Disclaimer: I don't own The Avengers, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.
There Is No Resurrection
Part 1: The Animal
A/N: Set post-Avengers and in place of The Dark World, in which Loki escaped from Asgard to avoid punishment. Really a solo series I'm working on for the challenge of writing but a single character in a piece, and to encourage myself to create a playlist and write fragments based on the song that appears next in the shuffle. Originally posted to my RP twitter account and to my RP tumblr. Both are liesandtheliar for those interested.
The tune for this is "Animal I Have Become" by Three Days Grace.
"Our curse, then," Odin had said. "Our curse and our burden to bear."
A curse, yes. But not by his own desire. By the will of the Fates; by the hand of a weathered old man whom the mortals deigned to call "God," and his fool son, the "Savior" and "Redeemer." Himself, on the other hand, could only be known as "the Devil."
Would he be opposed to that name? No. So accurate was it, that he had steadily come to embrace the fact, past triumphs and failures, all in the name of self-service, flooded to mind, a once pristine gaze having darkened over years of the struggle, the chaos brewing and flourishing in a last and successful effort to take him over. How amusing it was to him, appearing as but one of them, to walk their streets, see their faces, hear the warning tones in their voices within Sunday services, murmuring about the many ways the Devil could get inside. Let him catch you by but a single hair, one had said, and he would never let you go. Truer words had never been spoken on his behalf. Midgard, if only by way of that fool Thor, had certainly attracted his attention, that lithe stretch of hair steadily wrapping its way about his finger until he all but had the realm's head in his grasp.
It was his, Loki decided. He would have it. And he would not let it go.
Yet, somehow, there was still a question. That which challenged one of the only truths that he, as a liar, had dared to accept: A man was what he was. Change was an illusion.
The ice within the glass had already settled, began to melt, the sides of the container beading with water and rolling onto the table. A touch, and it all stood still as though the lips of time itself had grazed the rim, a satisfied smirk creeping onto his face.
Change was superficial. False. With humanity, it only went so deep as skin, the urge always lying beneath the surface, scratching and clawing at the bars, screaming for release. For the rest of the Nine Realms, it was certain to be the same. Nature was instinctual, change was forced. Between the two, only that with the strongest drive would overcome, and instinct, as had been proven by thousands of years of life across the branches of the World Tree, would always pull ahead.
So it was a foolish game he played, vain, to believe for a moment that his fool brother's incessant preaching of "redemption" had even the slightest bit of validity to it. Thor was the golden Son of Odin, born and raised in a realm of light and life and love. Loki, on the other hand, was opposite by nature, starting from the moment he had left the confines of warmth and breathed in the first bits of frost upon Jotunheim. Fate had defined them from the beginning, from birth. Light and darkness. And origin, like nature, Loki had come to discover, though not without disdain, could not possibly be altered.