not too old.

Um.

It's a sad one.

I promise the other updates tonight won't be. Wait. I can't promise that. Okay I promise that there's some sweetness. Somewhere.

Prelude

Sif rarely speaks with Loki now, though she no longer despises him as she once did. She accepts she had as much to do with his prank as he had to do with the slight that started it all. They acknowledge each other in hallways and at events; when enough alcohol is consumed they take solace in each other's company, laughing and mocking the coarseness of others.

They are, both of them, foreigners in a world of warrior men and sometimes that is bond enough.

(When she was younger, still dreaming of the training fields and skipping lessons to become a good wife, she would sometimes come upon Loki dreaming of magic and skipping the training fields. He would hide her when people came looking for them both. For all his tricks, she would not trade his blade for any other in Asgard if he offers, even now, if only for sake of memory.)

He is smiling politely when she comes into the feast hall that night; she stops. Loki has not taken meal in public for nearly two weeks. She sits with the Warriors Three, keeps him in her peripheral, and wonders.

They say Loki tricked Angrboda into revealing herself.

They say Loki enchanted her, so she thought herself in love.

But people have always said many things about Loki, not half of them the entire truth, and Sif has seen how Odin regards his second son at court, how Frigga does not smile, how Thor-Thor, always so quick to boast of all his brother's achievements-has not once boasted of Loki finding the traitor in Asgard.

Loki does not eat, though he plays at drinking wine.

(Loki always eats, has near bested wildfire in eating contest and look dignified doing it. Most say it is his sorcery that eats it away, so that he is little more than wisp, but Sif knows that Loki does, in fact, enjoy food immensely. If nothing else reveals that all is not well...)

When he leaves the feast hall, Sif follows. She knows a little of lying when truth is too... weak. Of lying by necessity, despite honesty being most valued in these halls.

(Loki would sometimes ease her wounds from practice, though never acknowledge he had done anything: a touch to her shoulder, a brush of hair back from her face. Would lie about Sif's tears when others tried to mock her, say that Hogun cried more than the Lady Sif, that the great Thor was more womanly in his emotions.)

His footsteps are loud; his shoulders slump now that he is out of sight of the hall. There is something careless in him, something broken-he walks the way he usually spars, too little defense and all quick aggression.

Sif must be more careful on the stairways down, where they pass no one but guards, down until they reach the dungeons. She hides herself in shadow (as Loki taught her, sneaking into the kitchens for sweetcake and wine) and watches him stop before the barred cell the traitor is held in.

The witch's skin is all blue now, eyes gleaming red, and Sif wonders that she could fool them all.

"Puppy," the Jotun spy says and Sif's mouth drops to see Loki-Loki-flinch at the word. Loki who has talked dwarf kings down, who has tricked giants into building walls for no charge, who has laughed in the face of Nidhogg's foul breath.

"Angrboda," Loki greets, voice low and brittle.

She stirs from where she sits, leans toward the second prince. Her eyes glitter, her smile all predator and twisted delight; Sif stills her hand on her dagger.

"Are you enjoying your lie, Puppy? You are so clever, such a charming little liar." Her voice is low and mocking. "To think they think a mutt capable of trick at all."

Sif cannot see Loki's face, but she can see his spine: bowstring frayed and ready to snap.

"Angrboda," he repeats.

Stops, wordless.

"Do you want to know if it were real, Puppy? Oh you do, look at your eyes-you're so lost now, aren't you?" The giantess laughs. "And you've stopped eating. See how you're magic humsabout you, ah, Puppy, to see you reduced so, when did you last work spell?"

"It was a lie then."

Sif has never heard Loki so broken.

"Love is for children," Angrboda snarls, ice curling along the floor and climbing around cell bars. Loki takes a step back, face leaving shadow—shattered, too thin, every ragged line stark. "Sentiment is weak. Look at you: pathetic, childish fool, squandering your gifts for your brother and father's praise. So kind, so thoughtful, is Loki Odinson, breaking himself apart where none can see. Love you? You who are not worthy, will never be more than your father's tool—not even his favoured one? As if one could love a worthless pawn."

Loki draws himself together before Sif's eyes, as he always has, face the familiar blank that is warning to all who know him.

"I see."

Angrboda smiles.

"They are going to kill you tomorrow." Even, soft words. "They will rip your magic from you, leave you bound to the tree. They asked me, you know, if perhaps you did not have magic enough for it to kill you. If you are strong enough for such to be effective."

Sif wonders if Loki is taking satisfaction from the slowly dawning horror on the Jotun's face. It is hard to tell, with how dead his voice is.

"I told them I would need to make sure."

"You wouldn't," Angrboda breathes.

"Perhaps. I love you. Childish." He smiles, sharp as his daggers from Svartalfheim. "But then, perhaps I will find the approval I need if I do."

"Pu-"

"Do not call me that." His eyes flash. "You've no right. It is... sentiment, is it not?"

"Mutt."

"Goodbye, Angrboda."

He turns, leaves; when his back is to the giantess and he thinks none can see, his face collapses, haunted and lost and eyes wet.

Sif waits until he has left before she goes to find Thor.

XXXXXX

"It is a dog," he says distastefully, nudging it back with a toe.

"No," she says laughing. He loves her laugh, could drown in it, magic and bells. He keeps this to himself, keeps a firm scowl on his face. "It is a wolf."

"A slightly bigger, smellier dog then, but no less a dumb beast."

"Oh, Puppy-"

He glares at her, bristling, but her smile is sincere, eyes sparkling with humour and he melts fractionally. The... wolf pup attacks his foot again, growling excitedly, tail wagging. Irritated and unwillingly charmed, he nudges it back again.

She wraps him an embrace, voice sweet, breath cool against his ear.

"It is not just a wolf, Puppy. He shall grow large enough to devour men whole, cunning enough gods will fear his tread, loyal enough to follow you wherever you roam, and wild enough you shall never grow bored. Not unlike you, darling."

"That seems unlikely on all accounts," he replies, flushing when his voice trembles slightly. She chuckles low in his ear; his heart aches.

"Everything must begin somewhere. His name is Fenrir."

"I thought he was mine?"

"He is. But it is impolite to not call creatures by their proper name, Puppy, and you would call him all manner of unkind things if I did not tell you his name." One of her hands trails along his spine, fingertips brushing against his neck; he leans a little into her touch, seductive thrum of magic and joy in the contact.

"You call me Puppy," he points out, a little breathless, meeting silver-green eyes he cannot read.

"I said 'unkind things,' Puppy."

She smiles, leaves him there stumbling. If life were fair, he thinks, she would have stolen a kiss.

Thor rounds the corner, loud and impossible; Fenrir growls and lunges, taking him by surprise and nearly knocking him over.

"Fenrir," Loki snaps but he smiles a little to see Thor befuddled. "Come here." He crouches. The wolf pup's fur is soft beneath his hands, eyes gold, bright as fire, and full of adoration.

"You got a dog, brother? I thought you hated them."

"It is a wolf, Thor," Loki sniffs. He stands and sweeps away, Fenrir at his heels, Thor gawping after him.

XXXXXX

It is easy, Thor thinks, to see all signs after the fact.

"Loki-"

"Leave me alone, Thor."

The halls are quiet in this unused wing of the palace. Loki's footsteps click sharp on the tile-just one more way Thor knowshow wounded his little brother is. Loki is always silent, whether well or unwell.

This, Thor thinks, is far past unwell.

Thor continues following a few paces behind.

"Stop following me."

"No. Loki, you-"

"I am fine." Loki's voice is brittle.

"Of course you are," Thor reassures. Only, he thinks, Loki is not, Loki who smiles and pretends acceptance of thanks, pretends he was the one who discovered Angrboda's treachery. Loki whose steps are no longer silent, whose eyes are equal parts dead and bleeding, whose hands stumble where once every motion was grace. "Of course you are. I only thought you might wish to talk."

"If I am fine, brother mine, what is there to talk about?"

Loki only rhymes when he is upset.

"Do you need be unwell for us to talk?" Thor asks.

Loki stops walking and spins to face Thor.

"I am fine," he shouts, voice echoing.

"Yes," Thor agrees. He approaches his brother, rests a hand on his shoulder gently. "You always are. Even when you are unwell, you are fine."

Loki snarls and shove Thor; Thor, no stranger to this, has already planted his feet and rocks back only a little.

"Then I am well."

"You are usually a better liar, brother."

"I am not lying, you oaf, stop it, I am fine, everything is fine. Huzzah, hoorah, the traitor is caught and it was Iwho caught her. Why oh why would I be unwell?" Loki's eyes glisten.

"Oh, Loki," Thor sighs, knowing it is the wrong thing to say.

Loki lunges for him, a scream tearing his throat; Thor takes the first punch square on his jaw but catches the second. For a few minutes they scuffle, until finally Thor can catch Loki in his arms, pinning him against his chest. Loki twists and writhes, snarling.

"I do not need your pity, I am well, I am, everything is fine, stop hounding me like some too dumb dog-" Loki's voice cracks for a moment. "Everything is fine, stop asking, Thor!"

Thor holds Loki, who trembles beneath his rage.

"I have not asked, Loki. I know you are fine."

But Loki is not listening to Thor anymore, if he ever was, voice ringing and bouncing off empty halls. He beats one fist against Thor's chest, other gripping tight the front of Thor's shirt. Thor risks loosening his hold; Loki does not move, head leaned down and voice growing wetter, softer.

A prayer, a lie, a mantra:

"Fine fine fine, I am fine, everything is fine, everything is fine, I am fine, fine fine fine..."

Thor sinks down with Loki, Loki's hands gripping tight to Thor's shirt, front soaked in wet warmth. Thor cradles Loki to his chest, runs his hands through Loki's hair as he has not in years-not since Loki a boy and Thor first entering adolescence.

"I know you are, Loki," Thor reassures. Not that things will be right-Thor does not know. He has never seen Loki like this.

"Why?!" Loki wails. Thor bites his own tears back, braces so he does not flinch. "Why why why, I love her and everything, it means nothing does it, and why why what did I do wrong, I love her and should not, I should have seen, it should not matter and it hurts, Thor, it hurts, brother, brother, tell me why?!"

Thor tightens his grip, runs his hand through Loki's hair, and wonders if he could have prevented this.

"You did nothing wrong, brother. Nothing to deserve this, nothing at all."

Loki is not listening, only broken apart and bleeding in Thor's arms.

Thor keeps murmuring to him, though, until Loki drifts into exhausted, uneasy sleep, sobs fading to ragged breath.

It is easy, Thor reflects with Loki in his arms, walking less traveled hallways, to see all the warnings after the fact.

XXXXXX

He does not generally like children but Hela is, he thinks, different. She is clever and full of tricks but also quiet and sincere. Besides, she is Angrboda's daughter and there is naught he does not... naught he dislikes about the mage.

Not even the ridiculous pet name.

Hela sits in his lap in a far corner of the library, book resting in front of them. Angrboda is... somewhere; he does not know, only found Hela alone and wandering. She had been so calm, as if used to being left to her own devices.

(He ignores unease. After all, he often wandered alone as a child, too.)

"And this?" Hela demands, pointing to another word.

"'Isa.' Ice."

"Hmm," she hums, studying the text as if has some great mystery. It is only a storybook written in the Old Tongue. Loki peers over her shoulder and breathes in scent of her mother's magic (enchantment to veil her daughter's half-appearance. Half-Helheim, Loki thinks, but he does not ask.)

"Do you love Mama?" she asks.

Loki hesitates. There is no one here and Hela does not spill secrets.

"Yes," he tells her. It is... gratifying to admit. He thinks of the way the light hits Angrboda's blonde-white hair, her wit, her teasing and humour, her cleverness-thinks of how she encourages his own spellwork when usually he is mocked, praises his guile, sees him for what he truly excels at and finds him so much the better. He feels as if falling and flying in the same breath, twisted apart and put back together better for her hand.

"So do I," Hela says; it startles Loki how very sad her voice is, how resigned and weary. She takes one of his hands and twines her much smaller fingers in his. "But it will be alright."

"Yes?" he offers.

She tilts her head back and smiles at him.

"Yes."

Unsettled, unsure, he stares back-

Angrboda sweeps in.

"Ah, Puppy! Kitten! There you are." She pulls Hela up into a hug, kisses her cheek, and sets her down. "Go play, Kitten, Mama has work to do."

Before Loki can stop her, Hela has slipped away. He stands uncertain, caught between nervous and love, the book a comforting weight to keep him from smoothing his clothes. Angrboda pulls him into embrace, smells of lily of the valley and warmth, grey-green eyes sparkling all for him; he smiles.

"Puppy, look at you, so thoughtful." She smiles and presses kisses to his cheek, arm slipping into one of his. He is not sure when they went to the hallway, head dizzy for thought of her. He thinks he will always be kind to Hela, if this is the response he gains, brush of her magic singing in his ears and making him flush at intimacy no one else can see.

He cannot remember what had him so uneasy.

XXXXXX

Frigga finds Loki alone in a far and shadowed corner of the library.

(She does not have favourites, but after a great deal of wine, Thor getting into another fight, and the resulting fall out, she will sometimes wonder why Thor cannot be more like Loki, Loki so quiet and thoughtful, who understands the value of subtly and quiet barb.)

He sits on the floor as he did as a child, large tome resting on his knees. His fingers trace over ink but his eyes do not focus on the words.

"Loki," she says softly after a few moments.

He starts, face going blank but for the (false) quirk of a smile and Frigga's heart shatters.

"Mother."

Not for the first time, Frigga doubts whether the rumour she spread was for the best.

(It must be-Loki can survive this, he can, but he could not survive being mocked as his heart breaks. It is not best, but it is something, that her son they call Liesmith and Trickster (Frigga is not deaf) is lauded for his guile instead of pitied, mocked, and thought lessfor his love.)

"What are you reading?" she asks instead of 'how are you.'

"Nothing. Old tales. Fancy." His eyes drift back to the page, thumb runs along the side. His eyes flick up again-do not meet hers-then to the basket she rests next to herself as she sits by him.

"When did you last eat, Loki?"

"This morning," he says automatically, a hand smoothing wrinkle in his sleeve. He does not look at her.

"Is that so?"

"In my room."

"Auden tells me you threw a book at him when he tried to enter last night."

Loki searches the page, clearly caught in the lie (it has been yearssince he has been caught in so obvious a lie).

"I worry about you, my son. I know you are hurt-no, I am your mother, don't you lie you are well-but you need to eat."

Loki's mouth closes, face sullen. Frigga reaches out and brushes her fingertips against his cheek.

"I am not hungry," he says finally.

"Auden put it together-honey cake and apples, your favourite goat's cheese and fresh bread. Blackberry wine. Just a little, Loki. I worry. You so rarely grow thin for lack of eating."

(Thin, instead, for use and overuse of magic. But Loki has not cast spell or illusion since Angrboda was discovered, has not eaten despite his love of food, has not slept unless he collapses exhausted, invariably carried to bed when Thor finds him in whatever distant nook or cranny he has hidden himself.)

Loki reaches, pulls one of the honey cakes out, and begins to tear it into small pieces. He does not eat much but the small bit is more than he has in days; Frigga makes herself settle for that. For now.

"Things will be well," she tells him. "I am sorry."

"You could not keep me safe forever," he says, a broken bitter chuckle escaping that terrifies Frigga.

"I know that," she says, reaching forward to cup his cheek. "Do you not think so?" Loki frowns, keeping his eyes down. "No. No, do not apologize for a mother's sorrow. Look at me."

Loki's eyes flick up. She offers what smile she can.

"I love you. Things will be well."

He nods once, sharply and Frigga pretends not to notice glisten of tears. Instead, draws her hand back, looks down to the book he reads, and allows him to recollect himself.

(She remembers when he would toddle after her in the gardens, one small fist twined in her dress, biting his other hand, eyes wide with wonder and trust.)

She brushes a hand in his hair, then kisses his forehead as she rises.

"Promise you will eat a little more."

"Yes, Mother."

She makes herself walk away, to let him recover as he will in shadows and books.

"Mother."

She pauses.

"Thank you. I... love you, as well."

"Of course, Loki. If you need anything-"

"You are here. Yes. I know."

It is a little hint of her ever-proud, self-sufficient son. A whisper-hint.

She takes it.

"Eat. Try to get a little sleep or I shall tell Thor where you are hiding."

Loki's eyes flash in irritation and gratitude.

"Mother, I..."

"Yes, Loki?"

"I did not. Know. About her. What she was."

She nods slightly, resists the urge to gather him into her arms.

"I thought... someone should know."

"I will tell not a soul."

"I... I know." He is looking down, hands breaking and breaking the cake. It is nearly naught but crumbs. "I love you."

"And I you. Get a little rest, songbird."

"Later."

"Soon."

She leaves him with food and fancy. She will return later.

Later, when he sleeps exhausted against the wall, a little of the food eaten, to take the book away and drape a blanket on his shoulders, when she can pull him into her arms without his protest or pride to get in the way.

(And if he wakes a little, sobs a little, clings a little, she pretends not to notice, strokes his hair and sings old lullabies; whispers old stories until he falls asleep once more.)

(For the only time, she wishes he more like Thor.)

XXXXXX

Loki has never desired anyone before in his life. Has never understood his brother's need to bed every maiden he can, Fandral's constant wooing of... everyone, this obsession with who has bed whom that whispers along the hallways.

But kneeling there, magic still rippling throughout him, heady scent of blood mixing with her own lily of the valley, he thinks he might finally understand. His pulse is thundering still, hands slipping on scale covered in his own blood; there is no light but candlelight and yet it is still too too bright, his pupils aching and wide.

She leans forward and steadies him as he wavers and he leans into her touch, hot blaze (desire?) sweeping through him. The newly born serpent, still so small, twists and twines, wraps itself around his wrist.

"You need to name him," she says, her voice musk and low ripple along his senses.

Vaguely, he realizes she means the snake that is sliding over his skin. It hardly seems important in light of the beads of sweat on her skin. He leans forward, fumbling, and presses kisses to her throat. She laughs, a purr that rolls along his senses, and gently pushes him back.

"Ah-ah, Loki," and he shudders to hear her use his name for once, how she drags the 'o' along her tongue. "Name your pretty pet."

He grabs hold of her with the hand not caught in the snake's coils and kisses her, the taste of her exquisite: snow and some spice he has never before encountered. She pushes him back again, her smile sharp edges that he adores.

"I love you," he whispers desperately.

Her smile grows wider, all teeth, and she pushes his sweat soaked hair back from his face.

"You are so darling. Name your familiar, Loki."

"Jormungandr," he says, the first thing that comes to his lips, hoping and praying that it will be enough, that he can taste her again, lick sweat from her neck and (perhaps?) learn more of what is so fascinating, so desire and fire and lust.

Later, later, he will be embarrassed at himself and grateful that she did not take advantage of him, magic-drunk and swooning like some maid at sight of her knight. She will only laugh at his thanks, eyes sparkling, and ask why she would take advantage of her darling puppy.

Flushing, embarrassed, he does not know how he can fall more in love with her-but he does.

Oh how he does.

XXXXXX

"No enchantment to break, Majesty. Least none but what planted the first seed, so thoroughly entwined with his own emotion it has been made real."

Odin nods. He knew this, of course. Though he rarely has reason to use it, he is skilled in magic as well.

(Not skilled enough, to have missed that first subtle charm, to only notice after.)

"You summoned me, Father?"

Odin turns away from Eir. Loki's face is still and blank, eyes dark; too thin yet, though he has begun to eat a little in the weeks since Angrboda's execution. He holds himself stiffly, as if holding glass and cutting himself open on all the broken edges but unwilling to acknowledge the pain.

How, Odin wonders, can he ever explain to Loki now?

"I did. Let us walk."

Loki falls into step with him, hands kept clasped behind his back. It takes a little time before Odin realizes what troubles him is the sound of a second pair of footsteps-Loki's. Aggressive, loud, where usually they are unheard.

"I am preparing an envoy to take Hela to Helheim. They are eager to see her again." Odin keeps his voice neutral. "We need to ensure that they understand we fully support the return of the heir."

"You have selected someone then?"

"Not yet. I need someone who would make a good adviser as well."

"Of course."

"Loki-"

"Yes?"

Loki's eyes are sharp and raw, anger and ache.

"I know you do not wish to think of it." Loki looks startled that Odin has noticed; Odin continues before he can speak. "She will need somewhere away from Asgard and Helheim is happy to have her back. No one will let her forget her mother's actions here; I would not have a child so blamed."

If Loki's eyes grow damp, Odin knows not to comment on it. He rests a hand on Loki's (too thin) shoulder.

"I still need to appoint a member of court to accompany her."

You can get away from this, Odin wants to say. You can avoid false praise that breaks your heart for the lie. But he does not because Loki has ever hated people suggesting him anything but well.

Loki licks his lips.

"It might be wise," his son says hesitantly, "if someone she is familiar with goes."

"It would no doubt be appreciated by Helheim, who does not wish to offend their newly returned heir."

There is something a little like gratitude in Loki's green eyes.

"I hate to suggest but..."

"You know I ever value your opinion in these matters.," Odin says seriously.

"I could accompany her. I know her better than most and, I think, Helheim would be flattered a prince was sent as escort."

Odin nods as if he is considering the matter-but he has already made up his mind, had as soon as Loki began to voice suggestion. Before.

"They would. I shall think on it."

Loki nods.

"Is there else, Father?"

"No. Only do eat a little. Your mother has been worrying."

"Of course."

Odin watches Loki leave, steps sharp and loud, and wonders if he could have stopped her charms if given another chance.

XXXXXX

"Like this?" he asks, light and energy pulsing, coiling around his fingers.

"Like this," she corrects, breath cool against his ear-and the barely off-key sound corrects. In his palm, the dead branch springs to life, silvery shoots and leaves unfurling joyful.

He is fascinated more, though, by the soft press of her to his back, breath shivering along his spine, voice song and music and peace.