The orders don't even wait until the rest of the rebels are imprisoned and assigned execution for their treason before coming. The mission is over, completed, they say, but we all know anything further they had planned for us has already been scrapped.

Gamora is assigned to personally escort Veers and I back to the Q-ship. The others stay in Stuttgard, with Nebula, helping with the prisoners. I'm sure Thanos wants to keep up the illusion that all is well, although I know it most certainly isn't. Not for me, anyway.

My blood is about to be demanded in payment for the Balance.

Gamora's grip on my arm, rough and tight, reminds me of when I volunteered for Heimdall and she escorted me to the Statesman. Then, like now, she was leading me to what would most likely be my death. But then, I had a promise to keep. I don't know what I have now.

The blue beam descends swiftly once we're in position, enveloping us completely in its flickering light and consuming power. Gamora, Veers, and I are pulled up into the Q-ship, which leaves as soon as another ship arrives to take its place, looming over Stuttgard, Germany. Our ship then departs, approaching the nearest jump point.

"Where are we going?" I ask Gamora, only to break the silence. I'm fairly certain I know where we're going.

"I have been ordered to return you to Asgard," Gamora replies stiffly.

Okay, I was not expecting that to be her answer. I thought she would take us to Titan for some grand execution.

"If I am for the axe," I say to her softly. "Then, for mercy's sake, just swing it."

Gamora looks at me. "It's not my axe," she says at last, and turns to gaze out the vast viewport, arms crossed.

Neither Veers nor I am dismissed from the central chamber for the entire flight back to Asgard. We are forced to stand, in silence, behind Gamora and await judgement.

Will they execute us on Asgard, to make it more personal? Will they execute Mother and Odin as well? What is Thanos planning? And what hand does Gamora have in it?

Night passes, but none of us sleep. When we enter Asgardian space, in the middle of the night, we are sent down into the palace courtyard, as if they're trying to make it seem like we never left.

"What's going on?" Odin demands as Gamora leads Veers and I into the palace. He and Frigga stand with wide eyes, disbelief and fear coursing through their eyes although their features remained fixed in impassiveness.

"I am returning Loki and Veers," Gamora states, turning as if to leave.

Frigga reaches out and grasps Gamora's arm, causing her to spin to face my mother. "Gamora, please tell us," she pleads. "Please, tell us what is going on."

Gamora hesitates, searching my mother's face. "Your son's loyalty isn't to Thanos," she says bluntly. "And he just showed that tonight. My father will not be pleased."

"So he sent them back?" Odin asks, as if seeking clarification.

Gamora's eyes flicker over to him. She opens her mouth, closes it, and then finally speaks. "No." Then she's pulling away from my mother, turning away from all of us, and quickly strides out of the chamber.

So there were no orders. Gamora ordered us pulled from the mission herself.

My stomach twists uneasily.

But the next day is silent as the grave. Thor returns, tense and angry, but he relaxes somewhat on seeing Veers and I. When I inquire after Nebula's whereabouts, he tells me she had to bring Thanos the mission report first. I brace for a punishment of some sort to come the following day, but nothing happens.

There is too much tension in the palace and in myself for me to really settle down to anything. I can't bear to see the mountains, not now, and the garden holds no solace for me. Even the lake's murmurs threaten utter destruction, so I keep away from it. I end up pacing the walk from the training arena to the palace for most of the day, my eyes manic enough to convince the other Asgardians to keep their distance.

Several days after our return to Asgard, it pours rain, trapping me inside. I pace about the palace, seeking to avoid my parents, Thor, Valkyrie, and Veers as much as possible. Avoiding Gamora is not an issue, since she hasn't been to the palace since bringing Veers and I back.

As I walk through unused corridors, searching silence and solitude, I find myself standing before the door to the weapons vault. I haven't been down there since Odin lectured me before the last Reaping, talking to me about honor. I want to spit at the door in derision. Honor. What a lie. I brought nobody honor in the last Contest by winning, I only brought bloodshed and death.

But what is honor, after all, but simply surviving the battle?

Stepping forward, I grasp at the door handle and am surprised when it yields beneath my hand. I would have thought the door would be locked. But I ease it open and descend the stairs to the dim hallway, the alcoves bearing their silent pools of dark water which radiates judgement.

The pedestals still hold their trophies, the replica of Thanos' gauntlet, the old crown, the basin of dying flame. The old spear and the hammer hold their own places in the niches. Only one pedestal along the side of the hallway stands empty, and I can't help but think to what Hela had told me.

"You know, Father doesn't keep all his relics and weapons down there."

"He doesn't?"

"No. One is hanging around the palace somewhere."

I stare at the empty pedestal. "This must have been for the relic you took from Jotunheim," I say softly to it, although I almost want to say this to Odin. "Perhaps I don't sit there, but I know that is what this pedestal represents. It represents me. I really am nothing more than a trophy to you."

Gritting my teeth, I turn away and gaze down the hallway, to the pedestal at the far end before the thick iron weave. I remember this object, a rectangular artifact that glows ice blue with dark blue lines crossing its surface, a grey casing surrounding it and offering up handles.

Something draws me toward the object, the hairs on the back of my neck lifting in apprehension and anticipation. Slowly, I approach it, dread coiling in my chest. The glow emanating from the artifact almost feels alive, beckoning me ever closer. As I reach the pedestal, I stretch out my hands as if to pick it up, my eyes fixed on the trophy.

What is this trophy from?

My fingers seize on the handles, curling around the cool material. Carefully, I lift the artifact from the pedestal, feeling the delicious cold seep through the pores in my skin. I glance down at my hands and see the dull blue-grey color of the frost giants spreading across my fingers, the backs of my hands, sliding into my wrists. Exactly what I had seen when Raze grabbed my arm in the Contest, exactly what had happened when Laufey seized my wrist in Jotunheim.

"Stop!"

Odin's voice echoes behind me, authoritative and yet desperate. I don't turn around, although I lift my eyes to look at the iron weave in front of me. "Am I cursed?" The question leaves my lips without permission, for although I know the answer is no, I cannot help wishing it would be anything but.

Anything but the truth about my parentage.

"No," Odin says, and I hear his footsteps as he descends the stairs slowly.

I lower the artifact back onto its pedestal, my fingers lingering on its surface. "What is this?"

"The Casket of Ancient Winters," Odin tells me. "From Jotunheim."

"Jotunheim," I murmur, withdrawing my fingers from it. I turn, facing Odin, feeling the cold claiming the entirety of my skin, my eyes, etching the markings typical to a frost giant across my features, marring them. After a moment, I can feel the cold leaking out of me, due to me severing the connection with the Casket. "What am I?"

Odin just looks at me. "You're my son."

"What more than that?" I challenge, walking toward him. "I was on Jotunheim, Father. I spoke with Laufey, with Hela. I know I am not your son."

Odin looks down, his eyes clouding. I stop before the stairs, looking up at him. I haven't had to do that in a long while. "Laufey claimed you were frost giant? And Hela affirmed his claims?" Despite the questioning nature of what he said, they were uttered as statements of fact.

"Yes," I say. "They tell me I am Laufey's son. Now tell me, Father, or should I say, Allfather, why I have lived a lie this entire time?"

Odin sighs, lifting his head to meet my gaze. "In the aftermath of the battle, after Thanos...after Thanos won, Hela came to me. She was carrying a baby. Your sister...she told me she had found you in the frost giants' temple, abandoned, suffering, left to die. Laufey's son."

"Laufey's son?" I repeat quietly, the dread crushing my heart. So it is true. All true. The slight sliver of hope I had harbored froze, grew thorns, and burrowed them into my heart, where I could never pull them out.

For a moment, Odin's eyes reflect my pain as he holds my gaze. "Yes."

I glance away, struggling to control my expression. I thought this would be easier, since Laufey and Hela had already told me, but I was wrong. Hearing the man I had always thought of as my father tell me I wasn't his son cut me more than Carnage's blades ever did. Perhaps he didn't always love me, but for all of my resentment, I still loved him.

"Why?" I demand, flicking my gaze back to Odin, my breath coming swiftly. "Jotunheim was your ally, Laufey was your ally. Why would you take me? Why would Hela take me?"

"You were an innocent child," Odin says, but I interrupt him.

"No, you took me for a purpose. What was it?" Odin just looks at me, his face weary and lined with sorrow. I stare at him, my breath ragged in the silence, and then yell, "Tell me!"

"There had been too much life lost," Odin answers. "I saw half of our combined army fade away into dust that day. When Hela brought you to me, a small frost giant child, I couldn't bear to leave one more life behind."

"Laufey told me you stole his son from him," I hiss. "You weren't leaving a life behind, you were kidnapping me."

Odin's gaze hardens slightly. "Your sister found an abandoned baby, left behind in the temple. A father who loves his child doesn't leave him behind."

"A father who loves his child doesn't send him to die in the Contest of Champions," I state. "I thought I was beginning to understand you in the arena, when I watched Peter Parker die, when I watched him fade to dust. I felt his death like a weight on my shoulders and I couldn't begin to fathom how you stood it, watching all those people die. And I thought that I had just realized why you acted distant and apart. But then, I recalled how you wanted me to volunteer, to be in the Contest of Champions. You made that quite clear to me. And so I saw that I'll never understand you, for how could someone who witnessed so much destruction send his own son to die?" I pause, gathering my next words. "You call Hela bloodthirsty and a warmonger, and that is your basis for exiling her from Asgard, but I do not see any difference between you and her."

Odin just looks at me. "I was afraid that if I didn't take you, Thanos would. And I did not want to sentence another child to be raised by that monster."

"What does it matter?" I ask spitefully. "Out of the frying pan into the fire, I say. At least Thanos wouldn't have pressured me to compete in the Contest of Champions." Not that I want to be Thanos' son – which would make Gamora and I siblings, a thought I instinctively recoil at. But the words fly from my tongue before I can stop them. They are sharp, blades cutting skin, and that's all I want right now.

Odin draws back like I just slapped him, which I suppose I sort of did, pain stamping itself on his features. "I had thought to keep you safe from Thanos, but that plan no longer matters," he states. "Your actions in the arena have guaranteed that."

"Who put me there?" I demand, my voice rising. "Who put me there?"

Odin's expression may be pained, but his voice is as cold as ice and hard as steel. "You did. If you remember one thing, Loki, remember this: you are the one who volunteered for Heimdall that day. Nobody made you."

"But you wanted me to," I retort.

Odin gives his head a slight shake. "No. In that moment, I did not."

"No matter what I do, it isn't good enough for you," I say quietly, tears and fury choking my words. "I try and try to please you but nothing is ever good enough. Even volunteering, risking my life, wasn't enough. All those years, I watched you favor Thor and I was naïve enough to think you might someday favor me! Or at least love me!"

"Loki, I do love you," Odin interjects. "You are my son. I only want to protect you."

"No," I contradict, sharp pricks of pain stinging the corners of my eyes. "You love Thor. I am nothing more to you than another stolen relic, on the verge of being locked up here until you might have use of me. You only claim to love me, but you don't."

"Why do you twist my words?" Odin asks, in wearied exasperation.

"You could have told me what I was from the beginning. Why didn't you?"

Odin sinks down onto the step, lowering his head. He doesn't answer me.

"What, because I-I-I-I'm the monster who parents tell their children about at night?" I stammer, starting up the stairs. A tear trickles down my face but I don't wipe it away.

Odin still doesn't reply. Anger is boiling within me, begging to be unleashed, but my silvertongue fails me and all the words I want to scream I can't. So instead, I rush up the stairs and out of the vault, running down the corridor as fast as I can go.

I'm going so fast, I almost slam into my mother, who starts as I attempt to skid to a stop. I only end up sliding into a column and stand dazed for a moment, breathing heavily.

"Loki!" Frigga exclaims, lifting her hands to me. "Where are you going in such a hurry?"

I turn to her, struggling to compose my features. But I know I've failed when I see her expression go from startled to concerned.

"Loki, what's wrong?" she asks, touching my shoulder. "You're shaking."

I glance down at my hands and see them trembling. "I-I'm all right, Mother," I assure her.

Frigga isn't buying it, I can tell. She purses her lips as she studies me, and her face grows sorrowful. "Your father told you."

I don't even hesitate before nodding. I won't tell her that I found out via Laufey. "Yes, I know," I say. "I know I am not Odin's son."

"I wanted him to tell you from the beginning," Frigga says, seeking to pull me in for a hug. "There should be no secrets in a family."

I allow my mother to embrace me, but don't make a move to return her hug. I'm still so angry at Odin, but she knew, too. Of course she knew. She raised me as her son and yet always knew I was not. And Frigga never said a word to me.

I always thought my mother loved me, knew she loved me, but now I remember her care toward Gamora and Nebula, even Veers. She cared for them because they had no one to love them, and my mother loved taking care of broken things, broken beings.

Is that all I am to her? A broken trophy?

I draw back from Frigga, my anger now directed at her. No wonder I felt like I was her favorite, all these years. She cared for me more only because she thought I needed it, because she thought I was lost, broken. She knew Thor wasn't, that he didn't need her love as much as she thought I did.

Well, then, let me show her that I don't need anything.

"Loki, know that you are still a part of our family," Frigga tells me, as if she can read my mind. She smooths back a strand of my black hair, giving me a sad smile. "Your father, he still loves you like you were his own."

"He is not my father!" I snap, fighting back tears. I don't want to be emotional, I want to be biting, angry.

Frigga draws back slightly. "Then am I not your mother?"

That stops me like a slap in the face. She is my mother, but I'm too angry to admit it. I can't agree, not now. Later, after I've made my point, I'll recant.

"No," I tell her. "You're not."

Frigga draws back, pain flashing in her eyes. Then she forces a smile, her expression impassive once more. This family and hiding emotions. "Always so perceptive," she says, her tone controlled. "About everyone but yourself."

I already feel guilty, but Frigga turns and walks swiftly away from me, preventing me from pondering a hasty apology. Pressing my lips together, I turn and run, out of the palace and toward the training arena. The rain has let up but the path is still wet.

The arena is empty when I arrive and I snatch a spear off the wall, descending into the sandy pit. I swing it aimlessly for a couple minutes before hurling it at the wall. Watching it clatter to the ground, I pivot and pace back and forth, muttering words I can't hear under my breath and clenching and unclenching my fists.

After a suitable enough time, when I am slightly calmer and in control of myself, I leave the arena, making my way back up toward the palace. But a harsh scream diverts my attention and I find myself hurrying toward the courtyard from which the noise comes, my stomach twisting into a knot.

Just as I'm reaching the stairs, someone grabs my arm and I whirl to see Veers standing there. "Loki," she starts warningly, but I tear my arm out of her grasp and glance out into the courtyard.

My heart stops cold.

There, in the center, is Gamora, caught in a device of some kind with thousands of needles boring slowly into her skin as she screams. I have never heard Gamora scream before, and the sound rips through me like Carnage's blade, tearing me apart from the inside. I never want to hear that sound again.

I want to hear the scream of whoever caused this, and I want to be the one to elicit that scream.

I try to move but Veers is grabbing my arm again, stopping me. "No, you're not going to be able to help," she says, pulling me backwards with her considerable strength. I stagger, baring my teeth in a snarl as my gaze rakes the courtyard and lands on the one causing Gamora's pain.

I don't recognize him, but I know instantly he's one of the Children of Thanos, part of the Black Order. He wears long robes, his nose flat and long, and he is manipulating the needles cruelly with his hands.

And, standing between him and Gamora, is Frigga, holding up her hands in appeasement as she tries to convince the alien to stop torturing Gamora. The screams stop for the moment as he looks at my mother, amusement flitting across his face, and then he lifts his hands.

The sword sitting beside him flies through the air like an arrow and impales my mother straight through the chest. Without a sound, her body hits the ground.

/**/

For those of you who didn't hear, Mastering Illusions is getting moved to an every other Sunday update schedule. So, there won't be an update next Sunday, but the Sunday after. This is because classes have started up again and I won't have as much time to write anymore.

This was a very angsty chapter to write. Hope you guys enjoyed (aside from Frigga's death).

Skylar Wittenborn