Weave
How it weighed on him. The pain, the misery, the rage. It simmered for centuries, hidden from view. From the time he was a small child, to the awkwardness of his adolescence, it festered like an ill-gotten disease.
Never had he felt it more than at that moment, his body suspended like a cloak in the wind. A flower fading from life, dying and rotting, hanging by a thread.
He clutched at Gungnir with clawed hands. It's golden glow mocking him, daring him, to let go.
He tightened his grip. But he knew, understood, that he was beginning to slip. He would not be able to survive this. Only desperation would remain.
All the magic and all the abilities he had garnered over the years would come to nothing. It meant nothing to what he'd been searching for all these years.
It wasn't simply love, or acceptance. Even he could not describe it.
But it was woven into his body, into his heart, this desire.
Perhaps it had been there since his birth. Too small for the pride of a Jotenheim leader, too withdrawn, timid, for the favour of an Asgardian King. Certainly for the favour of a King who loved his firstborn, blonde, boisterous, son.
It was how different he was.
The green eyes, clear as water, and the lankly limbs against the brilliant blue and rough appendage of his brother, Thor. His preference for pragmatism, his lack of desire for violence, contrasted so heavily against his brother's idealism and love for war.
As children, he had been a dark and soft-spoken, overwhelmed by the confidence and sheer brilliance of his brother. Everyone gravitated towards him; he had been a natural magnet for admiration and idolisation. The Warrior's Three, Volstagg, Hogun and Fandral drifted into this attraction, impressed and charmed by his prowess in battle. Perhaps against his better judgement, even Odin, with all of his wisdom and caution, was drawn to his youthful and brash son.
So, more and more, as he grew older, he had retreated into shadows. Though he wished more and more to be admired for his abilities, especially his natural talent for magic, his dark persona had highlighted the very thing he sought to forget.
His difference.
Soon, the brotherly adoration for Thor became indistinguishable from his desire to be seen, to emulate him, be him.
Instead of the respect he desired, he saw cool regard.
In others, in their eyes, he came second. In all likelihood, only for the reason that he was Thor's brother.
But he sensed a wariness of the magic he wielded so fluently.
For many of his early years, his magic was a source of good natured trickery.
A puddle of oil left for the unsuspecting guard, the odd hair-dying experience, it never quite harmed anyone. There had been no malevolence in his actions, merely fun and excitement. Thor, at times, had joined in, impressed and astounded at the ease in which his brother used magic.
These had been more innocent times, before he'd become aware of the isolation it gave him.
Before he knew what other things he could do with magic.
Growing into adolescence, he learned how to create duplicates of himself. He learned how to disguise himself, pretend to be someone else entirely. After years of practice and lonely concentration, he'd gained invisibility.
He learned how to forget who he was.
But, more importantly, he learned how to harm.
Good natured tricks became few and far between as he grew into adulthood. The ingrained sense of worthlessness and ostracisation bred a malice that poisoned his magic. It gained the attention of others but many dismissed it as hardly dangerous.
Though he was proficient in his use of magic, compared with the brute violence his brother embodied, it was deemed lesser of the two.
They thought of it, became wary of it, but thought less of it.
And how could it compare to the mighty Mjolnir, a weapon so powerful that many realms worshipped it? What would magic be against the thunder of Thor, the hammer's wielder? What was magic that could trip a few a frost giants, when the hammer of Thor could uplift entire continents of them?
Perhaps he was being too general, yet the feeling that plagued him was one of inadequacy.
He, the god of mischief, renowned merely for his slight of tongue and propensity for manipulation. His brother, the god of thunder, golden as a million suns, celebrated for his legendary power. He, a foil for the very exemplar of all that Asgard deemed worthy, Thor.
Who, or what, he was seemed to slip from his grasp. He knew so little of himself. It stood astounding to one who knew and understood so much of the universe.
Loki, to him, was a name for a god who knew nothing to who he was.
And sought to gain it through nefarious means.
Against all the lacklustre love and affection he received, he had hungered for an ideal. Presumed that, in order to become someone, he needed to thwart his family. Killed for it, plotted for it, yearned for it. He destroyed for it. Placing every card he possessed in a chance to win it all.
Still, he knew nothing.
He had gained nothing.
Knowing this became the last and final thread that kept him clinging to Gungnir.
Seeing his father, staring down at him, desperately grasping onto the spear to save both his sons, confirmed to him everything that he had done.
And highlighted what he had not understood.
Amongst all the pain and agony, came a wave of regret. However small, the tinge of disappointment seemed to pacify his potent rage. It left only confusion, frustration and despair.
Layers and layers of emotion, some as foreign as Midgardians, others as familiar as magic, liberated.
Words, half-formed, spluttering from his lips, attempted to explain.
They were words, whispering, frenzied.
But the meaning was lost, vanishing along with the Bifrost that crumbled into the chasms of the universe.
'For you, father…'
Anguish penetrated throughout his body, he could feel it, see it mirrored in his father's remaining eye. He could sense his brother's blue irises on his, despondent, bewildered.
The ghost of his mother's hand caressed his young face, the spectre of his father's pride, in the form of a warm hand pressed against his shoulder, danced before his eyes.
Modes of affection that had been so tenderly given turned hazy and indistinct.
Poisoned, soured, by years, centuries, of buried feelings.
'No, Loki'
He said nothing.
His eyes wandered briefly to the dying chaos below. The disintegrating Bifrost plunging into the open, gaping mouth of the universe.
He would follow it. That he understood.
He had known it from the beginning.
Perhaps, in following it, he would be able to find it. As neither the blood child of a giant nor the forgotten prince of a golden, shallow, palace he never felt truly at home with.
Maybe he would cease to feel seconded. Deferred.
Little did it matter now.
Green eyes drifted back to his father's.
The final thread broken.
He let his remaining hand slip from Gungnir.
And, like the rage and the desire within, the universe swallowed him whole.
A/N: I know, another Loki piece but boy, is he a treasure chest of psuedo-Freud pyscho-analysis...This one felt more complete than my previous Loki-centric ficlet, so hopefully it comes across as, well, more complete. I've tried to cover the roots of his jealously and pain, but it's inevitable that I missed some. This is just my viewpoint on where all of his emotion came from. Also, I must stress that this is different from my other piece. That one covered his jealously, this one...more of his identity and relationship with his family. Anyway, thanks to all who reviewed 'Coil', it was much appreciated and loved, this piece is a response to that. And, finally, a shout out to the good people of Marvel, I don't own Thor. I'm not even sure I own myself.