Yes. Another fixation ("fic-ation", heh) on Loki's near-death on Svartalfheim. This one was from the start of this year and I just never made enough time or brain space to properly write it out and then have someone beta-read (Thank you for the dozenth time, DaNextDarkLord *hug*). It feels a bit late given the release of Ragnarok now, but better late than never...
Spoilers, kinda, for The Dark World, but none for Ragnarok.
I hope it makes sense, and I hope you like it. If you fancy, please drop a review after you've read. I'd love to hear from you :)
Death itself would always be the same, irrespective of what preceded or followed. But Loki supposed there were different ways to approach the final doorway.
He remembered there was a time when he could – realistically – hope to take the first approach.
"See it, Brother?"
They had been playing other games earlier, so Thor's hand had been still grubby with the dirt beneath the grass carpeting the courtyard. But it had been Thor's hand, and it had been Loki's sleeve that it was discolouring as Thor grasped his upper arm enthusiastically. Thor's enthusiastic voice in his ear.
Loki had tried squinting at the spot his brother pointed towards. "…Not yet… Or maybe I do but don't realise because you've not said what it is…"
The city had always sparkled in the afternoon sun. As far as Loki had known, Asgard's foundations had never been altered since its birth. Only expanded, because it was already perfect. He had often heard others – servers, guards, mentors, Healers, tailors, parents – say Thor was a true Asgardian. Loki had been so proud of that.
The balcony courtyard had jutted from the palace's shoulder like a servant's palm balancing a gold tray, or a mother's hand blowing a kiss. From that view, Loki could see turrets, fountains, walkways, bridges, houses, pillars, arches, statuettes, rows of trees, gem-like flower gardens, water wells, curved streets, and countless people flowing through it like blood through veins. Beyond that, Loki could see the great ocean, like the cracked surface of a giant emerald or sapphire sliced open. The Rainbow Bridge was a thread. Beyond that, his eye outlined great mountains and forests that looked as bewitched and faraway as the settings of an old storybook. But he had been unable to see whatever Thor had been trying to show him. Whatever was currently most important.
"The eldest dragon has reached one hundred centuries old, so he is dying. He chooses to rest in one of his flock's caves near the top of the tallest mountain," Thor had told him matter-of-factly, the same way he did when relaying something factual that Father had said.
Oh. Imaginary then. Loki could see those things in faultless detail.
"See? He just flew his last flight. He tries not to hang his head, though he's weary."
Nodding, Loki had discerned the tallest summit in the grey-blue mountain range, which was tallest by several dozen leagues. "I see it now," he had said. Thor had smiled, proud to carve with a few words a transient world they both beheld, like a Silvertongue.
Thor's words had painted a colossal dragon, pale with distance and craggy with age, slowly settling itself into a comfortable position for dying. Its dark red wings gently draped over itself like blankets. A spiny tail curled around its hind legs.
Loki's imagination had added a few slightly smaller dragons. They had alighted from their eddying flights to surround the eldest as it lay down its scaly head. The living dragons had reared their own heads to keen at the sky. Loki had imagined the sound was tender, mournful, but accepting – the creature must have lived a full life already. Loki had glanced at Thor, who was already looking away to begin a new game.
It must be nice to live so long that one could happily do something as casual with their life as to lose it, to age.
It was the first time Loki had consciously hoped – lightly; they were only children, after all – his own death too to be so timely.
The forefinger was drawn across the throat in a jagged motion, as if the figurative knife in this gesture was a little blunt, or maybe the man's neck a little too thick, for a single smooth slitting.
In the boxy white prison cell across the dank corridor, the bandit miming the threat finished it with a wide grin. He was implying either you will not make it out of here alive or I will ensure you don't make it out of here alive. The latter was since Loki's clothing and ludicrously furnished cage still spoke of distinct Asgardian royalty. Frigga had mentioned recently that Thor had been leading roundups of criminal groups around Yggdrasil. Continuing to shine rosy light onto Asgard's monarchy and troops, in the eyes of other civil populations.
Loki guessed this meant shadows fell upon Asgard in the eyes of the less civil ones. Across the dark corridor, several pairs of such uncivil eyes wordlessly informed him that, if not for the thrumming bewitched walls between them, his similar prisoner status would not immunise him from their bitter rage.
He half-smiled at them. They were children with no idea of true rage.
Pretending to only just realise a response was expected of him, Loki looked up to raise his eyebrows at his neighbour – the gesture he had artfully cultivated to appear both perfectly polite and maddeningly disdainful; no one ever knew which sentiment he meant more. He then re-settled into his languid pose on the satiny wingchair, resuming reading. Out of the corner of his downcast eye, the petty man's arm slackened, disappointed. Despite the prisoner's lack of blond hair, superficial charisma, or apparent concern for personal hygiene, Fandral's face flitted through Loki's head.
He briefly envisioned returning the meaningless threat with an illusion of a ridiculously massive knife. He had a hunch it would affect the creature trying to threaten him – the rioters packed into the cages opposite had adopted an overt, macho nonchalance towards Asgardian imprisonment that had amused him slightly for the past few hours. They had held an arm wrestling tournament to pass the time, even (predictably, the victor was determined by his vastness). But Loki decided against it, keeping his head bowed over his book and letting strands of his black hair whisper against the velvet pages. He wanted to plan.
But he did not have time to consciously think about death, least of all his own. He was too busy.
He certainly planned with death in mind. Since falling into the Void, most of his plans had the deaths – or at least apparent deaths – of certain individuals woven into them. Necessary threads. Sometimes he found, when things tried to spiral out of his control and those threads threatened to unravel, he would have to replace them with others.
(More faces besides Fandral's flitted through his head)
(He knew some of their names, not all, some humans, Chitauri, Jotuns, Asgardians – )
His grip on the book compressed the pages to half their thickness.
But he did not have time to consider death itself. Too many things to do, people to see. Things to force others to do. People to never see again.
In the part of his mind that still chewed on trivial things like leftover bones – how did all this happen, whose fault is it, how much longer will it last – he knew his own life would most likely be taken. By weapons or poison or even an accident if his foresight finally, fatally slipped. Not lost, gently, to old age. Not a death like Thor deserved.
A strange tension inside him forced him to adjust his sitting position. He crossed his legs beneath him – courtesy of Frigga, the chair was wide enough for even that – and felt the hard ridges of his boots dig into his thighs. He resumed pretending to read. The crude nattering of the other inmates picked at only the hard edges of his attention.
(What was this book about again?)
"All thought you eager for your first 'serious' assignment from Father. Where your orders were still to capture if you could, but this time kill if you couldn't."
"I was ready," Thor snapped. "It went as expected. I led the team to success in the mission, and managed to… root out dozens of the spineless felons – "
While the nattering of his fellow inmates barely jostled him, Loki remembered the first time that taking a life had given Thor pause.
" – and made Father proud."
Thor's chin jerked upwards insistently as he said so, the moonbeams in the courtyard catching his face like a spotlight. Needless gesture. Loki never disputed those words.
"They were plotting to murder Alfheim's royal family. Really, Father should have allotted me the task much earlier to avoid even the petty damage they wrought underground…"
Loki nodded slowly. The bare tips of the sycamore trees nearby – almost invisible against the star-sprayed black sky – nodded in the cool breeze with him. Even Asgard's flora agreed. Loki asked, "Did you ever realise beforehand that your use of the word 'serious'… meant the assignment might involve killing?"
"Brother, I hope you aren't implying the future king can't handle punishing those who deserve it." Thor glared defensively. Surly, to disguise the obvious unease that Loki watched stir in Thor's head like an infant floret of lightning inside a storm cloud. Or like an heir pacing backstage before a coronation. Because, despite the distress Thor felt now, the fact that the heir to the throne did not relish killing was really a magnificent success. And admittedly a slight surprise, not least of all to Thor himself.
"These are no jibes, Thor," he murmured. "Did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Assume 'serious' equated to killing."
Thor answered, "I don't know. I have killed beasts on hunts before."
"But that never bothered you like this."
"Just leave it alone now, Loki." The words were forceful.
Loki ignored that. "You've fought and won more times than the regular louts that haunt the city's beloved taverns, but it seems no one fully realised you've never killed before…"
"Just leave me alone now." The words were half-hearted.
Loki continued pacing alongside Thor on the dewy green carpet, delicately whereas Thor's heels were undoing their gardeners' lawn-keeping efforts.
"It's okay to be bothered by taking a life. You would be a terrible warrior and king, if not."
A minute passed by mutely. Then Thor said sombrely, "I wish all lives need only be lost to time."
"You're wishing that life were as simple as a two-piece jigsaw puzzle, but me too. That would be the ideal kind of death." Loki turned mid-step so he could see Thor better. "But I suppose we have to reconcile ourselves with the little fact that stealing lives seems to be a very widespread second kind."
"Then I wish at the very least our family each gets the first."
Loki nodded slowly, but the tree branches did not nod with him. "Me too."
Loki expected the second kind. He maybe deserved it. Probably. His brother maybe thought so too.
(Probably)
But he didn't fear it at all anymore.
(This cell was already feeling too cramped…)
He never expected the first – at least, not for a very long time, since falling into the Void – and he won't get it, he knew. Perhaps Thor… Something inside him told him his brother would get it, in the end, which was drawing closer and closer for Loki himself…
(What was this book about again?
Something about dragons?)
See? He just flew his last flight. He tries not to hang his head, though he's weary
Loki's neck was aching from craning, pretending to read, and he was so weary.
(He had thought he had plucked it from the selection of books at random)
How much longer will this last, how much longer will I live, whose fault will it be, will Thor grieve –
No, he did not have time to think about death.
Svartalfheim was not as cold as he expected. Not that logic had let him really anticipate a chill – the ever-present blanket-like clouds trapped the heat spawned beneath the strange black rock. But Loki had always associated places of death and abandonment with the cold.
(Cast out onto a frozen rock)
(He had never seen Odin's face colder than in that trial)
" – And if it comes to it, I will handle the Kursed myself." Thor was crouched beside Jane's slumbering figure at the bow of their hijacked ship. He was speaking into the churning dark wind that their vessel sliced through like a silver knife, his back to Loki. Loki caught his brother's words as they soared, like comets or stars adrift, past the stern where he himself stood.
"Be sure you don't underestimate the Kursed." The wind howled mournfully, the sands scraping together, restless for the show with Malekith to start. It was a wonder Thor heard him at all. "Besides his brute strength, his armour is near indestructible compared to ours, and he moves quickly for his bulk."
"This is the only way to extract the Aethr from her." Loki watched his brother watch Jane. He did not bother to feel jealousy.
"Who else of the three of us should handle him? You?"
"All I say is that you need to be careful."
"The Kursed is the one that needs take care."
But thankfully, Loki could sense Thor bracing himself for the upcoming battle with a newfound wariness. Witnessing utter destruction of their home – their mother – would do at least that.
And Loki would not be Loki without foresight. If things were to take a turn for the worse, if their plan failed, if one of them were killed –
Jane was like a duckling trying to play with wolves. But Malekith would try to preserve her at least long enough to capture the Aethr. It needed a living host, like a moth entranced by living flame, and was otherwise too unpredictably flighty. And she had two wolves to defend her.
"There is… much opportunity for this to go awry," Loki stated.
What would Thor look like dead?
"Isn't there always?" Thor replied from the bow, though Loki could see the tension in his brother's broad shoulders even past the swirls of red cape.
Thor would look exhausted, but honourable. Noble, of course. Brutally beaten, because nothing short of the most gruesome thrashing could force him into submission.
And maybe with Loki's body bowed in grief over him.
But this would not happen. Loki could feel it. He had no plans for his brother to die today.
Though he did feel a little cold.
"However, a contingency plan would be wise." Loki suggested.
(It was not a question of who was strongest, that needed to try hold off Malekith or the Kursed, but who deserved the most to die – )
"We're almost upon Malekith now." Thor finally turned to look at him. His eyes were steely – they practically spoke along with his next words: "The backup plan is keep fighting."
Loki almost rolled his own eyes. "I know you will – "
(And if that was the question – )
Thor interrupted in a murmur, "The truest words of yours yet."
( – then there was really no question left at all)
(Except for what would happen if Loki died)
Abandoned,
Suffering,
(Was there anything he should tell Thor before Jane awoke?)
Left to die
Too late. Her eyes fluttered open. Red, black and shining, like the Aethr had already rotted her insides and was bubbling to the surface, eager for more.
(He had reconciled himself with the little fact that lives were stolen, not just lost)
How much longer will I last, whose fault will it be, would he grieve –
Who will it be for –
Will he grieve – ?
(I'd do it for you)
Loki cursed. Funnily enough, at the Kursed. But also himself. If this was some placebo effect he had idiotically self-inflicted because of his earlier ruminations on death upon the ship, then just damn everything to Hel.
He couldn't breathe. No sooner would he try to inhale that it would stop short and feel like his lungs were desperately grappling with sheer emptiness, not even the dusty air, before they just let go and tried fruitlessly again. Loki had stabbed and been stabbed before, but this felt more like his heart had been punched out his back. He could almost hear it rolling away from him across the gritty battlefield.
Still rasping for useless breath, he stared at the sky above him. It roiled with gloom. He could not tell if this was from dying or just typical Svartalfheim weather, but he wanted to see something else before he left.
In New York, whilst waiting in Fury's glass prison in the Helicarrier, Loki had eavesdropped on the Director asking Thor:
What are you prepared to do?
What had Thor been willing to do to stop Loki?
All this, Odin had said earlier, because Loki desired a throne.
What was Loki prepared to do?
His heart was rolling away…
(What are you prepared to do?)
Thor's face came into view. At first, Loki thought his vision was giving out, warping everything, until he realised his brother was just crying. Thor's face puckered as he tried to suppress tears that were already wobbling down his grazed cheeks. Loki felt them fall, warm, onto his own numbing face. A welcomingly warm drop on his cheekbone. One on his chin.
How did all this happen, whose fault is it, how much longer, will he mourn –
Another drop, like a kiss above his brow.
All this. Because Loki desired –
His heart was giving out.
How much longer, how much longer before I –
(What are you prepared to do?)
All because Loki desired
(He'd already done it)
He stared into Thor's anguished face.
He was reconciling himself with the little fact that lives were lost, or stolen
Or given.
(What are you prepared to do?)
Loki realised Thor was saying something to him, reassuringly.
Loki murmured a response. It was almost perfect.
(I did it for you)
If Loki ever thought there were different ways to approach death, he had long ago given up hope on the first.
He had expected the second for a long, long time.
He didn't think he would get the chance to choose the third. If he had been asked a year or two ago if he would have chosen it, he might not have said yes.
But he realised he doesn't really mind it at all.