Another Chance

Midgard

He woke up drenched in sweat, wrapped in damp sheets. Her hair was plastered to her face and neck. He sat on the bed and began to look at himself and touch his body.

It was him. They were his hands, and when he took off some strands of his face, he verified that they had the same black color as a raven's wing.

And he frowned.

Those weren't his clothes. And those weren't Asgardian silk sheets. He looked up to study his surroundings and frowned even more.

This was not his bedroom. It took up half the space of his former rooms, and though it was still a spacious room, it lacked all the luxury of an Asgardian palace. In fact, and although he was not very aware of the interior decoration of Midgard, he would have sworn that this room was.

And even though it wasn't his room... It could have been. There was the wall full of shelves full of books. In the corner there was a wide and soft armchair, with a small table nearby on which more books were stacked than it should have been. On the nightstands that flanked his bed, and even on the bed itself, were more books. The desk under the window held a computer, a device he hadn't had in Asgard... and more books.

But it wasn't just the books sitting haphazardly anywhere that told him this room could have been his. No. What convinced him completely was the collection of daggers displayed on one of the walls.

They weren't his elven, dwarven, or Asgardian daggers. They were clearly Midgardian, and yet they seemed to have been made with unparalleled artistry. And they were arranged in the same order as the ones in his rooms in Asgard.

He got up from the bed, pushing the damp sheets away from his body.

And then he realized.

Although it looked like his body, it wasn't.

Because that body was human. Painful, absurdly human. Fragile, dangerously weak. And yet, fascinating and... liberating. Because beyond the fragility, he didn't feel it under his skin. He didn't feel the monster waiting for him to lose control to get out. There was no Jotun blood in that human body.

He wouldn't have red eyes, nor would his skin turn blue, showing the world what a monster he was.

He was wondering if he would keep his magic, but before he could put it to the test the door to his room opened.

"Loki, what are you doing? It's already very late, and you know that your father..." Frigga was interrupted when she saw him in bed, still in his pajamas. "Are you OK dear? You have a horrible face."

The image of his mother being stabbed by a dark elf flashed into his mind. Loki had to make a real effort not to run to her and hug her, ask her if he was okay. Make sure that she was real, and that she was still alive.

Because she was. She just as human as hers, with her dress and her midgardian hairstyles. And yet, she hadn't lost an iota of the elegance and royalty that she had always possessed.

Or the worried look she gave him more times than she should have.

He smiled slightly, trying hard to appear normal. As if he could, he thought bitterly.

"Yes, mother. I just had a horrible nightmare."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Frigga took a few steps closer.

"No. If I told you, you'd think I'm crazy. " He laughed at himself.

"Never, darling." she assured him, and he believed her. "So if all goes well, hurry up and get dressed. Or you'll have your brother here in a minute or so and he'll dress you himself. Your father is expecting you both in the library in half an hour."