Loki sleeps, Yggdrasil sings to her.
Yggdrasil sings for the lost daughter, though she does not know she is lost, and Yggdrasil’s branches wrap around the frost child, though she does not know she is of frost. Yggdrasil’s roots snake around her wrists, intertwines with her hands, whisper magic into her ears, and tells her of her spells and her trickery, and Yggdrasil turns her daggers into flowers, poison dripping off the stems.
She dances along the branches of Yggdrasil, and the branches guide her to the heavens, to worlds unknown, and Yggdrasil allows these secrets, something to keep from everyone, even Odin, even Thor.
Loki falls off of Yggdrasil, and Yggdrasil’s song is silenced with the waking world.
With her fingers, she makes light. With the light, she makes patterns in the air. The patterns tell the stories Yggdrasil whispered to her, though Loki does not know this.
The worlds sing to her, and she closes her eyes to block them out. Odin walks along these halls, though she knows he would much rather find Thor over Loki. Her daggers are a heavy weight on her hips, and she imagines flowers resting where they lie instead.
Odin is near. Odin is then far.
She drops her hands at her sides as her light shines bright, before it scatters like starlight away with the morning breeze.
Loki sits on the floor of her room as Frigga runs her fingers through her hair, long, dark hair that spirals into curls towards the end. There’s a tug, a wince, and a small quip from Frigga that is full of false scorn.
“My raven, Odin’s ravens, our raven, if you took better care of these locks then there would be no need for constant pulling.”
Her mother rests her fingers against Loki’s nape, slight pressure to that area, and Loki sighs, lets the sunlight from the open drapes wash over her pale skin.
“Is that all I am then,” she says, “a raven rather than a dove?”
Frigga is quiet for a moment, then presses her lips up top of Loki’s head and closes her eyes, lashes fluttering softly against the inky strands.
“Yes, and you are the loveliest raven of them all.”
Loki fingers her daggers sitting on her waist, imagines a petal underneath her touch, before bringing her cold fingers to rest on top of her mother’s own.
Mjölnir is power, and that power resides in her sisters hands.
Loki watches as Thor throws the mighty hammer towards Lady Sif, who dodges it at the last moment. The hammer hums with energy as it returns to her sister’s grasp, and Thor lets out a mighty laugh. Lady Sif, breath deeper than before, cannot contain the smile on her lips at Thor’s joy, and Loki does not mistake the shy smile Thor returns to the Lady Sif as they spar.
They continue to battle, hammer against shield, sword against armour, and Loki can see her sister holding back against the Lady.
Lady Sif notices this, a frown across her features, and throws herself against Thor. Her sister is caught off guard, and they tumble to the soft ground together, golden braids and midnight locks mingle as well. Laughter twinkles throughout the air, and Loki definitely does not mistake the caress along the skin of Lady Sif’s collar.
There is silence for a moment. Mjölnir hums with impatience, and then they are on their feet once again, the moment all but a fleeting memory.
Loki draws Lady Sif with light, the strands of her hair turning into smokey tendrils like the sky at dusk.
Yggdrasil whispers to her as she sleeps, tells her of the Jötnar and how she was stolen from them during war. Beneath her armour, Loki turns blue, and the ponds of the Great Tree show eyes sharp as rubies.
She recoils in horror, but the branches push her back into her reflection, and then she wakes up and all is forgotten.
Odin never looks at her twice, three times; his eye always trained on Thor, with her golden braid shielded by her feathered helmet, calloused fingers from her never relenting grip on Mjölnir, and a warrior’s crease between her brows.
Once when Odin casts his gaze on Loki, his face shows nothing, his voice betrays nothing, but his eye tells her everything. Loki grasps her daggers for comfort, content at the cool press of metal against her soft skin.
In Odin’s eye, she is the second daughter, the unnamed raven, the spare.
Loki draws Thor with light, but Thor is already the sun.
There is betrayal, a life filled with lies; whispers of the Mighty Yggdrasil becoming coherent voices in her mind, of truth, Frigga full of love, and Odin full of conflict. Thor is banished for insolence, and Loki holds the Casket and belongs.
When she falls into the universe, Yggdrasil steadies her descent. As she screams, Yggdrasil screams with her. As she falls, she dreams of home, of Frigga’s fingers through her hair, and of Thor and her mighty laugh. Her fingers leave trails of light through the air, the open space she leaves behind. She reaches for her daggers, and instead comes away with a handful of petals.
She lets them free, and they dance with the light as she falls further away.