Time passed in Asgard the way it always did — smoothly, unhurried, like a river that has forgotten it's supposed to reach the sea. I couldn't have told you exactly how much of it had gone by. But somewhere in the drift of days, I began noticing something. Something important. Something that concerned me directly, and the kingdom as a whole.
As it turned out, when a young Asgardian reached a certain threshold of maturity, their aging didn't stop — but it slowed to the point of being imperceptible. We grew. Just not at any speed a person from St. Petersburg, where every year drags a mountain of events behind it, would recognize as growing. At first it nearly drove me mad.
But the strangest part wasn't the body. It wasn't just aging that slowed.
It was thought.
I noticed it in others before I caught it in myself. Asgardians lived unhurried, measured, in no particular rush toward anything. And not because they were lazy — but because they genuinely had no reason to hurry. Where were they supposed to be going? The Nine Worlds had long since been brought to heel. Asgard itself was a monument to accumulated greatness, soaked in gold and magic and the smell of endless feasts. Why run when you're never late for anything?
And that's when it started to sink in.
Asgard had gone soft.
Not in the way a man goes soft when he stops training. Softer than that. The entire civilization had quietly, almost politely, settled into comfortable stagnation. They still held competitions — small ones, occasional grand ones, proud old warriors dragging their glory days back out in the arena to prove there was still fire left in them. But it was playing at war. The performance of martial virtue rather than the thing itself.
And the part that filled me with quiet dread: my father encouraged all of it.
Odin — the Odin of legend, the graven image in the throne room with blood on his gauntlets and conquest in his eye — had somewhere along the way transformed into a peacekeeper. A diplomat. The Allfather now spent his days mediating inheritance disputes between neighboring kingdoms, arbitrating grievances between Light Elves and Dwarves, and delivering measured speeches on the virtue of restraint. The iron fist that had once held Nine Worlds in its grip had opened, and everyone had apparently decided this was progress.
No one seemed troubled by this except me.
Petty uprisings from radical factions in the outer worlds were put down easily, almost casually, and then forgotten. And Odin simply continued resting on laurels that grew thicker with each passing year.
In some ways, I was starting to understand why the original Loki had spent his whole life getting knocked around. Surrounded by this particular atmosphere — this divine, golden, wonderfully comfortable inertia — even he had absorbed it. He'd kept studying, kept training, but at the same pace as everything else. Unhurried. As though eternity was guaranteed.
It had been. And then it wasn't.
Fifteen hundred years had rolled by that way. And then came the collision with heroes, with the Avengers, with Thanos and his philosophy, and none of it had ended well for the original.
So. Three years after my tenth birthday, I was delivered news that kept me walking around in a quiet funk for several days afterward. Frigga — my warm, patient, wonderful mother — called me to the gazebo and told me, with that soft smile of hers that carried just a hint of apology, that her instruction was finished.
— What do you mean, finished? — I didn't understand. — Mom, there's so much I still can't do. Higher-order illusions, complex transmutation, temporal manipulation —
— Loki, my dear, — she stroked my hair and I immediately deflated. — You have a strong foundation. What comes next, you must find yourself. Sit in the library. Read. Experiment. Strengthen the most important muscle in your body.
— Why? — I genuinely didn't want to accept it.
— Every mage has their own path. If you keep following my guidance, you may never discover your true potential. Do you understand what I mean?
— I think so, — I exhaled slowly. — Alright. I'll develop on my own. Find the path that's mine to walk.
— Good, — Frigga smiled, warm as always.
I almost said that back in my old world this was called "graduating" and the diploma was useless afterward anyway — but I held my tongue. Nodded. She was right. The foundation was there. The rest was up to me.
So that's what I did.
The library became my second home. I spent hours there, working through dusty volumes, comparing techniques, making notes in the margins — the librarians still looked at me sideways for that one. The magic lamps burned their steady gold above me. Days and nights cycled outside the windows. And I bent over scrolls with the focused stubbornness of the best student Petersburg's colleges had never produced.
I didn't neglect the body either. Faithfully, like clockwork, I showed up to training with Thor under our all-seeing Allfather's supervision. The training yard — that vast stone-paved arena smelling permanently of sweat and iron — became, if not my second home, then certainly my third.
And gradually, by around age ten, something shifted.
I started winning.
Not always. Not consistently. But I could beat Thor in a fair fight now, more than occasionally.
Well. "Fair" is doing some work in that sentence.
Fine. I used illusions sometimes. I would produce a convincing double of myself and step aside. The young God of Thunder would charge at my duplicate with full battle fury while I approached from behind and delivered what I considered a measured, instructive kick behind the knees. Thor would eat the ground, and while he was spitting out dust, I would produce two or three more copies and set them circling him, switching places faster than he could track.
He would rage, shout, sweep his sword through the air. But he couldn't catch me.
And afterward, every time, he would dust himself off and announce to anyone nearby:
— You see that? Barely escaped me. I nearly had him today.
I smiled and said nothing. He could keep his version. I knew mine.
Speaking of company — I discovered empirically around this time that I had none.
Everywhere I looked: children of ancient noble houses, dynasties whose roots stretched back to Odin's grandfather's grandfather, all of them orbiting Thor like planets around a sun. I interacted with them, of course. Nodded, exchanged a few words. But nothing more.
These children were preparing to be the future king's inner circle. Thor's people. As for the second prince — the sharp one, the clever one, the one who had quietly been doing twice the work with half the recognition — they seemed to have collectively agreed he wasn't relevant.
I didn't exactly grieve over it. But the feeling lingered.
One evening I brought it up to my father. We were sitting in the smaller hall after dinner, and I asked, carefully, why I still moved through the palace alone.
— Father, — I said. — Why don't I have... what Thor has? Friends. People.
Odin regarded me with his single eye. Something complex moved through his expression. He was quiet for a moment, stroking his beard, then said:
— You are different, Loki. You don't need a retinue to be powerful. Your strength is in your mind and your magic. And friends... friends will come to you when the time is right.
I nodded and pretended this satisfied me.
It didn't. From where I was standing — with twenty years of real life behind me — the situation was perfectly transparent. A retinue belonged to the future king. To Thor, the hammer-bearer. The second prince was decorative. Supporting cast. Nothing personal, just the architecture of succession.
For a real child, six or seven years old, hearing this would have been quietly devastating. The knowledge that you were being sidelined, that someone else was the favorite, would have taken root and grown. A boy raised on that feeling would spend his whole life trying to prove he was worth something. To his father first, then his brother, then Asgard, then the Nine Worlds entire.
Lucky that I wasn't that boy.
I had everything, objectively speaking. A loving family. Magic that grew stronger every day. A warm bed, excellent food, and serving girls who would blush magnificently when I said something unexpected. There was nothing to be bitter about.
I was not bitter.
I was simply... motivated.
Four years of work followed. Real work — the kind that leaves marks.
Physically: I ran until my lungs burned, trained until my arms gave out, studied footwork and blade technique and how to use momentum instead of mass. Thor was a machine. Pure, relentless, indefatigable. I had no interest in competing with him on those terms. But speed, endurance, cunning combinations of footwork and illusion — that was achievable. By fourteen I could give him a genuine fight. Not always win. But fight.
Magically: I turned the library inside out. Illusions, transmutation, the finer manipulation of perception. I experimented, failed, adjusted, tried again. The servants had long since stopped being surprised when ghost copies of me wandered the corridors, or when the water in my pitcher froze without cause, or when my furniture went briefly soft as a cloud. I nearly set my curtains on fire twice trying to integrate real flame into an illusion. That was a learning experience.
There was one thing no amount of magic and training could touch: loneliness.
You have no idea what it's like being a prince with no company of your own.
Thor had people. Baldur first — his closest friend since childhood, attached to my brother like a cheerful shadow. Then the sons of noble houses drifted in over the years: Fandral, Hogun, Volstagg. I could barely tell them apart at first, always loud, always laughing at jokes I hadn't heard the beginning of. They gathered in Thor's chambers, trained together, ate together, existed together in that comfortable way of people who have already decided they belong to each other.
I tried once or twice. Walked up when they were in the courtyard, thought maybe I could just... fit in, say something. But no. They weren't rude — they were polite. Excessively, carefully polite.
"Good day, Prince Loki." "How are you faring, Prince Loki." "We were just discussing the training schedule, I imagine it would be of little interest to you."
And that was it. Conversation over before it had started. They returned to each other and I was left standing there feeling like I'd wandered into the wrong room.
I understood why. Status did that. I was the second prince, the younger brother of the future king. Not someone you simply talked to — someone you maintained proper form around. Thor was one of them. He had the right to the throne but he felt like their equal, someone to wrestle and drink with and compete against. Me, they were never quite comfortable with.
Even when Thor invited me — and he did, a few times, he genuinely tried — I would sit in the corner and quietly not belong. They talked about their things. I had no interest in their things. They had no interest in mine. It wasn't cruelty. It was just the geography of it.
Some days I sat at my window looking out at the golden spires and felt the silence press in. What is any of this for? Magic: yes. Power: yes. A roof over my head that could probably be seen from other dimensions: definitely yes. Someone to just talk to: no.
But I was not going to become the person who spiraled into resentment over it.
By fourteen, the summary was: physically strong, fast, technically solid. Magically capable of complex sustained illusions, minor transmutation, and some limited influence over perception. Not perfect. For a teenager — more than respectable.
And around this time, I decided it was time to talk to my father. Not with grievances. Not with bitterness. Just clearly and directly, like an adult.
The throne room of Asgard was, as always, a statement. Enormous, gold-columned, walls painted with scenes from wars Odin had fought himself. A floor of black marble veined with gold. And at the far end, on a raised dais, the throne — dark metal, carved with runes — where the Allfather sat with Gungnir across his knee, looking like he'd been there since before history started.
— Loki, my son, — his voice rolled through the chamber. — Come.
I walked forward, stopped a few paces from the throne, bowed as protocol required. Straightened. Met his eye.
— You requested an audience, — he said. — Speak.
— Father. I wanted to speak about my place in Asgard. About how I see my future.
— I'm listening.
— I've trained these past years, — I said. — Physically and magically. Mother gave me a strong foundation and I've built on it alone. I can do a great deal now. But — I paused, gathered my thoughts — I feel something is missing. Thor has his friends, his people. They train together, grow together, know each other. And I am... alone. Books and training and magic are good. But they don't replace the simple fact of not being the only person in the room. I understand that Thor is the future king, — I continued, keeping my voice steady. — He needs companions who will stand with him. I have no claim on that. But perhaps I'm entitled to something as well? Not for the throne's sake. Just for living. Someone to exchange a few words with, besides a brother who is always occupied and a mother who has her own concerns.
Odin was still. Only his fingers moved, a slow rhythm against Gungnir's shaft. The silence in that room was complete.
— Loki, my son, — he began, and there was no judgment in it, no dismissal. Something older. Weariness, perhaps. Or recognition. — I have watched you these years. I see your progress. Frigga tells me of your work in magic. You have grown stronger — not only in body but in character.
A pause. I felt something significant approaching.
— I understand that you want to be heard. That you want your own place, your own people. That is right. Every warrior deserves those who stand beside him. But I want you to understand something, Loki. Hear it correctly.
He leaned forward, and his single eye found mine with complete precision.
— I suspect that part of this effort has been about proving you deserve the throne. That you can rival Thor. But Loki — you don't need to do that.
I wanted to correct him immediately — he'd misread the situation entirely — but he raised one hand.
— Let me finish. Thor is my firstborn, born to be king. That is his fate, written before his birth. He will rule Asgard, unite the Nine Worlds, lead our warriors. That is his path, and it is not an easy one, believe me.
— Father, I don't want the throne, — I said, and I didn't quite manage to wait for him to finish. — I have never wanted the throne. I simply want to be treated as though I exist. I'm asking you to point me toward someone who could be a companion — someone to share whatever this life turns out to be.
He studied me for a moment.
— You truly don't want it?
— Truly. I have no interest in power over worlds, or in being bowed to, or in being feared.
— You surprise me, Loki, — the Allfather said, settling back, one hand moving to his beard. — At your age most princes think of nothing except power and glory. And you are asking for friends. That is... admirable. I will consider this. Expect my answer in a few days. But understand one thing — those who come to stand with you cannot simply be assigned. You cannot appoint loyalty the way you appoint a courtier.
— I understand, Father, — I said, and exhaled slowly. Only then did I register how tightly I'd been holding myself. — I'm ready for whatever it requires. What do I need to do?
— Nothing yet, — he said, with something that was nearly a smile. — Soon I will give you a gift. One I hope you will prove worthy of.
— Thank you, Father.
I bowed, turned, and walked out of the throne room.
In the corridor I took a long, slow breath.
Four years of motivation built on a child's wounded pride and envy of his brother. Was the God of Mischief really that small? Apparently he had been, for a while there.
Well. That was done with.
I needed air. Something lighter. Maybe I'd go find some of the serving girls and give them something to blush about — I did enjoy that rather a lot, if I was being honest with myself.