Chapter 10 : THE FALL OF THUNDER
Heimdall's observatory hummed with power that never slept.
Loki stood at the entrance, watching the Gatekeeper gaze into distances that had no meaning for mortal eyes. The Bifrost mechanism gleamed behind him—the sword-key that connected Asgard to every corner of the universe.
"You've come to watch your brother."
Not a question. Heimdall's voice carried the same weight it always did—ancient, knowing, impossible to deceive.
"I've come to understand the situation."
"Is that what we call it." Heimdall turned, and those golden eyes fixed on Loki with uncomfortable intensity. "Thor Odinson lies in a Midgardian desert, stripped of power, surrounded by mortals who have no concept of what he truly is. His hammer sits in a crater forty-three miles from his location, guarded by agents of an organization called SHIELD."
SHIELD. I remember them. The secret government agency that becomes central to everything.
"Show me."
Heimdall's expression didn't change, but something shifted in the air—a silent acknowledgment that the new regent was asking rather than demanding. The Gatekeeper extended his hand toward the observatory's viewing apparatus.
"Look."
The image materialized in the air between them—New Mexico, rendered in shimmering light. Thor sat in a glass-walled cell, his face a mask of confusion and barely suppressed rage. Outside the cell, agents in dark suits consulted tablets and murmured into earpieces. Everything about the scene screamed containment.
"They captured him?"
"He approached the hammer and failed to lift it." Heimdall's voice held no judgment. "His outburst afterward drew their attention. He offered no resistance when they detained him."
Failed to lift Mjolnir. Of course. He's not worthy yet—that's the whole point.
Loki studied his brother's face through the cosmic projection. The arrogance was still there, but buried now under layers of shock and confusion. Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, reduced to a prisoner in a mortal facility.
He looks lost. Completely, utterly lost.
"Has he eaten?"
The question surprised him—it had emerged without planning, born from some instinct he didn't fully understand. Heimdall's golden eyes flickered with something that might have been curiosity.
"They have offered food. He has refused."
Stubborn. Even now.
"What of the hammer itself?"
The image shifted, showing Mjolnir embedded in the desert floor. A crater surrounded it, roped off and covered with tents. Agents swarmed around the site like ants around a particularly interesting piece of food. None of them could move it—that much was obvious from their frustrated expressions.
"They attempt to lift it hourly," Heimdall said. "Cranes, trucks, directed energy—nothing works. The enchantment holds."
Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor.
"And if someone proves worthy who isn't Thor?"
Heimdall's gaze sharpened. "A curious question, regent."
"An academic one. The enchantment doesn't specify Thor specifically. It specifies worthiness. Someone else could theoretically claim the power."
"Someone could." The Gatekeeper's voice dropped lower. "But the enchantment was crafted by the All-Father himself, shaped by his understanding of what 'worthy' means. It would take a remarkable soul to meet that standard."
And Thor will meet it. Eventually. When he learns to sacrifice himself for others instead of charging in for glory.
"Keep watching him." Loki turned to leave. "Report any significant changes to me directly."
"Prince Loki."
He stopped.
"The woman."
"What woman?"
"She was there when Thor arrived. A scientist studying the atmospheric disturbances caused by the Bifrost. She has shown interest in your brother—brought him food when the agents wouldn't. She visits his cell and talks to him."
Jane Foster. Of course.
"Is she dangerous?"
"She is mortal. Brilliant, but mortal." Heimdall paused. "She is also kind. And kindness may be what Thor needs most right now."
Loki absorbed this information, filing it alongside everything else he knew about the timeline. Jane Foster was Thor's love interest—the woman who would eventually host the Aether, who would become Thor's anchor to humanity, who would matter in ways that extended far beyond a chance meeting in the desert.
"Let her continue visiting. Don't interfere."
"I was not planning to interfere, regent. I merely thought you should know."
"Why?"
Heimdall's expression remained impassive, but something in his bearing suggested careful consideration. "Because the old Loki would have seen her as a threat. As competition. As something to eliminate."
And the new Loki?
"The new Loki understands that Thor needs help," Loki said quietly. "And the new Loki is intelligent enough to accept help from any source—even an unexpected one."
He walked out before Heimdall could respond.
The Bifrost bridge stretched before him, rainbow colors shifting beneath his feet. Asgard gleamed in the distance—golden spires catching late afternoon light, banners rippling in winds that carried the scent of eternal spring.
Three days since the banishment. Two since Odin fell into the Sleep. I've survived one council meeting and established basic authority over the realm.
Now what?
The question gnawed at him as he walked. The original Loki had used this time for revenge—plotting against Thor, manipulating the Frost Giants, ultimately trying to destroy Jotunheim to prove his worth to Odin. All of it born from self-hatred and desperate need for validation.
Loki felt none of those drives. His identity wasn't tied to Odin's approval. His sense of worth didn't depend on being superior to Thor. He was a stranger in a god's body, playing a role he'd never auditioned for.
But I have power. Temporary power, yes, but real. What do I do with it?
Protect Frigga. That's priority one.
Prepare for the Dark Elves. Priority two.
Help Thor become worthy faster. Priority three.
Avoid becoming the villain everyone expects. Priority ongoing.
The palace appeared ahead, its entrance flanked by guards who straightened at his approach. Regent or not, he was still the trickster prince—the one nobody quite trusted, the one everyone watched for signs of scheming.
Fair enough. I am scheming. Just not the kind they expect.
Sif intercepted him in the main corridor.
Her armor was pristine, her expression stormy. Behind her, the Warriors Three lurked like loyal dogs waiting for their mistress's signal to attack.
"Regent." The title came out like an accusation. "We would have words."
"Then speak."
"Not here." Her eyes flickered to the guards, the servants, the courtiers who'd suddenly found reasons to linger within earshot. "Somewhere private."
She's going to demand I recall Thor. Or threaten to go rescue him herself. Both possibilities the original Loki would have manipulated.
"My study. One hour."
"Now."
"One hour." He held her gaze without flinching. "I have duties to attend to, Lady Sif. Duties that don't pause for your schedule."
Her jaw tightened. For a moment, he thought she might push harder—might draw steel and demand satisfaction. But military discipline won out over personal grievance.
"One hour. Don't keep us waiting."
She stalked away, the Warriors Three trailing behind her like a particularly aggressive honor guard. Volstagg shot Loki an apologetic glance—he alone among them seemed capable of separating Loki-now from Loki-always.
Small mercies.
The hour gave him time to prepare. He retreated to Loki's chambers, stripped off the formal clothes he'd been wearing for the council meeting, and changed into something more comfortable—dark leather, green accents, practical rather than ostentatious.
His reflection stared back from the mirror. Still Loki. Still wrong. But becoming more familiar with each passing day.
I need to start training seriously. The powers are there—I can feel them—but they're locked behind walls I don't know how to break.
Tomorrow. Today, politics.
The study was a room he'd barely explored—Loki's private space, filled with books and artifacts and magical implements whose purposes he could only guess at. He lit the lamps with a mundane match rather than risking magic he couldn't reliably control, and settled into a chair that probably cost more than his entire previous apartment.
Sif arrived exactly on time, the Warriors Three filling the doorway behind her.
"Close the door," Loki said. "This conversation stays in this room."
Fandral obliged, though his expression suggested he'd rather be doing literally anything else. The four warriors arranged themselves in a loose semicircle facing Loki chair—not quite threatening, but definitely not friendly.
"Speak your piece."
"Bring Thor home." Sif's voice was flat with restrained fury. "End this farce. The realm needs its true prince, not a—"
"Not a what?" Loki leaned back, keeping his posture relaxed despite the tension in the room. "A trickster? A schemer? A second son playing at authority?"
"I was going to say 'temporary measure.'"
"Were you." He let the silence stretch. "Thor was banished by the All-Father's command. Stripped of power by Gungnir itself. There is no spell I could cast, no scheme I could hatch, that would override Odin's enchantment."
"You could speak to him—"
"Odin is in the Sleep. He will not wake until his body has regenerated enough strength to support consciousness. That could take days. It could take weeks. It could take months." Loki spread his hands. "I cannot wake him. I cannot force him to rescind the banishment. All I can do is maintain the realm until one of them returns."
Volstagg shifted uncomfortably. "Surely there must be something—"
"There isn't." Loki voice hardened. "And even if there were, consider what you're asking. Thor invaded a sovereign realm. Thor nearly restarted a war that killed tens of thousands of Asgardians. Thor was warned, repeatedly, by his father, his mother, his brother, and his friends—and he ignored every warning."
"He was defending Asgard's honor—"
"He was feeding his ego." Loki stood, crossing to the window where the city spread below in golden waves. "I love my brother. That may surprise you. But I'm not blind to his flaws, and neither should you be."
The room fell silent.
"Thor is on Midgard learning humility," Loki continued. "When he proves himself worthy of Mjolnir, the enchantment will break. He'll return to us stronger, wiser, better suited to be king. That is Odin's gift—a chance for growth, not a punishment."
"You seem very certain he'll succeed." Sif's tone carried suspicion.
"I am." He turned to face them. "Thor is reckless and arrogant, but he's not fundamentally broken. He has a good heart buried under centuries of entitlement. This exile will crack the shell and let that heart emerge."
"And if you're wrong?"
"Then Asgard has no heir." Loki met her eyes. "And eventually the realm will have to choose someone else."
The implication hung in the air—heavy, dangerous, impossible to ignore.
"You would claim the throne?" Sif's hand drifted to her sword.
"I would accept the throne if the realm required it and no better option existed." He kept his voice steady. "But I don't want it, Lady Sif. I never wanted it. I want my brother home, my father awake, and my life returned to whatever passes for normal in this family. Until that happens, I do my duty."
She studied him for a long moment—warrior's assessment, searching for weakness or deception.
"You really have changed."
"So everyone keeps telling me."
"The old Loki would have reveled in this. Would have schemed to extend Thor's exile. Would have—"
"The old Loki was afraid." The words came out before he could stop them. "Afraid of being second. Afraid of being forgotten. Afraid that nothing he did would ever be enough." He paused. "I'm not afraid anymore."
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