Though he has visited futures in the far reaches of the galaxies, Loki has not yet had the opportunity to visit his own. The talent has not been his to use for long—he was telling the truth when he told Thor he had learned much, seen much, in his absence.
There does not seem to be a better time than this.
Loki closes his eyes, forgetting the room around him, reaching out for the thin glowing line of his life—stretching out into the future and the past. There it is—it pulls him along when he touches it, and he struggles to hold on. He wishes to visit the very end.
But he falls off before he can reach it. Loki lifts his head with a sneer of disgust.
He is in a vast plain, and before him, himself and Thor are in a vast plain. They have been fighting, perhaps—but at the moment, everything is still but for the wind in the grass.
"Brother—" Thor says, quietly. Loki hesitates.
Loki watches the hope rise in Thor's eyes. (foolish Thor, he's going to trick you) but he can do nothing when the other Loki appears behind Thor. He is but a shadow of the past, invisible to all but himself.
The dagger buries itself in Thor's back. The Loki behind Thor puts his arms about him, the Loki in front of Thor puts his arms about him, and for a moment, it looks as though they are embracing him. The Loki from behind brushes aside a stray lock of hair from Thor's face, whispering in his ear. "Will you ever not fall for that, my dearest brother?"
The illusion vanishes, the Loki behind pulling out the dagger roughly, and Thor falls, kneeling, to the ground, coughing, holding his stomach. "Loki—" he says.
Loki bends down beside him, holding him gently. "Shhh," he says quietly. "Don't speak. It will all be over soon."
He does not let go until Thor finally stops breathing, then gives him a slow kiss on the forehead, and lets him fall to the ground. He reaches for the dagger beside him and carves out Thor's heart, lifting it, (still beating) to his face, and beginning to eat.
He has eaten it halfway when his head turns as though sensing a presence. He lowers the heart from his lips, searching, before catching sight of Loki watching in the grass.
"Ah, there you are," he says with a smile. Blood stains his teeth, flecks of blood litters his face, and his hands are covered in red. Loki's eyes are like shattered glass, broken mirrors reflecting only madness.
"You expected me," Loki answers, sitting down beside the other. He cannot help but stare and wonder, what had gone so wrong—
"Of course. I am you, after all—or I once was. Heart?"
Loki shakes his head.
Loki shrugs. "I knew you would refuse," he admits, "But, good manners and all that. After all… Thor is defeated at last." And he turns to look at Thor. "So hopeful. It was always his downfall."
Blood has a strange, bitter taste, like metal—it lingers on the tongue even after it should not. Loki thinks he can feel it, though his own mouth is clean.
"Why did you do it?" Loki has to ask. Has to know what could have happened to bring him to this point.
Loki does not answer, only leans back to lie in the grass. "I wonder what I should do now?" he muses. "There are universes to destroy, chaos to sow… and yet I feel so empty."
Perhaps that is because you killed your brother, Loki thinks snidely, and then is surprised. It has been long since he referred to Thor as brother, even in his thoughts.
"And is that all you will do? Destroy?" Loki asks.
"Destruction has its place," Loki answers. "And that is myself. All for a good cause, of course—Ragnarok must come."
"I thought I did not believe in fate."
"Once, I said those words," Loki answers, turning, and looking into his face. "Once I believed them. Fate has a way of catching up to you, doesn't it." Then he laughs, suddenly. "I remember! I thought I was positively ghoulish." He sits up, pensive. "Funny, experiencing the conversation from the other side."
Loki thinks he looks like driftwood, sitting on the beach—washed up, used and dead. Wild beauty that cannot hide their sorrow
"But I have to be going soon, don't I?" he asks. He stands up, closes his eyes—and flames begin to flicker in the dry grass. They rise quickly, consuming Thor's body, rushing out until they dance on every horizon, and the flames lick up Loki's arms and his legs, twining around him, and he stands in the flames and laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
Loki stands up and watches. He fancies he can smell the acrid smoke, but perhaps it is only the crackling of fire that brings it to mind. He is unharmed, but for a different reason than Loki
he is not really there
"A fit funeral, wouldn't you say Thor? If only there was a little lightning…" the eyes close. "Well. Nothing's perfect."
Loki feels the golden thread of his life nudging him, sweeping him off his feet and away from the scene before him. And he is sitting in his room, the smell of smoke lingering around him.
Fate has a way of catching up to you.
He knows that whatever he does, he will end up killing Thor. He will be the Loki standing on the plain, laughing and broken. (The truth never lies.)
(It has always been said it is bad luck to know your own future.)
Of course, there is one way to avoid what might come to pass. (The question is—does he love Thor that much?)
—no, the question is, does he want to become that creature in the flames?
The answer is simple. Poison is easy to procure, even under guard as he is now. He drinks it with a feeling of deep satisfaction. He is tired—he lies down upon his bed. And yet he wishes—
But no. It is done.
He closes his eyes. Breathes in—
.
.
.