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phantombaby · 10 days ago

Note

Hiii, I was wondering if you could do a Loki x reader story where the reader is of one of Frigga’s ladies in waiting/a daughter of a friend of the crown who has shown promising magical ability? Frigga agrees to give her lessons in sorcery alongside Loki and they instantly get along but their friendship becomes more. Maybe she defends Loki against Thor and his friends when they belittle him. You’re my one of my favorite Loki writers so it would mean so much, thanks!

EXILED HEARTS

⤷ LOKY LAUFEYSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, some angst and some fluff

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.8k

ᯓ★ Summary: As Frigga’s protégée, you grow close to Loki through shared magic and understanding. But courtly judgment, Odin’s decree, and whispered scorn force you and Loki to choose between royalty and each other. In the end, you choose love—and build a life far from the palace’s golden cage.

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think, just some angst

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The candlelight dances on the silk-lined walls of the royal library, casting flickering shadows across the shelves as you press deeper into the alcove. Your fingers hover over a page in a worn tome, ancient Asgardian glyphs etched in gold leaf. The script feels alive beneath your touch, humming faintly—perhaps only in your mind, but you like to believe it’s real. You’re not supposed to be here, not this late, and not without permission. But curiosity is louder than decorum.

You recite the lines again, under your breath. The ancient incantation rolls off your tongue imperfectly, but something in the air tightens—a hush, like the world is holding its breath. You flinch as a row of candles flares, a gust of invisible wind whipping past your cheek. Then it’s gone. Stillness returns. But your heart pounds.

“That passage,” a voice says softly behind you, “is not meant to be read aloud without guidance.”

You turn so quickly your braid slips over your shoulder. Queen Frigga stands just within the archway, her silhouette gilded by moonlight from the tall windows. She doesn’t look angry—curious, perhaps, or quietly amused. Her head tilts as she studies you, eyes soft but sharp as ever. You’re not sure if you should kneel, apologize, or bolt.

“My queen, I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” she says, stepping into the room. “If you had meant to cause trouble, I suspect the whole wing would be in disarray by now.”

You flush, clasping your hands in front of you. You’ve served at the court long enough to know better than to touch books not offered freely. But the Queen has always held herself with grace, and now, she moves beside you with no hint of reprimand.

“You read it aloud correctly,” she says, eyes still on the book. “That’s more than most trained mages can say.”

You blink, stunned. “I did?”

A faint smile curves her lips. “Your magic is unrefined, but it's there. Stronger than I expected.”

The words wrap around you like a cloak you’re not used to wearing—warm, heavy, significant. You’ve always known the spark lived inside you, but it was private. Unspoken. Tucked away in dreams and half-lit evenings when you whispered spells into your pillow and imagined stars answering back.

“I don’t... I don’t know what to do with it,” you admit. “I thought maybe if I read enough, something would just—click.”

“Magic doesn’t click,” Frigga replies. “It unfolds. Like silk. Or music. Or a storm.”

She glides her fingers over the open pages and closes the book gently. “You have great potential, my dear. And you’ve been quite patient, haven’t you? Serving in silence. Observing.”

You nod. You've been a shadow in these halls for years now—your mother once a dear companion to the Queen, your name a small one tied loosely to the court. When you first arrived in the palace, you were told to mind your manners and stay out of sight. You did. But you never stopped watching.

Frigga reaches out, her fingers brushing just above your wrist. You feel a warm pressure—not a touch, exactly, but something more delicate. Like a thread catching yours.

“I will teach you,” she says, voice gentle but sure. “But not alone.”

You frown slightly. “Not alone?”

“My youngest son still studies. Perhaps not as diligently as he should, but it would benefit him to have a partner. And you may find him... enlightening.”

Your breath catches. You’ve seen Prince Loki, of course—everyone has. A dark figure in green and gold, wry and sharp-eyed, moving through the palace like a secret. He’s aloof, cold at times, always ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room. He’s also the Queen’s favorite, though no one says it aloud.

The thought of studying beside him is equal parts terrifying and thrilling.

“I would be honored,” you say quickly. “Truly.”

Frigga smiles. “Good. Come to the east courtyard tomorrow morning. Before the sun rises. Bring nothing but yourself.”

And just like that, the Queen turns and leaves, her robes whispering like wind through silk. You stand there for a long moment after she’s gone, heart still fluttering, hand resting over the closed tome as though it holds something more than paper and ink.

Maybe it does.

The east courtyard is cold before dawn, the stone slick with dew. You wrap your cloak tighter around your shoulders, breath clouding in the pale light. No one else is here yet. The palace is still asleep, save for the guards at their posts. You stand by the marble fountain, trying not to let your nerves chew at your composure.

Then you hear footsteps. Precise. Measured.

Loki appears from the far archway, his green cloak trailing behind him like a shadow with purpose. He glances at you once—expression unreadable—and then looks away just as quickly.

You straighten. “Good morning, Prince Loki.”

He raises an eyebrow, his tone cool. “So you're the Queen’s new pet project.”

You bite back a retort, keeping your voice even. “She offered to teach me.”

“Yes, she does enjoy playing tutor now and then. Don’t mistake it for favoritism.” He steps closer, arms folded across his chest. “I assume you’ve read half the library already. Tell me—what does the Eltherian sigil for balance look like?”

You hesitate. “Three intersecting crescents, forming a triangle.”

“Impressive.” He sounds almost disappointed. “So you are a little witch.”

“I’m not trying to impress you.”

He tilts his head, a crooked smile forming. “No? Most people do.”

Before you can answer, Frigga appears through a shimmer of light, stepping into the courtyard like the sunrise itself. She doesn’t greet either of you—just smiles softly and lifts her hands. A circle of runes spirals into the air around her, forming a translucent dome.

“Now,” she says, “we begin.”

And begin you do.

---

It starts with silence.

Not the awkward kind, but something more curious. Comfortable. Or perhaps simply patient.

Loki doesn’t speak much during your first few lessons together. He watches. Assesses. He makes no effort to hide the way his eyes flick to your hands as you shape energy into form, or the faint quirk of his lips when you mispronounce something in old Vanir. He rarely corrects you aloud, but you always feel the judgment just behind his gaze.

But you also notice the way he lingers after Frigga dismisses you both. The way he conjures minor illusions absentmindedly while you review a scroll, as though daring you to ask questions. And one morning, he surprises you.

“You shouldn’t hold your palm flat when summoning a sigil,” he says suddenly, as you're struggling to stabilize the glowing arc of a protective ward. “You’re letting too much energy pool in your wrist.”

You glance at him, caught off guard. He’s sitting cross-legged nearby, an illusion of a raven perched on his shoulder. He doesn’t look up from his book.

You frown and adjust your hand, tilting it slightly, trying again. This time the sigil hums with steadiness, and the edges no longer flicker.

“How did you know I was doing it wrong?”

Loki shrugs. “I’ve been watching.”

He says it so plainly, like it means nothing. But something in the way he says it makes your chest flutter.

From that day on, things begin to shift.

Loki is sharp and unpredictable, like a blade half-hidden in silk. But he’s also brilliant. His understanding of runes, language, and magical theory is far beyond what any of your tutors could have offered. You learn more from watching him for an hour than from studying texts for days.

And surprisingly—he starts to share.

“You overthink the spell before casting,” he says one day, as you're practicing duplication charms. “Your mind races ahead of the magic. It won’t follow you if you run from it.”

You exhale. “That’s not very comforting.”

He tilts his head. “Who said magic is supposed to be comforting?”

And yet, when you cast the spell again and it holds, you catch his expression soften.

Sometimes he shows you tricks that aren’t in any book. Subtle sleight-of-hand movements that help anchor concentration, mnemonic phrases he created himself to recall complex sequences. His magic is elegant, and full of flair—showy, yes, but also intimate. Thoughtful. Personal.

And you start to respond in kind.

You show him a meditative chant your mother taught you, one that calms the mind before a spell. You teach him a gesture from your family’s minor sigil-craft—a flick of fingers that stabilizes wards at the edge. He doesn’t admit it, but you catch him using it the next morning when he thinks you aren’t looking.

Frigga notices.

She rarely comments, but there’s a certain smile she wears now when she watches the two of you sparring or laughing quietly over a scribbled note. She leaves the sessions earlier now, allowing space to grow unmonitored. She doesn’t need to nurture what is clearly blooming.

One day, in the garden after a particularly draining session, you both sit beneath the shade of an ancient tree. Loki conjures two glasses of chilled wine with a flick of his fingers, handing one to you without a word.

You accept it, raising an eyebrow. “Poisoned?”

“Only mildly,” he replies with a smirk.

You laugh, and he watches you with a strange look in his eyes. Not amused, exactly. More like... reverent. But it passes quickly.

You sip and let the silence stretch between you, the warmth of the wine settling in your limbs.

“Why do you try so hard to hide how kind you are?” you ask quietly.

He stiffens just slightly, the smirk faltering. “Kindness is a liability in court.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He turns his face away from you, his voice lower now. “Kindness is a performance. Just like cruelty. Just like charm. It’s all costume.”

You study him carefully. “And which one are you wearing now?”

Loki doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t look away, either.

The bond forms in quiet things.

The way you begin to fall into rhythm when you cast spells side by side. How his presence begins to anchor you instead of unnerve you. How your laughter comes easier in his company, and how his sharp edges soften when you’re near.

He teases you. Constantly.

“You hold your wand like it’s a fork,” he mutters one morning.

“At least I don’t use mine like a toothpick,” you snap back, without missing a beat.

He blinks, then laughs—a full-bodied, rich sound that startles both of you.

After that, his teasing becomes more frequent. But now it’s paired with warmth. With glances that linger too long. With conversations that go on well past your lessons.

And sometimes, your hands brush when you pass him a book or a vial or a rune-stone. Neither of you ever comments on it. But neither of you pulls away.

One evening, weeks into your lessons, a storm rolls across the palace—lightning crackling violet across the sky, thunder low and distant. You find Loki already in the library alcove, cross-legged on the carpet, eyes scanning a floating scroll.

“Can’t sleep?” you ask softly.

He glances up. “Can’t ignore the noise.”

You sit beside him without asking. The storm outside is a mirror to something in your chest—wild, unsettled.

He conjures a flame in midair, letting it dance between his fingers. “Do you ever think about leaving?”

You tilt your head. “Asgard?”

He nods. “All of it. The court. The roles we play.”

You hesitate. “Sometimes. But I don’t think I’d belong anywhere else.”

“Maybe you’d belong everywhere.”

You smile faintly. “Or nowhere.”

Loki looks at you for a long moment, something in his gaze quiet and unguarded.

“You’d make an excellent liar,” he says softly.

You blink. “That’s a compliment?”

“From me, it is.”

And when the thunder rumbles again, you don’t flinch.

By the time your lessons have stretched into months, you and Loki are inseparable. At least, in your private hours. In court, things remain unchanged. Loki is still the prince, and you are still a lady of no consequence. But in the shadowed corners of the palace—in the gardens, in the library, in the stillness of the early morning—you are equals.

You know the exact angle of his smile when he’s about to say something clever. He knows the cadence of your laugh before it breaks free. You can feel when his magic flares too hot, and he can sense when yours begins to fray. You speak in half-sentences now, and still understand each other perfectly.

There’s something between you. Something unspoken.

It curls like a spell just on the edge of being cast. Like a secret waiting to be whispered into the dark.

But neither of you gives it voice.

Not yet.

One night, you find him in the observatory, leaning against the railing, staring out at the stars. His cloak is gone, his tunic unfastened at the collar. He looks more boy than prince. More truth than mask.

You step beside him. “You always come up here alone?”

“Only when I wish someone would follow.”

You glance sideways. “Did you wish for me?”

He smiles faintly, not answering.

The two of you stand there, the cosmos yawning open before you. In the hush of starlight, everything else falls away.

Loki speaks first.

“Magic is the only thing that’s ever made sense to me. The rest—the throne, the rules, the lies—it’s noise. But this...” He gestures outward. “This is real.”

You nod slowly. “I know. It’s the only time I feel like I’m me.”

His eyes flick to yours. “You always seem like you.”

“Only because you see me clearly.”

His breath catches. Just for a second.

Then, softly: “I do.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full—of everything you could say. Everything you both choose not to.

---

It begins in moments Loki doesn’t expect.

When your laugh echoes off stone walls and silences the static in his head. When your hands brush as you pass a shared spellbook and he feels a flare of heat in his chest that has nothing to do with magic. When he finds himself watching you instead of the stars, wondering if your smile is ever meant for him alone.

He knows what it is.

Of course he does. He’s read every poem, every legend. He’s watched others pine and ache and confess. He’s mocked them for it. But this — this — sneaks up on him. A thread quietly tying itself around his ribs each time you tilt your head and ask him something only he would know. Each time you call him by name like it’s not a title but something softer.

He realizes he wants to touch your hand without magic. To walk beside you with no pretense. To hear you call him justLoki and not think it strange.

And that’s precisely the problem.

You are not just anyone. You are a lady of the court. Trusted. Refined. A daughter of the Queen’s closest friend. Frigga adores you, sees you as a protégé, a favored companion. You were born noble enough to serve royalty — but never quite enough to marry into it.

And he—he is a prince.

He’s always known the weight of that title. It crushes beneath its own expectation. Marriages in court are chess moves. Alliances. Not choices.

He tells himself it would be unkind to give you hope. To let this thing, this want, bloom into something it cannot be.

So he buries it. Quietly. Carefully. He sharpens his wit when you come too close. He flinches back when your fingers nearly touch his. He casts sideways glances when you aren’t looking.

But you notice.

You always notice.

It happens in the training hall.

You’re there with Loki, practicing controlled projection spells when Thor storms in with his usual entourage — Sif, Fandral, Hogun, Volstagg. Their presence fills the room like a gust of arrogance, all laughter and muscle and heavy boots.

“Still playing with illusions, brother?” Thor calls, grinning. “Come train properly. Throw a hammer. Lift something.”

Loki doesn’t look up. “Some of us have more refined pursuits.”

Volstagg laughs. “Refined? More like useless. You could conjure a feast and still starve.”

Sif smirks, arms crossed. “He can conjure shadows, but they’re no use in real battle. At least Thor’s brute strength wins wars.”

Your magic flickers in your palm, spell unraveling.

You look between them—four warriors who have never respected the power of what Loki does. Who see his magic as vanity, not strength. They’ve made jabs before, but today it feels crueler. Sharper. Directed like knives.

Loki says nothing. But you see the stiffness in his shoulders. The quiet set of his jaw.

You step forward before you think twice.

“At least he uses his brain,” you say, voice steady. “He wins with thought instead of swinging wildly until something breaks.”

The room falls silent.

Thor turns to you, brows raised in mild surprise. “Lady Y/N, we mean no offense—”

“I think you do,” you interrupt, stepping closer. “You mock what you don’t understand. Magic isn’t for show. It’s not weakness. And if any of you had half the discipline Loki does, you might learn something beyond brute force.”

Sif’s jaw tightens. Fandral shifts uncomfortably. Even Thor looks vaguely chagrined.

Loki doesn’t move. But his eyes are on you now. Intently.

You hold your ground.

“If you’ll excuse us,” you finish, voice colder now, “we were in the middle of a lesson.”

The warriors exchange glances, then file out with awkward nods, their usual bravado softened.

The silence that follows is deep and heavy. You turn, pulse still racing.

Loki is staring at you like he’s never seen you before.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you reply. “But I wanted to.”

A pause. You take a breath.

“They shouldn’t speak to you like that. You’re powerful. Brilliant. You—”

“Don’t,” he says, more sharply than he means to. You stop.

“I’m not a hero, Y/N.”

“I didn’t say you were,” you reply, carefully. “I said you deserve respect.”

He looks at you, and there’s something in his expression that’s almost... pained.

“You shouldn’t stand that close to me.”

You blink. “Why not?”

He exhales. “Because you’ll make me believe this is real.”

Your breath catches. The words hang between you, raw and dangerous.

He turns from you before you can answer, voice quieter now.

“You’re... a lady of court. The Queen favors you. One day you’ll marry someone respectable. Someone who isn’t—me.”

“Someone who isn’t a prince?” you ask softly.

“No.” He swallows. “Someone who isn’t this prince.”

And there it is — the truth, laid bare like a wound.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you say the wrong thing, the thread between you might snap.

Instead, you step closer again — slow, deliberate. Close enough for your shoulder to brush his.

“I don’t care what they think,” you whisper. “Or what they expect.”

He doesn’t look at you.

But you feel the way he leans, just barely, into your warmth.

You stay like that, side by side, the air thick with unsaid things. And for now, that’s enough.

---

You are summoned before the Allfather at dawn.

Two guards knock at your chamber door and say only that the King requests your presence. Their expressions betray nothing. Your hands tremble as you lace your boots, and your stomach is stone by the time you reach the throne room.

Odin waits, seated high on his gilded dais. Frigga stands nearby, her face unreadable, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

You bow low, heart thundering. “You summoned me, my king?”

His voice is cold. Distant. “I did.”

He says nothing for a moment. Just watches you with that single eye, piercing as a blade.

“You spoke out against my son and his companions,” he says, calmly. “Disrespectfully. In front of others.”

You lift your head, confused. “Your Majesty, I—”

“You may think yourself clever,” he cuts in. “But you are not above consequence. I allowed your presence in this court out of respect for your late mother. That grace has now ended.”

The words hit like ice.

“I—please, I meant no harm. I only—”

“You dared to insult Thor, a prince of Asgard, in favor of his brother. And worse, you did so publicly.”

Your heart stutters. He saw. He heard everything.

“My loyalty to Loki—”

“—is inappropriate,” Odin interrupts, voice thundering now. “And suspect. You are no longer permitted within the palace. You will leave by nightfall. You are not to communicate with the royal family again.”

It’s not a punishment. It’s exile dressed in silk.

You turn to Frigga, eyes pleading. “My queen—please—”

Frigga’s voice is soft but firm. “She is young. She spoke in defense of someone she believes in. Surely—”

“I have made my decision,” Odin says flatly.

The finality in his voice is ironclad. There will be no further appeal.

Frigga’s jaw tightens. Her eyes meet yours, filled with sorrow. But she says nothing more.

And so you bow again, this time with your heart breaking inside your chest.

You don’t go to Loki.

You can’t.

Not with what you’ve been ordered. Not knowing it’s your last night within the golden walls you once thought were home.

You pack slowly. Quietly. No servants. No goodbyes.

But as twilight falls, your door creaks open.

Loki stands there.

His eyes rake over you—half-dressed for travel, your spellbook missing from the shelf, your satchel folded on the bed.

He frowns.

“Where are you going?”

You try to say his name, but your throat locks. You look away, and that’s all he needs to know something is wrong.

He steps forward, sharply. “What happened?”

“Loki—”

“No. Don’t lie to me.” His voice rises. “Who sent you away?”

You swallow, tears already rising. “Odin.”

He stills.

“What?”

“He heard what I said. In the training hall. About Thor. About the others. He says I disrespected the crown. I’m no longer permitted near the royal family.”

Loki laughs once, bitter and sharp. “So I’m to lose you because I’m the wrong person to defend.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is,” he breathes. “Of course it is. I should have stopped you. I should have warned you what my father is capable of.”

He paces, restless. Like if he doesn’t move, he might collapse.

Then he stops.

“I was coming to see you,” he says, voice softer now. “Because I couldn’t keep pretending anymore. I was going to say it, even if I shouldn’t.”

You stare at him.

He steps closer.

“I love you.”

It doesn’t sound like a confession. It sounds like a surrender.

“I love you,” he repeats, more quietly. “And I tried not to. I tried to be noble. But I can’t stand another day watching you from across a hall, pretending you’re just another sorcerer. Another shadow.”

Your breath trembles.

“Loki…”

“I thought I had time,” he says, laughing again, but it’s broken now. “Time to say it properly. To plan something clever. Something worthy of you. But I don’t. Do I?”

You shake your head, tears falling freely now.

“They’re sending me away,” you whisper. “And I’m not allowed to see you again.”

He steps back, like your words have struck him.

“No,” he says.

You say nothing.

“No,” he repeats, more fiercely this time. “You’re not leaving like this. I won’t allow it.”

“You don’t have a choice,” you say, barely able to stand. “Neither of us do.”

He storms toward the window, magic sparking from his fingertips. “I’ll talk to Mother. To Odin. I’ll threaten—”

“No.” You grab his hand. “If you do anything, he’ll punish you. He’ll hurt you more than he already has.”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched.

“I just got you,” he says, voice cracking.

You pull him in, pressing your forehead against his.

“I know.”

He clings to you. Arms tight around your waist like if he lets go, the whole realm will fall apart. Maybe it already is.

You stay like that until the bells toll the hour. The hour of your exile.

He doesn’t speak again.

You pull back first, trembling. He watches your hands, as though memorizing them.

And then you turn and walk away.

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

Because if you do—you’ll run straight back into him and never leave.

And you can’t afford that.

Not when he’s a prince.

Not when you’re already gone.

---

Loki does not sleep the night you leave.

The moment your footsteps vanish down the hall, the palace feels hollow. He tries to pretend it hasn’t happened. He sits where you last stood. Stares at the place your satchel had rested. Breathes the air as if it still carries your warmth.

But it’s not the same.

It never will be.

He doesn't cry. Not because he isn't shattered — but because the grief settles too low, too deep, for tears. Like stone in his chest. Like ice in his blood.

He doesn’t eat the next day. Doesn't speak.

Thor asks where you’ve gone at breakfast.

Loki leaves the table without answering.

Days pass. Then weeks.

He tries to throw himself into study. Into perfecting spells. Into illusion and fire and silence. But nothing helps.

He stops attending court. Avoids the library. Avoids everywhere you used to be.

When Frigga finds him, he’s in his chambers — the air stifling, windows shuttered, every candle burning too hot.

She sits beside him without asking. She doesn’t offer platitudes. Only a mother’s eyes and quiet understanding.

“I couldn’t stop him,” she says softly.

“I know.”

“I tried. I would have made him see.”

Loki doesn’t look at her. “He never sees me.”

Frigga’s silence answers everything.

When she touches his cheek, he lets her. But he feels nothing. Her warmth is not yours.

“Come back to court,” she urges gently. “Don’t let him take your fire.”

He looks at her then — really looks. And when he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous.

“He took more than that.”

Loki begins to despise Odin.

Not just for banishing you — but for what it reveals.

For how easy it was for the Allfather to cut you away. For how little your voice meant in his grand design. For how quickly love and loyalty were outweighed by appearances and pride.

But what terrifies Loki most is that he begins to believe him.

Not Odin’s justice — but his reasoning.

You are not of the blood. Not a royal. Not a pawn he can use. You were disposable the moment you became inconvenient.

And if that is true...

Then what is Loki?

Whose blood runs in his veins?

He buries the thought like poison. But it festers.

He begins to unravel.

You feel the loss in your bones.

The first few days after your exile are a blur.

You travel to a minor outpost of Asgard’s outer provinces — a quiet, forest-ringed settlement near the eastern fjords. Frigga arranges your passage discreetly. You don’t see her, but a letter arrives, signed in her delicate hand:

You are not forgotten, child. Not by me. May your magic carry you where our laws failed you.

You cry for the first time reading that.

The nights are the worst. You lie awake listening to the wind and wonder if he’s thinking of you. If he feels this phantom pain — this severed thread — the same way you do.

You left without saying it.

You were too afraid that saying the words aloud would shatter you.

But you love him. Fiercely. Completely.

And now it is too late.

You settle in the village as best you can.

The people here know your name, if not your story. They’re kind. Curious. They’ve never met a sorcerer who trained in the palace before, and certainly not one who left under mysterious circumstances.

You take on small magical work — healing charms, weather wards, illusion weaving for harvest festivals.

It is not the life you imagined.

But it is life.

And slowly, the ache dulls to a throb.

But it never vanishes.

You still wear the green ribbon he once conjured for you — tied to your wrist now, fraying at the edges.

Back in Asgard, Loki starts seeing you everywhere.

Not truly — but in every spell he casts. Every half-finished rune where your handwriting used to correct his. Every mirror that flickers with an illusion that looks a little too much like you.

He dreams of you.

Sometimes you speak. Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you walk away before he can stop you.

Those are the worst nights.

He stops trusting himself.

He picks fights with Thor. He withdraws further from court. When he sees Sif or Fandral, rage curls in his gut like fire, but he says nothing. Not yet.

Frigga continues to reach for him.

But he pulls away. Even from her.

Because you were the one who made him feel worthy. Who looked at him not with pity or fear or expectation — but as someone whole. Someone he could become.

And now, without you...

He doesn’t know who that person is.

Seasons shift.

You grow stronger.

The pain does not vanish, but it becomes a companion — one you carry with quiet grace.

Your magic flourishes without palace constraint. You discover new rituals in the wilds, spells born from root and river. The land teaches you in ways scrolls never could.

Children in the village begin to call you “the silverweaver,” for the way your spells shimmer like thread in sunlight.

But at night, you still sit by the window, gazing toward the northern skies — hoping for a flicker of gold and green. Hoping he might reach for you, even now.

And far across realms, in a tower steeped in shadow and magic...

Loki whispers your name into candlelight.

Every night.

As if that alone might bring you back.

---

Loki is quiet.

Not the poised, calculating quiet that used to mask his cleverness — but a hollow quiet, a kind of stillness that speaks of erosion. Day by day, Thor watches his brother grow more distant. He forgets meals. Avoids mirrors. Sometimes, he vanishes for hours, only to reappear smelling of smoke and magic.

At first, Thor says nothing. For all their history, he’s never been good with Loki’s silences. But this one... this one feels dangerous.

One morning, he finds Loki in the royal library. Not reading. Just standing, unmoving, in front of a shelf where a spellbook used to be. The space is empty now. Loki’s hand rests on the spine next to it, fingers still.

Thor clears his throat.

“You always mocked my dramatics,” he says lightly. “Now you haunt rooms like a ghost.”

Loki doesn’t turn. “Go away.”

But Thor doesn’t.

He steps closer, voice softer now. “You loved her.”

Loki’s fingers curl into a fist.

“I saw it,” Thor continues. “I didn’t understand it at the time. I didn’t respect it the way I should have. But I see now. It broke you when she left.”

“She didn’t leave,” Loki says bitterly. “She was banished.”

“I know.” Thor breathes out, guilt lacing his voice. “And I did nothing.”

That gets Loki to turn — sharply, eyes flashing. “You laughed with them. Mocked me. Mocked her.”

Thor bows his head.

“I did. Because I was foolish. Because I thought it didn’t matter.” He pauses, then meets Loki’s eyes. “But it does. You love her still.”

Loki says nothing.

Thor continues, more gently. “I asked Frigga where she’d gone. She didn’t tell me everything, but she told me enough. I want to make it right.”

“You can’t,” Loki says, voice tight.

Thor straightens. “Maybe not. But I can take you to her.”

Silence. Long. Breathless.

Loki doesn’t dare believe it.

“You know where she is?” he says finally.

“I’ve kept eyes on the outer provinces. Quietly. Just in case.” Thor offers a small, crooked smile. “You’re not the only one who missed her.”

You’re in the woods outside the village, gathering herbs at twilight when you feel it — the magic, sharp and bright, blooming behind you like starlight cracking open the air.

You whirl around, heart stuttering.

Loki steps out from the shimmer of a hidden portal. Slowly. As if unsure you’re real.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

He looks thinner. Paler. His eyes are rimmed with exhaustion. But his face — gods, his face — it still makes something in you collapse.

“Loki?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just walks toward you, step by step, until he’s close enough to touch.

“I thought I’d forgotten how to breathe,” he says, voice thick. “But here you are.”

You reach for him, fingers trembling.

He catches your wrist — gently — and presses your hand to his chest.

“Still beating,” he murmurs. “Barely.”

You laugh, and it’s cracked and wet and full of disbelief. “How are you here?”

“Thor,” he says simply.

Your eyes widen.

“He knew,” Loki continues. “He saw what I became without you. And he... he helped me find my way back.”

You blink fast, tears gathering. “But your father—”

“He can rot in his throne,” Loki cuts in. “I don’t care what he says anymore.”

You stare up at him. And in a breath, everything comes crashing down — the exile, the silence, the ache.

“I missed you,” you whisper. “Every day. I thought I’d never—”

He silences you with a kiss.

It isn’t sweet. It’s desperate, and aching, and hungry. His hands tremble on your waist like he can’t quite believe you’re real. You kiss him back with years of unsaid words and broken nights behind it.

When he pulls away, his forehead presses to yours.

“I didn’t come just to see you,” he says. “I came to take you back.”

You tense.

“I can’t go back,” you whisper. “He’ll exile me again. Or worse.”

“I know.” Loki pulls back, looking into your eyes. “That’s why we’ll do something he can’t undo.”

You blink.

“We’ll marry.”

Your breath hitches.

“Loki—”

“Not in the palace. Not in gold or glory. But truly. Vows. Magic. Soulbound.” His hand cradles your face. “If I am bound to you, Odin will have no power over it. Not without defying ancient rites. Even he wouldn’t risk that scandal.”

You stare at him, stunned.

“I should’ve done it the moment I realized,” he says. “I should’ve fought then. But I’m here now.”

You say nothing.

Just throw your arms around him and nod against his shoulder.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes. Yes.”

The ceremony is quiet.

Thor stands witness, dressed not in armor, but simple Asgardian blue. He says nothing, only nods as you both step forward under the canopy of stars.

Frigga is not there, but you feel her blessing. In the wind. In the stillness. In the soft glimmer that dances across your joining hands when the spell begins.

Loki speaks the old words first — the binding vow of his magic to yours, his heart to yours, his soul to yours.

You echo them, voice shaking but clear.

A ribbon of starlight winds around your wrists, sealing the bond. A vow older than kings.

When it fades, Loki cups your face.

You smile through your tears.

And when he kisses you again, the world rights itself.

Later, after Thor has gone, and the night has grown still, Loki lies beside you in the little cottage, holding your hand like a relic.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs. “Truly.”

You smile sleepily. “And you’re mine.”

“Forever?”

“Always.”

His eyes close.

---

The Bifröst opens in the high dawn light, casting shards of color across the golden bridge. The wind is cold at this height, but Loki doesn’t feel it. He only feels your hand in his.

You step into Asgard again for the first time since your exile, and the moment your feet touch the bridge’s smooth surface, your breath catches.

Everything looks the same.

And nothing feels the same.

Loki doesn’t let go of you. Not for a moment. His posture is tall, regal, but there’s a tightness in his jaw that only you notice — the readiness of a man still expecting his father’s wrath to strike like lightning. But beside him, you walk unflinching.

Because this time, you’re not just a lady of court.

You’re his wife.

And Odin cannot undo what’s been bound by magic and vow.

At the end of the bridge, Frigga waits.

Her cloak is silver today, soft as falling snow, and her face is unreadable as you approach. But when she sees your hands twined, when she sees the thin thread of starlight still woven faintly around your wrist — the magic of the bond — her expression cracks.

Her eyes shine. And then, impossibly, she smiles.

“Mother,” Loki says carefully.

She says nothing at first. Just lifts her hand — and touches your cheek.

“You’ve come home,” she whispers, voice full of emotion.

“Yes,” you whisper back. “Together.”

Her gaze flicks to her son.

“You found your way,” she says.

Loki’s throat works, but no sound comes.

Frigga exhales, a soft laugh, and pulls you both into an embrace.

For a moment, there is no kingdom. No judgment. Only warmth.

Then, from the far archway of the bridge, another presence approaches.

Heavy boots. Gold-lined robes. The weight of rule etched into every stride.

Odin.

Loki stiffens.

Frigga steps back, her hand remaining on your shoulder. She doesn’t retreat. Neither do you.

Odin stops several feet away. He says nothing.

His eye lands on your face — then drops to your joined hands.

You wait for the outburst.

But it doesn’t come.

His gaze flicks to the faint shimmer of your marriage binding. Ancient, lawful, soul-forged.

He can’t deny it.

So instead, he says nothing. Just watches with that unreadable stare.

Frigga is the one who speaks.

“They are wed,” she says, her voice light but firm. “By rite. By vow. And by will.”

Odin’s silence stretches.

“Not under my roof,” he says at last, flatly.

“They didn’t need your roof,” Frigga replies.

His jaw tightens.

Loki finally speaks, voice calm but icy. “You banished her. You cast her out for loyalty. But now she returns not as servant, but as my equal.”

“She was never your equal,” Odin says, low.

“She is now,” Loki replies, eyes sharp. “You can no longer pretend I am yours to command.”

Odin looks at him for a long, long moment.

Then he turns.

And walks away.

No decree. No fury. No blessing.

Just a quiet defeat.

Frigga’s sigh is subtle, but full of decades of disappointment.

Loki watches his father vanish into the distance, the old cape dragging like a shadow behind him. Then he turns to you — and for the first time since crossing into Asgard, his shoulders ease.

“You stood tall,” he murmurs, pride in every word.

“I had you beside me,” you reply.

Frigga smiles at you both. “He cannot touch what is bound by older laws than his crown. He knows it.”

Loki’s hand squeezes yours. “Let him try. I’ll burn down the throne room first.”

Frigga gives him a pointed look. “Let’s not start a war just yet.”

The three of you walk through the palace together, and for once, the golden halls feel like yours. Whispers follow, of course — nobles peering from behind pillars, servants pretending not to look. The rumors run ahead of you, unstoppable.

But you walk proudly.

At Loki’s side.

A prince’s wife. A sorceress in her own right. Not a shadow or a servant or a secret.

Not anymore.

---

At first, the court doesn’t know how to respond.

They bow, of course. You are married to a prince. You walk beside Loki now in green-trimmed gowns and silver circlets, your hand on his arm, your back straight. Protocol demands deference.

But behind the smiles, the court stirs like a nest of snakes.

They whisper. Always just behind you. They speak your name with too much reverence, or not enough. You are not royal, not raised in the line of succession, not bred in the traditions of courtly diplomacy. You are — in their eyes — an interloper. A symbol of rebellion. The lady who loved too loudly.

They speak of you in corridors. In gardens. Over wine.

Did you bind Loki by spell?

Did you seduce him to power?

Why would a prince give up his rank for a former lady-in-waiting?

The speculation coils around every room you enter. You hear the sharp pause in conversations. See the too-wide smiles from noblewomen who used to speak freely with you. Even the servants are cautious, uncertain if speaking with you is offense or obligation.

Loki feels it all.

He doesn’t show it — not openly — but you can tell. His shoulders tense at council meetings. His words grow colder with every cutting aside made in your direction. He starts to avoid the court dinners altogether. Not because he is ashamed — but because he is tired.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of seeing you flinch at the weight of scrutiny.

One evening, late, you sit in the highest balcony of the palace garden — where the stars hang low, and the fountains drown out the city noise. Loki stands beside you, silent, watching a comet trail faintly across the dark.

You speak first.

“This isn’t what I thought it would be.”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

“No,” he says at last. “Nor I.”

You look at him. His expression is unreadable.

“I thought,” you begin, voice quiet, “that once we were together — once it was real — the rest wouldn’t matter.”

He turns to you now, eyes tired but soft. “It shouldn’t matter. But this place…” His voice tightens. “This court has never forgiven me for being different. It was naïve to think they’d love the woman who made me stronger.”

You take his hand.

“So what now?” you ask. “Do we just endure it?”

He hesitates.

Then, slowly, he sits beside you, your fingers still laced with his.

“I have lived a life built on approval,” he says. “On proving myself worthy. To Odin. To Asgard. To every lord and scholar and warrior who looked past me.”

You nod, listening.

“I thought royalty gave me power. But now…” He looks down at your hands. “Now I have you. And they would ask me to pay for that with silence. With shame.”

He lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles gently.

“I won’t.”

You exhale, your heart breaking and healing at the same time. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” he says slowly, “that I would rather live unknown — peacefully, freely, beside you — than wear a crown that costs me everything.”

Tears rise behind your eyes.

“Loki…”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“If you would leave this behind with me,” he murmurs, “I will build us a world of our own.”

You nod. Fiercely. Without hesitation.

“Yes.”

Frigga listens in silence as you both tell her.

Her expression does not falter, but her eyes glisten faintly.

“You are certain?” she asks gently.

“Yes,” Loki says. “We want peace. And truth. Not this.”

Frigga reaches for your hand. Holds it between both of hers.

“I always hoped one day you’d return here,” she says. “That you’d be safe within these walls.”

“You gave me that once,” you whisper. “But Asgard never did.”

Frigga exhales. “Then I will help you.”

Loki looks at her. “You’ll aid us?”

“Of course,” she says softly. “You are my son. She is your wife. That makes her my daughter.”

You almost break at those words.

Frigga leads you to a sealed archive — quiet and old, deep beneath the palace — where records of the lesser realms are kept. She scans scrolls and maps, her fingers sure and searching.

Finally, she finds it: a small realm under Asgardian protection, a quiet place of rolling hills and warm sunlight, where trade is simple, governance is light, and nobility is a formality. The people are kind. The land is rich. It is a place where magic is respected, not feared.

“There’s a manor there,” she says. “Untouched for years. Still under crown stewardship, technically.” She smiles. “But I believe I can lose the paperwork.”

Loki clasps her hand. “Thank you, Mother.”

Frigga’s expression softens. “Write to me. Tell me of your seasons. And if you have children—”

Loki lifts a brow.

“—especially if you have children,” she finishes with a fond smile.

Thor finds you both in the gardens the morning you leave.

He looks unusually serious. His cloak is folded over one arm, not worn, and his hammer hangs at his side untouched.

“I hear you’re vanishing again,” he says, trying for lightness.

Loki smirks faintly. “Running from you, specifically.”

“I thought as much.” Thor steps closer, then hesitates. “Are you sure?”

You and Loki exchange a glance.

“Yes,” you say. “This is what we need.”

Thor nods, jaw tight.

“I envy you,” he says. “Sometimes I wish I could leave all this behind. Be someone other than the crown’s shadow.”

Loki tilts his head. “You’re more than that.”

Thor smiles.

Then he looks at you, and his expression changes — softens.

“Take care of him,” he says to you. “He’s an idiot sometimes. But he’s a good one.”

“I will,” you promise, blinking quickly.

Then Thor turns to his brother.

“And you—” He steps closer and places a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “If you don’t name your first daughter after me, I’ll be offended.”

Loki blinks. “You want us to—?”

“Oh, I expect nieces,” Thor says proudly. “A house full of them. Wild, magical little terrors who’ll terrorize me when I visit.”

You laugh — a full, surprised laugh — and Loki rolls his eyes.

“We’ll see what we can do,” you say, smiling.

Thor embraces you both — a rare, bone-cracking sort of hug — and steps back with a grin.

“Go. Be free. Just don’t forget you’ve still got family here.”

And with that, you leave Asgard.

Not in secret. Not in shame.

But together — arm in arm, bound by vow and choice.

Your new home is far from the golden towers, tucked in the folds of a sunlit realm that greets you like an old friend. The manor is modest by royal standards, but beautiful: tall windows, a warm hearth, a garden grown wild with herbs and glowing flowers.

You breathe freely there.

You rise with the birdsong and fall asleep to Loki reading old texts beside the fire. The villagers come to know you with kindness. Children ask you for illusions. Elders thank you for weather wards. It is not the life of a queen — but it is yours.

And Loki, for all his sharp wit and starlit power, smiles more in these quiet days than he ever did in the throne room.

Sometimes he watches you walk through the garden, fingers brushing lavender and light, and he says nothing. Just watches, like he’s memorizing every movement.

Because he chose this.

He chose you.

And for the first time in all his long, guarded life…

He has no regrets.

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