A/N: Just read some wonderfully angsty fic by Imperial Pigeon, who writes an awesome Loki. It inspired me to delve into his tragic beauty yet again.
You ask for that drink, now, and you ask it with something that you hope is a smile.
(They won, they won—you weren't good enough for any of this, and you were the only one who didn't know it.)
They muzzle you like a dog, and you wonder when your silver tongue became the iron chains to bind you.
(It doesn't matter. You lived a lie, you were a lie, and everything fell to ashes. That is what lies do.)
You hold your head up as if that counts for pride.
(It must.)
You will face Odin, face others far more fearsome, and you will do it with something you hope will be a smile.
(None of them can know how little you began with, and how little you have left).
Because you are a god, and you bow to no one.
(Even if no one bows to you.)