Disclaimer: I do not own Loki.
Unseen
[Pre-Thor. The years, decades, centuries buried the sword of their cold acceptance of him, till he was choking from his own crimson blood, the sword now deeply embedded to its hilt, too late to be taken out.]
A lone, gloved finger slowly traced a nonexistent path through the thick layer of dust that had collected over the box. Cleanliness had always been his top priority, but he did not care that his gloves were now smudged and dirtied, a dark grey stain winking defiantly at him against all the black. His world was slowly collapsing anyways, falling into shambles. A high, proud tower of sparkling glass, chipping away as time cruelly brought out her sculpting knives and hammer. He was like a forgotten relic that exists only to please, not loved nor cared.
'Only a relic,' his mind maliciously echoed, the barbed words bouncing off the recesses of his fracturing mind. A sharp piercing pain stabbed him in the chest, at which lay his beating heart. His gloved hands reached out to lay on top of said organ, pressing firmly against the material of his clothes and armor, trying desperately to cancel the torture. Even if he knew that what he was experiencing had nothing to do with any physical pain that he knew. It was a pain born out of loneliness, isolation and bitterness, of a frosty childhood he longed to forget. How he wished he had never had to experience it.
Breathing deeply to calm his turbulent thoughts, he reached out once again to touch the ageing box. Slicing cleanly through the thick tape with a ceremonial dagger, he pushed aside the flaps of cardboard, revealing the many thick leather-bound journals that laid within. It was to be expected they were dusty, with the spine of the books showing, and the pages extremely yellowed and weathered with time. The journals looked fragile, breakable. He was hesitant to rummage through them to find what he had came for. He was afraid he might damage what had been laid carefully in an unsuspecting box by the writer. To destroy the meticulous handcrafted books the writer had written with precision and detailed focus, all those decades ago.
He was deathly terrified to touch his works of pain and anguish. To acknowledge the fact that he had indeed return to disturb the past that he had chosen to lock, not so long ago, behind him. It was a massive blow to his soul and mind that he stood there, hands hovering over the edge of temptation, release, and peace of mind.
Words were his unexplained addiction. One would usually sought to find release in the large tankard of ale in a nearby tavern, or the release of anger through the bloodshed of others on the torn and mutilated battlefield. But he was different. He had always been different. He felt that he did not belong to his family, he shared no common standing with them. They would have their brutal strength to confront their problems while he was left behind, forced to use his wit and crafty illusions, a cowards way to fighting, they claimed. A lowly trait for an Asgardian prince to possess, the council members had said, laughing behind his back. They foolishly thought he was not a threat.
Well, he had certainly silenced them.
His thoughts turned to his brother. His coronation will be held in a few days time, and he cannot help the dark incessant burning of his jealousy coursing through his veins at the thought. The crown, the throne, Asgard should rightfully be his. Not to be carted of to his imbecile of a brother, Thor. His lips curled in a very open sneer. God of Lightning. Obviously, father's favored son. Not him, never him. Mischief, he remembered bitterly, father had called it. That was the only thing he was capable of. Nothing else. He was not suited for the role of All-Father. It was a job that required responsibility, he had said. Father had looked at him straight in the eye then, face stern and expression that broke for no argument. It is something you lack, he had said.
His fury churned inside of him, surging through him like an icy, vice grip he could not control. Did not want to control. It screamed at the injustice of it all, how he was always just another shadow that followed behind the backs of his father and brother. They never understood his pain, never saw beneath the smiling, mischievous facade that he was hurting. The years, decades, centuries buried the sword of their cold acceptance of him, till he was choking from his own crimson blood, the sword now deeply embedded to its hilt, too late to be taken out.
Too little, too late to save him.
He let himself to continue to bleed, to show them his blood staining their hands, permanently. He gave them time, he gave them chance after chance to fix what they have broke. Sand from the hourglass trickled down the top mast, time dilly-dallying away.
Mother has recently come to notice the darkness that was slowly enveloping him, but had done little to salvage the tattered relationship he and her possessed. She had seen. And she had done little, she had done nothing. They all continued to be blinded by their own selfish desires, lies and pretentious nature.
No one cares for the third wheel, spinning continuously round and round, never important enough to be stopped by someone who looked. Really looked, at the wheel and not just at the sharp needle that was poised to strike the thumb of unsuspecting victims. The wheel who turns in a desperate way to garner attention to itself, because it has been slighted and overshadowed for far too long.
In a sudden fit of frustration , he lifted the box and hurled it at the bright, flamboyant colored wall, spilling its contents violently onto the floor. Papers flew everywhere, having escaped from the tattered remains of the halved spines. Dust fumes filled the room, sending him into a slight coughing fit. His malachite eyes were windows to the ambivalence of the torrents of waves of his emotions and moods. His hands were tightly clenched, the skin pulled tautly against the sharp bone, unnaturally paler than usual.
'I have to leave.' And with that thought in his mind, he turned on his heels and left the room, locking the door behind him. The soles of his shoes clipped he purposely made his way out of the palace walls, disguising his features from the royal guards and Asgardian common folk as he went. He knew that no one would miss him if he was gone for a while.
After all, this was nothing more but a mere vacation trip from the frustrations of the uncontrollable mess that was home. He was not fleeing. No such word could ever be associated with himself. This was just a tactical retreat. He will return when he is once again possessing a sound, logical mind, not muddled from any feelings and emotions he clearly had no time for.
Slipping through the streets, and passing by numerous of dimly lighted taverns, he was at the outskirts of Asgard. Here, he knew even the eyes of Heimdall cannot perceive the secret passages in and out of Asgard. A brief smile crossed his lips when he found what he was looking for. It was a passage to Jotunheim. This was not his first trip there, nor will it be his last. He tinkered with the mechanisms of the machinery hidden beneath the fallen rocks, his hands grazing the razors sharp sides of the stone, drawing blood. He gave it a disparaging glance, before returning his attention to the controls. It was a complicated system of codes, ciphers and enigmas. It was meant to bewilder even the smartest being alive.
A little voice nagged from the dark recesses of his mind; 'Thor could not have done this. He does not deserve the crown.' The familiar feeling of bitterness swelled up inside of him, but he pushed it down for the moment. Concentration was key to unlocking this passage without accidentally blowing the mountain side by triggering its protective mechanism. Mentally calculating the obscure numbers flashing in front of him in an ancient Asgardian dialect, he managed to open the gateway.
He brushed his hands, looking pleased with himself. "You are a difficult piece, my friend," he addressed to the gateway, fondly. "But, if you were easy, everyone would do it. And you and I will not be having this pleasant conversation."
He stepped towards the gate, turning his back on the land which had raised him, nurtured him, and turned him against their own. "I am Loki of Asgard, and I am not running away," he said, firmly yet softly. And with that he crossed over, the gate sealing itself behind him, looking as ordinary as any part of the mountain.
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