Pain.
Pain was all Loki felt. It burned through his veins, tears stung like acid behind his eyes.
He no longer wanted to feel it.
A scene flashed before his eyes. Two young boys; one light-haired, charming, strong, and the other; dark-haired, cunning, sly, were laughing at a small prank they pulled.
It was all so simple back then, so innocent, so happy. A smile formed on his lips at the memory, but was shortly replaced with a frown; it could never be that way again.
His shaking hands reached for one of his silver blades he often used in battle, but today it served for another purpose. He felt disgusted with himself, but it felt like the only way…
Suddenly, a wave of all the dislike for the young prince hit him hard.
"Coward."
"Freak."
"Stupid."
"You'll never be like Thor."
A tear strolled down his pale cheek and it burned his skin. He gripped the blade tighter, bringing it closer to the soft flesh vulnerably exposed on his wrist.
He always felt second-best, never good enough, alone. He was told by the All-Father that he was born to be a king, he was destined for greatness.
Lies.
It was always his brother, Thor, god of thunder, first-born, golden son, loved by all. Loki sneered at the thought of him. No matter what he did, he was never going to be Thor's equal. Anything Loki did was ignored or hated, anything Thor did was praised. No matter the amount of comforting Thor would attempt to assure his brother, it could never help. He didn't know how much bitterness and hatred had hardened Loki's heart.
Another flaming tear fell from the prince's green eyes, stinging like venom. He glanced at his wrists and saw old scars, scars inflicted by the same feelings he was feeling now, feelings of betrayal, jealousy, hatred. How foolish he was for thinking it would never come to this again.
He turned the blade to face his skin and dragged it across his wrist, drawing dark red liquid to the surface.
Memories of being laughed at for being different; wanting to read books instead of battle, learning about sorcery instead of sword-fighting, being lean and clever instead of muscular and strong, all surfaced in his mind. Asgard always encouraged uniqueness, yet he was laughed at for being just that.
A second cut.
Another scene flashed before him.
"Do the frost giants still live?" A timid Loki asked his father.
"When I'm king, I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all! Just as you did, father." Thor beamed proudly up at the All-Father.
Frost giants are the enemy. No matter the peace treaty settled between the two lands; Jotunheim and Asgard, the Aesir and Jotuns were enemies. It was known by all.
Asgardians are proud, noble, true, looked up to.
Frost giants are sly, conniving, bloodthirsty, hated.
That's how it always was.
"The casket wasn't the only thing you took from Jotunheim that day, was it?" Loki asked angry and scared.
Cut.
"The day I went into the temple, I found a baby, small, for a giant's offspring, abandoned, left to die."
Not even wanted by his own kind. Loki felt utterly worthless and unwanted. Yet, he felt unsurprised by it, why would anyone want him?
Cut.
"Laufey's son."
Cut.
Cut.
Cut.
"So I am no more than a stolen relic? Locked up here until you might have use of me?"
Cut.
"I'm the monster who parents tell their children about at night?"
Cut.
"No matter how much you claim to love me, you could never have a frost giant sitting on the throne of Asgard!"
Cut.
Cut.
Never destined for greatness. Lied to. Laughed at. Ignored. Pitied. At first it hurt, over time he became used to it and accepted it.
Being hated was an entirely different thing.
He was a frost giant, a creature of cruelty, of hatred. To make it worse, he was the son of the king of those savages.
Setting the blade down beside him, red with his blood, Loki glanced at his new, freshly created scars. He frowned. The red only reminded him more of his true heritage. At first it helped him cope with the emotional pain, but now it only angered him more. The thick, warm fluid that ran through him was proof of what he really was, and it made him sick.
He grabbed the blade and threw it with all his strength, not caring what it hit. More acid stung his eyes as he saw the weapon glide through the air and lodge into the wall opposite him. Blood dripped onto the carpet below. A strangled cry of hopelessness, frustration and turmoil left his throat. Loki fell to the floor, defeated.
Loki gave in, inviting pain to be his friend.