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The day Loki arrived upon Asgard after his failed conquest of Midgard, Frigga thought it was all a dream.
When a guard knocked upon her chambers, proclaiming the return of her youngest, a brief flash of hope bloomed within her heart—followed quickly by doubt. She nearly refused to leave her rooms—how could she, when this could all possibly be a cruel trick, played upon her by her grief-stricken mind? She had her fair share of such falsities before, of course—especially when she first learned of his falling.
In the first months, her seiðr—influenced by her shock at the sudden loss of her youngest son— flared violently. There would be days where she’d subconsciously form illusions, fooling herself into believing that her son had arrived, that he was safe and well, that Odin or Thor or some unwitting hero had rescued him from the Void. Regardless of how the storyline panned out, there would be no happy ending awaiting her—merely realizations that what she saw was no more than a hallucination, or the visage of Loki leaving her once more.
Every time her seiðr played such tricks upon herself, she would spend longer stretches of time in her rooms, refusing to come out. Every time the illusions proved false, her grief worsened. The people speculated, of course, where the Allmother had disappeared to. The whispers followed her with each rare public appearance—where has the Allmother gone, the people gossiped, where is the warm and kind woman we all know and love, the people hissed, what has this dull being done with our queen?
The words of Asgard’s people proved too much for her, only serving to add fuel to the growing inferno of her distress that bubbled deep within her, threatening to spill over at a moment’s notice. She retreated further into the palace, her ventures outside the gates limited only to official appearances at events such as the celebration of Thor’s return from Midgard or assisting in the repairing of the Bifröst.
Odin helped where he could, but deep down, she always knew he favored Thor over Loki—simply because Thor was their child by blood, and Loki was not. His comfort felt falsified, despite his constant reassurance that he loved both of their children equally. She never brought it up directly to his face, too engulfed in mourning to care.
As the months progressed, her seiðr flared less often, but nothing could erase the feeling of losing her son all over again—even if it was all fake.
They’ll be alright, Frigga put one foot in front of the other—seemingly on autopilot, nearly wearing a hole into her carpet with her worried pacing. My sons will come back to me.
“Frigga,” Odin’s weary voice broke through her thoughts as he entered her chambers, Gungnir drooping at his side. “My love, there’s—there’s been an incident.”
At the word “incident”, her vision snapped into focus, a rush of sound and color filtering through her senses. She was suddenly aware—too aware—of everything around her: the muffled thump of Odin’s boots on her carpet, the clinking of Gungnir’s handle against his armor, the erratic beating of her own heart, threatening to burst through her breast.
“What is it?” The words tumbled from her lips, rushed and breathless. “Please—are they alright? Are my sons—”
The grim set of Odin's face told her everything she needed to know.
The world seemed to tilt beneath her feet; she clutched the edge of a nearby table for support, the wood digging into her palms—but the pain it caused was a mere prick compared to the bottomless pit violently gnawing, tearing into her.
No. No.
Anything but her sons.
There was a tightness in her throat, a rushing in her ears, a weakness in her knees—surely, this was all some sick joke? Simply an illusion cast by some malicious trickster, aimed to weaken the Queen of Asgard? Thor and Loki were alright, they were—
Where were they?
Not a single sound had been heard from Thor’s rooms down the hall, nor from Loki’s chambers just beyond that—none of the banter and the noise that had become so commonplace in these halls. Nothing to signify the safe return of her children from whatever had taken place out there, on the Bifröst.
And then Odin was there, saying something inaudible; she couldn’t hear him over the whirling cacophony of her own thoughts. Where is Loki? Where is Thor? Which one of them was hurt—Thor, Loki, both—oh Norns, what happened? Did they—no, they couldn’t’ve possibly—don’t think of death, Frigga—oh, but what if—how am I to live without one of my boys? What—
“Frigga!” Odin’s shout shattered her haze, throwing her back into focus.
His hands pressed firmly upon her shoulders, but she barely felt the pressure. Her eyes found his, the weight of the news pressing upon her gaze.
“Which one?” Her voice was barely a whisper, too afraid to ask of the inevitable. “Which of my sons—”
The name slipped from Odin’s lips, and Frigga fell.
Her knees buckled, sending her crashing into the woolen carpet as a pained shriek tore itself from her throat, the sound haggard and unnatural. Odin continued, speaking of the way her youngest let go of Gungnir and tumbled into the Void, how he may be as good as dead—but the words did not register, for they were insignificant in the face of gut-wrenching agony blazing through her veins and burrowing into her core.
Throughout Odin’s explanations, Frigga did the only thing she knew how to do—she pleaded with the Norns, hoping they could hear her words.
Not Loki, please not Loki. Anyone but my child—surely, he can’t be gone—
A shadowy figure in the doorway caught her attention; her breath caught as her gaze met a pair of brightly familiar green eyes—Loki. He fidgeted awkwardly with his hands, a nervous tick she recognized in herself—the movement so familiar she subconsciously mirrored it as she rose from the floor.
“Loki,” she breathed, relief washing over her. “You’re alright.”
Loki gave no reply, merely an inclination of his head. She stepped forward, moving to embrace him; he continued his indifferent facade, giving no indication that he acknowledged her existence other than a simple nod.
“My darling, are you well?” She grasped his shoulders; they felt cold—too cold, even for a Frost Giant, almost as if there was something wrong—but Frigga simply brushed it off, choosing instead to focus on her very much alive son. “Were you injured from your scuffle with Thor? Come, let me take a look—”
Her words were cut off by the tight curl of Odin’s hand around her wrist and his urgent voice. “Frigga, who—who are you talking to?”
She turned to him, bewildered. “What do you mean?” She gestured to Loki with her free hand, an incredulous look upon her face. “It’s Loki—don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our child so quickly? And that was a completely inappropriate joke, Odin—tricking me to believe our youngest had died—”
“Frigga.” Odin cut across her rant, a serious expression coloring his features. “Frigga, there’s nobody there.”
She turned, ready to prove Odin wrong, only to catch a glimpse of Loki’s fading form, the last wisps of his silhouette dissolving into nothingness—and she shattered a second time, clutching Odin’s arms as she wept for her son.
The second time Loki came back, Frigga was painstakingly rebuilding the Bifröst.
Her seiðr thrummed beneath her feet, weaving iridescent threads into the broken Rainbow Bridge. She perched precariously at the edge, directing the current of seiðr and connecting her consciousness to the pathways between the Nine Realms, establishing routes along Yggdrasil’s branches. Opening herself up to the power of the Bifröst, she was assaulted by a barrage of sensations—each one as unfamiliar as the last.
The cold frost of Jötunheim warred with the scorch of Muspelheim, sending bursts of fire and ice flaring up her arms. The Aether of Svartálfheim crooned its siren song, tempting her with power the likes of which an Aesir had never wielded. The synchrony of clangs as dwarves in Niðavellir hammered away at new weapons flooded her ears, making her wince—but she held firm, continuously supplying a steady stream of seiðr upon the still-healing Bifröst.
Her palms sunk into the roaring bridge, jagged shards slinking around her wrist and lapping hungrily at the power flowing from her being. As visions of faraway lands flitted across her mindscape, the world in front of her warped and shifted until it was not the Bifröst that gripped her arm but a pale hand, with fingers tinged a soft greyish-blue—the same shade of a Jötunn’s skin.
“I could’ve done it, Mother! I could’ve done it!” a desperate, familiar voice cried. “For you! For all of us!”
Loki dangled from her grasp, wild eyes begging her to believe his words. Frigga began to exert a strength she never knew she possessed—hauling him up, little by little, nearly bringing him to the top. Her mind was devoid of thoughts, for there was only one thing she could focus on: saving her son from the danger lurking below the Bifröst. Adrenaline coursed through her veins; she could hear her own heartbeat’s rat-a-tat as Loki neared closer, so close that he could climb onto the Rainbow Bridge if he so wished.
Just as she reached the last miniscule stretch of distance, her vision swam; Loki’s figure flickered in and out of sight, the steadily growing Bifröst replacing his visage. Stunned and disoriented, her grip slackened—enough to send her child shooting down, barely holding onto her hand as she lurched forwards. She frantically gripped the edge of the bridge for support with her free hand, the other trying—and failing—to bring him up again. As each painstaking second ticked by, she felt her strength failing, her hold loosening; Loki slid erratically from her grasp, pleading for help the entire way.
“Mother, please, I can’t hold on much longer—Mother—!”
With one last shout, he slipped fully from her grasp, plummeting into the abyss with a panicked cry. In one final effort to save her son, Frigga lashed out with a rope constructed from pure seiðr—but it was no use.
Her son disappeared into the Void—and with him, the last hopeful shred she had of his rescue.
A guttural wail erupted from her lips, her seiðr exploding outwards; the Bifröst trembled with the sheer despair radiating from her person. She was utterly devastated—after all, her son had just fallen, and it was her fault. Tears streamed down her face, soaking her dress and splashing into the cracks slowly forming in the foundations of the Bifröst.
Hours later, Heimdall came to check on her, seeing only a broken queen kneeling before a shattered, tearstained bridge.
Frigga was in a dark room, blinking blearily at the sudden loss of light. How she got there, she didn’t know; she simply opened her eyes and found herself somewhere outside the palace. A sense of panic overtook her—had she been kidnapped? Before she could collect her bearings, a wailing screech tore through the air—the sound of which a mother should never have to hear.
Loki.
Frigga rushed towards the source of the cry, nearly flying clear of the ground with her speed. As she neared closer, the screams gradually increased in volume—until they ceased altogether. Her heart rate spiked dangerously—what had happened to her son?
Her figure paused before a steel door, the locks clearly made to keep something—or someone—from escaping; a faint whimpering could be heard from within. Focusing her attention on the bolts, a short burst of seiðr made quick work of them, sending metal splinters careening through the air. Though their points pricked her skin, she barely felt the pain, choosing instead to force her way through the entrance; the sight before her elicited a gasp, the sound sharp on her ears.
Loki’s prone figure lay chained to a wall, broken and bloodied, his hair matted and stringy. Her eyes zeroed in on the way his breathing shallowed, the way blood pooled around his feet, the way his head hung with an air of defeat. His head barely lifted at the sound of her entrance, hazy eyes staring at her unsettlingly.
“Hello, Your Majesty,” he called hoarsely. “Come to gloat?”
She stiffened at the formal address, having never heard such hostility from him before. Despite the antagonism radiating from his person, Frigga felt no hate for him—merely the melancholy of a mother forced to watch their child in pain.
“Am I no longer your mother, Loki?” she offered, hoping that he would disagree with her words. “Are you no longer my son?”
He paused for a moment, an unreadable expression upon his face. When he did speak, however, the words felt forced—almost as if he was reluctant to say the words.
“No, you’re not.”
His rejection stung harder than she would’ve liked, though his hesitation did alleviate some of the bite. She pushed past the feeling, choosing instead to focus on his injuries: the burns littering his arms, the lacerations across his ribs—even the unmistakable scar of a brand curling around his shoulder.
“Oh, my dear child—what did they do to you?” Her voice shook with barely suppressed rage. How dare anyone lay a hand on her son?
Loki’s smirk seemed eerie as it pulled across his gaunt face; beneath the malice, however, Frigga caught a glimpse of a traumatized child, hiding behind a mask of cold indifference. She knew that look all too well—after all, Loki always retreated behind his defenses whenever he percieved himself to be in a moment of weakness.
Before another word could be said, a long gash sliced across Loki’s chest, his face contorting in barely veiled agony. Her hand shot out, pausing just above the new wound—not wanting to aggravate it further. Rivulets of blood poured forth from the cut as sweat beaded on Loki’s forehead, the pain of it shown in his expression as clear as day.
“Amma,” he sobbed. “Amma, help me.”
Hearing him call her a name she hadn’t heard since his childhood paired with the pleading tone in his voice—it nearly broke her heart. The hopelessness in his gaze sent a wave of phantom pain through her; she almost looked away, unable to bear the sight of her son in such a state.
“It hurts, Amma. Please, it hurts.”
Frigga moved forwards, seiðr pooling around her palms, preparing to ease her youngest's pain. She took in his glazed eyes and sickly figure, reaching out to grasp his shoulder and heal his wounds—but her hand passed right through him. Her entire body froze, eyes widening in shock.
Loki was right there, and she couldn’t even help him.
Frigga tried again, pushing forward with her seiðr instead; still, it simply phased in and out of him. Frustrated, she gathered the last of her efforts, but it was all for naught—his wounds refused to close, no matter what she tried.
Loki watched her realization, lip curling ruefully. “Well then, Mother. I guess you can’t help me after all, can you?”
Frigga shot out of her bed with a gasp, sweat pooling around her pillow. Her heartbeat pounded harshly against her chest as her mind caught up to her current predicament; it had all been a dream, a horrible nightmare. Despite that knowledge, she couldn’t help but shiver at the thought of it, at how real it all felt.
The memory of Loki’s tortured form burnt itself into her brain—an image she would never be able to forget.
The mind-numbing act of politics grated incessantly against Frigga's patience; she couldn’t take much more of this any longer. The precarious balancing between the Aesir and the Vanir had drained much of her energy, and she was ready to retire to her rooms. At her place at the end of the table, she made small talk with Njord, the Vanir king. Occasionally, she would place bites of food in her mouth—though she barely tasted it, her lethargy overpowering all other sensations.
As the festivities waned and trickled into soft conversation, Frigga found herself lingering in the corner of the banquet hall, nursing a glass of wine. Soon enough, however, Freyr approached her, striking up a conversation about something or other—she focused on little of what he said, and even less on her responses.
It wasn’t until she spotted a flutter of dark green in the distance that she became fully attentive; there was only one person she knew who wore that exact color—her youngest son. Excusing herself from the conversation, she weaved through the crowd of people, making her way towards the doors that the figure disappeared through. Emerging onto the balcony beyond, she stopped at the sight before her: Loki—in all his proud, magnificent glory.
He turned, offering a shaky smile. “Hello, Mother.”
Her breath caught; she reached up, smoothing a patch of his hair before smiling weakly back. “You’re home.”
“So I am.”
She stepped back, allowing herself to take in his appearance: he was dressed in a simple green tunic, though it did nothing to hide his emaciated form. Despite his concerning stature, she felt nothing but relief—her son had been returned to her. Everything else could be healed with time.
“Did you manage to make your way back yourself, Loki?”
He shook his head, unable to hide the guilt in his eyes. “Father found me and sent Thor to rescue me from—wherever I was. He was hoping to surprise you tonight, see.”
Frigga hummed, wrapping a hand around his wrist and scanning him for any injurise. “You’re so thin.”
Loki offered no comment at that, merely a bowing of his head. “Mother, there is something I must tell you—”
Whatever comment he was about to make was interrupted by the sound of the creaking of hinges; the double doors behind them inched open as one of their many servants peeked his head through.
“Your Majesty,” he began. “Your presence is requested back in the banquet hall.”
Frigga nodded, dismissing the man and turning back to her son. “Will you join me, then?”
“I can’t, Mother.”
“Whyever not?”
Loki hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing his eyes. “You need to let go, Mother.”
She paused at his words, confusion marring her face. What did he mean, let go? Had he not just returned?
“Mother—go. I’ll meet you on the other side?”
She reached out, grabbing hold of his wrist before he could leave. “Where are you going? I just got you back—don’t you think you should accompany your mother?
A sorrowful expression bloomed across his face; Loki seemed terribly uneasy. “I would, if I could.”
Her confusion only grew—what did he mean by that?
“Look past your guilt, Mother.”
As he delivered his last words, the air around him glittered faintly, giving way to the silent background of the night as he faded into nothingness. Frigga’s hands grasped futilely at something, anything to make him stay—but her efforts were in vain, and her son had disappeared once again.
The rest of the night passed in a blur; she was unable to provide much other than half-hearted responses, too swallowed up in melancholy to focus her efforts on her guests. Loki’s cryptic reassurances played on a loop inside her head, only adding to her growing distress from his original loss.
The walls felt suffocating around her as Frigga walked, kept awake in the night by a whirlwind of thoughts. No matter how hard she tried, her mind kept circling back to her youngest son—and the mystery of his consistent returns and disappearances. She was sure she was hallucinating, that much was true—but it was no less painful each time. Subconsciously, her steps brought her before the palace library’s entrance, as if sensing her wish to research her phenomenon.
She pushed open the double doors, making her way towards the thick tome sitting upon a pedestal. Upon her approach, the pages rustled, coming to life as they read her seiðr and sensed her intentions; it finally settled on a section in the far end of the index, just near the end of its list of information on seiðr.
Following the index’s directions, she navigated the library’s imposing shelves, pulling down books and scrolls before settling down in an empty corner. As she read through paragraph after paragraph of seiðr theories, phrases seemed to jump out at her: “subconscious conjuration”, “intimately connected with the mind”, “reacts to even the slightest emotion”. Before she was able to fully delve into the complexities of seiðr, a soft padding sound interrupted her focus.
“Amma?”
Momentarily distracted from her research, she looked up to find a young Loki awkwardly fidgeting a few paces away. Her gaze softened at the sight before her. Marking her spot with a bookmark, she set her books down on a nearby side table before turning her attention back to her youngest.
“Can’t sleep, hm?”
Loki nodded slightly. “I—I’ve been having nightmares, Amma.”
She hummed slightly. “And what are you doing in the library so late? Fancied a bit of late-night reading?”
Loki didn’t respond, choosing instead to take a seat on the carpeted floor beside her armchair. His head rested comfortably against her leg as he absently toyed with the fraying edges; threads of warm fondness blossomed within Frigga’s breast. She absentmindedly carded her fingers through Loki’s hair, flipping open the tome she was perusing to continue her quest for answers. As mother and son painted the perfect picture of domestic peacefulness, a strnage sense of calm seemed to wash over the room.
About halfway through one of the many passages, her eyes skimmed over a paragraph—and then abruptly stopped, flicking back to reread the words.
In times of great emotion (i.e. grief, anger, etc.), a person’s seiðr may subconsciously conjure illusions of the object of their distress. This phenomenon is often seen during periods of mourning, especially after the loss of a loved one. Despite the seiðr’s comforting intention, these images may only serve to increase their grief, as it almost always ends with the object being lost to them once more.
Her fingers paused their slow fidget within Loki’s hair as she processed this information, the confirmation of her hypothesis settling like an ugly monster in her gut. Loki, sensing her sudden shift in mood, turned his head, gazing up at her with a curious gaze.
“What is it, Amma? Is there something wrong?”
Not wanting to reveal what she had discovered, she shook her head gently, offering a small smile. “No, darling, I’ve just come across an interesting part of my book—that’s all.”
Loki hummed and turned around, seemingly accepting her deflection. She resumed running her hand through his hair, reading further and further down the page; each line nearly matched her predicament, further cementing her theory.
Suddenly, Loki turned his full attention to her. “You’ve figured it out, haven’t you, Amma?”
Looking down at her son, she noted the awkward expression upon his face—almost as if whatever was there didn’t quite know how to emulate emotions. It was then that she fully realized her seiðr was playing a cruel trick upon her mental psyche, though this did not help to ease the guilt she felt over her inability to save her son.
As the truth of the matter rooted itself inside her belief, Loki’s visage brightened briefly—and then shattered, glinting splinters of remaining seiðr littering the carpet below her.
Frigga tentatively stepped into the throne room, bracing herself for the inevitable. Upon her arrival, all eyes turned to her; time seemed to stop entirely—because there he was. And he was real. There was no tell-tale shimmer of her seiðr’s illusions, no warping of her vision—just him.
Her son. Her Loki.
Joy ignited within her, warming her from the inside out—and fading as quickly as it came, giving way to ice-cold dread. He looked wrong, like someone reached into him and violently tore out everything that made Loki, Loki.
In his place, a hollow shell stood—too empty, too unrecognizable from the boy that fell into the Void all those months ago. His eyes, once so bright and full of life, now pierced through her with a coldness most men would run from—but she was no man. His gaunt figure sparked concern—what had truly happened in the year he was away? Even then, she only saw a boy in him—the same infant she held so long ago, when Odin first brought him from Jotunheim.
“Hello, Mother,” he rasped. “Have I made you proud?”
Frigga nearly flinched at the sound of his voice; an undercurrent of something unnatural seeped through his tone. She barely kept her composure, if only due to the centuries of practice in remaining calm as Allmother of Asgard—but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly off. Loki did not seem like himself, almost as if he was being controlled by some otherworldly being—but even then, such a feat was hard to achieve. She would know, having taught him everything he knew about seiðr herself.
“Enough!” Odin struck Gungnir against cold tile, bringing attention back to him as he fixed a thunderous glare upon Loki. “Have you no shame, boy? You come here after sowing discord upon Midgard speaking of pride?”
Loki painted the perfect picture of defiance as he regarded Odin’s outburst, serving only to further enrage the Allfather. As he endured minute after minute of Odin’s berating, Frigga teetered on the edge of two terrifying choices. On one hand, she could speak up in defense of her son—and face the full force of Odin’s wrath. If she stayed silent, however, she risked watching Loki crumble against his father’s violent criticism—and she knew not if she possessed the emotional restraint for that.
Before she could come to a decision, however, the Allfather delivered his final blow.
“And for your crimes against Midgard, Loki,” he spat viciously, as if the very name held insult to his person. “I, Odin Borson, Allfather of Asgard, Defender of the Nine Realms, sentence you to imprisonment in the palace dungeons—for however long I see fit.”
Frigga stepped forward, hand desperately outstretched as if to protect Loki from his fate—but it was too late. She could do naught but watch the palace guards drag her son away; one thing was clear: her son was lost to her again—just as her seiðr had foretold.