Once More to Fall
Loki wanted things to go back to how they were before; that was the irony of it all.
Hearing Thor talk about their shared past, even having him near; being in the halls of the palace where they had grown up, it awakened in him a terrible ache, and sometimes he would play scenarios through his mind: his parents' forgiveness, Thor's respect; being held so that when the world fell out from under him someone who knew better than him would be able to pick it up. In his heart of hearts he knew full well that he had crossed a line; he wasn't sure when, or how, but he knew it had been long enough ago that finding his way back was no easy step—it would require searching. It would require admitting to himself that he had stepped over it. And he couldn't. He had too much pride in him. It was all he had left.
Even the knowledge of the welcome he might still find (but less and less likely with every passing moment) could not persuade him to give up that pride, for if he was wrong, the betrayal would cost him the rest of his self; the self that, in clinging to pride, he still clung to, watching as piece by piece it would drift away inexorably. That slow self-demolishment was infinitely preferable; it gave nothing to blame but himself, it admitted no weakness, no hope or reliance on others.
Every moment he was not rejected was bitter victory; yet the anger that burned in his brimmed under his skin, uncontainable; true anger, anger at those that had lied to him, anger at the world—there was no stopping it. He thought of reconciliation, sickly, and spewed vitriol at all who would show him any kindness—his pride would not allow it. It made him shake, the force of his anger, it made him blind; he could not bear the overtures sent his way, he could not bear it and so he pushed it away; but every time he felt the bond break for good he felt as though he was falling once again.
When taken back to Asgard he had been brought to converse with Odin; the talks had begun, he supposed, as well as may be expected, yet perhaps they were too alike in truth, and he could feel nothing but hate for the man, the words spilled out; all the bitterest things he knew would hurt the most. It is always easiest to know what will hurt the most in those you love. True, Frigga had never cast him aside, realizing in the strange masochism of his actions that bitterness and hate was the only way he had left to reassure himself anyone might still care for him; yet she had died; and then even the thought that she still loved him could keep him from thinking over and over of the last words he had said to her. Denying her.
And Thor… Thor danced, now closer, now farther, yet never letting go entirely. Loki lived in dread of the day when rejection would come, pushed and pushed to hurt Thor because if Thor yet tried he yet cared (and when he drew away, Loki would reach out—only to keep him there a moment longer). It was a sick cycle he was trapped in, and yet the way back was so far… he wanted to, oh how he wanted to go back; yet he didn't know if he could, he had no idea how to start.
It would require trying, and trying was an opportunity to fail once more; it would require self-reflection, and his self was loathsome to him; it would require bravery, and he was a coward.
I am in blood
Stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
—Macbeth
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