A/N: Most of the material in this fic came from the MCU, but I have borrowed from the original mythology as well as the comic verse. I have, however, taken copious amounts of liberty with the material so you have been warned.
(Edit: It's been revealed in TWD that the Tesseract is really actually the Mind Gem. I may or may not end up disregarding this piece of information.)
A huge thank you to enaskoritsi (xxKayTayxx), who was ever patient in explaining to me any questions I had. If you spot any mistakes, they are mine alone.
The title comes from Jeremiah 17:9 ("The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?"). I'm using it rather liberally here.
Part I: Carrion
In the blur of serenity, where did everything get lost?
The flowers of naïveté buried in a layer of frost
A fool's devotion swallowed up in empty space
The tears of regret frozen to the side of his face
The smell of sunshine, I remember sometimes
Thought he lost everything; then he lost a whole lot more
— Nine Inch Nails, "I Look Forward to Joining You, Finally"
He fell watching him. Watching the splash of glorious red as it splayed against the Asgardian night sky. Watching the hurling storm of electric blue striking against itself to light thunderous brows in all the wrong angles. The proud Golden Prince appeared no bigger than a child, arms outstretched to grasp what he could not hold. All that the Thunderer once was — god, warrior, brother — he alone had taken away. The Trickster would think back someday and rejoice.
He had imagined victory to be many things, but never once did he think it would taste so bland, so flat against his tongue. Before he could sear this moment into memory, it had already dissolved, leaving only the bitterest of bile trailing down his throat.
He drew his lids shut, and tried to take comfort in his once-brother's pain.
He drew his lids shut, but all he could see were haunting eyes and bloodied locks and silent lips mimicking the sound of his name.
He fell, eyes closed, still watching him.
The soft touch of cool liquid jolts Loki from his slumber. The dampness against his cheeks slides with patience, burning his skin raw as it treads slowly, purposefully. He need not open his eyes to envision the creature on the other side, fixed atop the alcove by the Allfather. The dripping poison begins to lick a lazy path down his neck and slither across his chest, branding them with sharp prickles and dull aches. The scent of acid and burning flesh infuses his nostrils, but the God of Mischief pays no heed to the eerie smells and the piercing agony of his own rotting flesh. He takes comfort in the pain that sets him ablaze, calls on it, feeds it, and embraces it as old kin.
He tilts his head forward, feels the bite of metal around his neck, and watches with childish fascination as the pearly white of his skin pulls apart and collapses in on tissues that lay beneath. The dark, red liquid crawls from under the crimson trenches, oozing from his wounds aimlessly with every laboured breath. His body collects it, holds it in its nooks and crannies until they brim with his blood. Only then does Loki allow himself to gaze upon his captor.
It is a thing of beauty—a white serpent with ruby orbs that hang just inches above his belly. Its translucent scales glisten as it flexes from side to side, catching what little light these caves have to offer. Loki beckons it with his gaze, inviting it to quench the thirst that has plagued them both for the last hundred days. He could sense the battle of simultaneous yet opposing desires in the rhythmic sway of its enormous frame. This toggling between duty and instinct is fiercer today than any other, and it is only a matter of time before the delicate balance tips towards the inevitable. All that dwell in Asgard are bound by Oath to their King; but when the King takes, he cares not for the will of his subjects, only their sworn loyalty. Loki knows too well that he is not the only prisoner among these barren rocks.
When the serpent, at last, descends from its guarding-place, the God of Mischief is unsurprised, only too happy to seal the gap between them with an arching back. It finds its way to the glaring welts that stretch from shoulder to shoulder and drinks with relentless hunger. He winces at the touch of cold, slippery membrane against ruptured skin. Even with a voice coarse and splintered from disuse, his words, buttered with praises and sighs, come easily enough. He lets his keeper pry him apart and drain him — lets himself become the conquest that he so earnestly sought once upon a time.
The ivory coat of the great serpent grows dull and heavy, smeared in the crooked, red shadows of his essence. When his half-open wounds shut themselves to the creature's seeking tongue, knitting together to protect what little still remains his, the snarling hiss of dissatisfaction would slice through them as a hot knife would its enemy.
As he lies on his back, Loki thinks he hears the rhyming clicks of twin beaks and the soft murmur of parting air around wings taking flight. In this bleak serenity, he waits, as he has waited all these years to learn the truth of his destiny, for only then might he one day claim what he has been promised.
The weight of Gungnir pressed against his fingertips — the great anchor of Asgard that has seen an eon of rulers come and go. He knew it was only temporary, its true master would rouse from his sleep soon enough. Yet, even recognizing the impermanence of his reign, the Trickster clung onto this glimpse of power, of alliance, of acceptance, cherishing his gift with tender thoughts that have not visited his mind in he remembered not how long.
It was easy at first. The memories sang to him from every corner of the palace, slipping through the cracks of time to show him the evidence of loyalty, of trust. Of love. He remembered one too many afternoons spent in the company of tomes and scrolls, ink-blotted hands clasping the simple joys of newly-weld seiðr . He remembered his heart galloping in steady couplets one long summer's day when calloused fingers wrapped around his own, leading him to the treasures of Asgard few knew, and fewer saw. He remembered staring into the stormy blue that is Thor as the Thunderer draped the crimson cloak over his naked body that bore the seed of his shameful defeat, and swept the paler form from the ruins that is yet Valhalla . He remembered it all — plucking the fruits of happier days to feed himself in slow, careful mouthfuls. But it wasn't enough.
There were remembrances of another sort that prowled the halls of the citadel: beasts made bitter and sinister by years spent brewing in the shadows. They summoned him to their realm, and made empty the well of happier thoughts. The grime of humiliation fell thick upon his ears when he was reminded of whispers echoing in the wee-hours of the night, once soft with sweetness in seek of his council but spoken now with poisoned tongues. Loki, Prince of Lies; Loki, Master of Disguise; Loki Silvertongue; Loki Ergison . In his clumsy tricks and silly pranks they had seen the glimmer of malice and deceit, and he had let them. He tucked away the half-crumpled cry that is every child's right and hid it behind a permanent, devious smile. Hid it between the gentle folds of his beating heart where no one would come looking.
(No one did, of course. No one ever does.)
From time to time, he watched Odin watching him, his all-seeing eye a rippling blue-grey veiled from all. And the exchange of acknowledgement was enough: he was the quiet son who fought his battles with intellect — with artful illusions and well-crafted lies. He was meant to wield mischief as his will; to entrap freedom with chaos; to play rules against words, and play them with passion. He consoled himself, cradling the warmth of another's understanding, and was content. For a time.
When the Allfather's one-eyed gaze fell on Thor, he saw a father's pride brimming in dark waters, braiding soft wrinkles on a face hardened with prudent wisdom, and all that he had been privileged, all that was promised long ago, was undone in the passing of a glance.
Only one of you could ascend to the throne, but both of you were born to be kings.
The God of Mischief had seen and sold his fair share of lies, but never one so prodigious, so monstrous as this. For all the love and affection the Allfather had claimed to bestow them both, the Odinsons were and only ever shall be equals in name alone. They were but words. Words without substance.
Irony fell heavy on his shoulders as he drew his true heritage from the depth of his being. Feverish blue breeched the pale skin of his cheeks and laid siege to his brows the sigil of his enemies. The emerald of his borrowed eyes bled scarlet to weep the death of his Aesir past. Son of Laufey, the runt of Jotunheim. He turned to this sickly hue, this abominable plague, and snarled.
He might be Loki Laufey-born, but he was Loki, Odin's son. He was Loki, of Asgard, burdened with glorious purpose.
He would later journey to the Forbidden Realm and walk amongst the forlorn glaciers and gaping craters that was his birthright. He would entice the King of Jotunheim, full of murderous intent, to the golden palace where Odin lay, only to have him slain. He would unleash the Bifrost on his entire race, and no remorse would pass the recesses of his mind.
He looked to the Spear of Eternity that he had once held with fervent force, and felt neither triumph nor glory. It was a clumsy length in his palms now — an uneasy consolation for the battles he had lost long before they had even begun.
Thanks so much for dropping by!
Below are just a few notes, in case you're interested:
1. Seiðr is Old Norse for ancient sorcery.
2. Valhalla is where the spirits of the Gods reside after death. This particular mention references Loki's attempt to lure Svaðifari away by turning into a mare in order to distract the horse and its master from completing the walls of Valhalla. Like usual, the plan backfired and Loki ends up pregnant and gives birth to Sleipnir, Odin's prized mount.
3. Ergi is Old Norse for unmanliness.