AN: Okay so it's been forever since I actually uploaded anything here, and I should really finish all my other multi-chapter things before writing anything else, but I really wanted to write this. Funny story how this came about. I was reading another fanfiction and the ending really displeased me because it didn't go the way I thought it was. So I made my own version. Hope you guys enjoy.
Uhh, if you're easily triggered I guess you probably shouldn't read this? Idk I'm new to the whole marking triggers thing but I'm trying to be good about it. If anyone can tell me how I'm supposed to do that, I'd appreciate it.
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me. If they did, they'd probably all be dead now.
Also, reviews make me happy, so please review! I like to hear your feedback.
Emotions. They were petty, useless, a hindrance. Loki had no need of emotions.They wouldn't help him in any way. They were what got him in this situation in the first place: confined to chambers that were not his own, and though it was lavish and rich, it still wasn't his. He was merely awaiting his sentence in there, left alone to his thoughts, as he always was.
Thor had visited him. Thor told him each time that the Allfather hadn't decided on a punishment yet. He'd always end with asking Loki if there was anything he needed. Loki ignored him. There was nothing left that he could do. Loki was too far gone to swim back up to the shores of sanity. The few threads that still held him to reason had snapped long ago and dropped him into the sea of despair, letting him sink too far to float up again—though, it seemed to Loki that it had been his own choice, when he let himself fall into space, leaving behind everything he knew and everyone he loved.
Love. That was the most pointless emotion of them all, he decided. Loki had no use for love. It made him ache, made him hesitate, made him feel everything that he hated feeling: despair, disappointment, loneliness—all of those found him because he had loved.
No longer, he thought bitterly, staring at himself in the mirror. They'd taken his armor from him, leaving him in only the leather garments that had been underneath. They'd taken all his weapons, made sure there was nothing in the room Loki could use to his advantage, even put a seal on his magic for his temporary stay.
But even if his magic was gone, he too had the strength to kill with his hands, even if he was weaker now than he'd ever been.
Loki clenched his fist and let it slam into the mirror. It cracked and fell apart, and there was pain in his knuckles. He slipped the two sharpest pieces of glass he could find into his sleeves when the guards came running in, having heard him smash the mirror. With the precision he'd possessed with his hidden knives, he sent the two small shards flying towards the open throats of the two Asgardians. They slumped to the floor.
Loki stared down at the bodies in the doorway and shrugged. He took a knife from one of them and wandered down the hall, heading towards his old room. He wasn't about to be taken to his punishment in that space they called a bedroom—he would rather be dragged out of his own room.
Barefooted, his steps made no noise in the grand marble hallways. He strode through, deaf and blind to anyone he might have passed. They were of no concern to him. They did not try to stop him, so he paid them no heed. It wasn't as though they deserved his attention anyway.
Loki slipped through the door to his room, which had been ajar. He didn't bother with closing it. If anyone wanted to get in, he wouldn't be able to stop them anyway.
He wondered if he should leave a note of some sort—words of reassurance, perhaps? Loki shook his head at the thought. He didn't think anyone would care. Thor would be too busy doing his own thing to worry, Odin would be glad to have him gone. But perhaps he should leave a letter for Frigga, who even now he considered his mother.
Loki snatched up a piece of parchment, took a quill from his table and dipped it in ink. He jotted down in neat handwriting, Mother dearest, I'm sorry.
That would be good enough, he decided, and left the message on the desk, still littered with books and papers from when he had been practicing his magic what seemed like ages ago.
Loki stood in the center of the room, where none of his belongings would be wrecked from his actions. He removed his tunic and threw it to the side. He gripped the knife, knuckles turning white. He wondered if he should use an anastetic of some sort, so he wouldn't be hindered by pain.
He decided that pain was better. Pain felt real.
Loki plunged the dagger into his chest, just about where he knew his heart beat steadily. Wretched thing, he thought sourly. He'd soon be rid of it, and he felt that that moment couldn't come soon enough. Fire shot through him, but he clenched his teeth and refused to let a single sound escape him.
He cut through the muscle and skin above his ribs and hot blood ran down his torso, dripping onto the ground by his feet, dying the tiles red. Then he reached into the hole in his chest for his heart, only to be met by the rib cage. The knife clattered to the floor. Loki gritted his teeth and with a sharp twist of his wrist, he snapped one of his bones. Then he broke another, and another still until there was room for his hand to slip through and touch his pulsing heart. It pounded at a rabbit's pace and he absently wondered if it would hop out of his chest, now that he'd created an opening for it.
But it didn't, and he grabbed it. With a small, satisfied smile, he slowly pulled the offending organ out of the tangle of veins and arteries, ruined muscle, and skin.
Then it was out, and he felt rather empty.
He watched as his skin turned blue, and his blood did too—fitting, that he should die the monster he was born. That would make it easier than if his blood was red—it was too Asgardian, and he wasn't one of them. He hadn't the heart to kill one of them.
Loki inwardly laughed at his own joke.
In his hand he held his limp heart, and it too turned blue. Even the blood on the floor had turned blue. His hands felt cold and slick, bathed in his blue blood, and he was struck with the sudden realization that he hated the color. He hated it, hated it so much, hated it more than he hated himself. He abhorred it and Loki couldn't understand why he was hating when he'd ripped out the very organ that made him feel that way. He hated that the sky was blue, that the seas were blue, that so many Asgardians had blue eyes—the color was everywhere and he wanted it gone. It'd haunted him his entire life, and even now it continued to plague him, and Loki just wanted it to leave him alone.
The heart was heavy and hard in his palm. He'd accidentally frozen it. He looked at it disdainfully and crushed it. He watched the shards flutter to the ground, decorating the bright colored tiles in that accursed blue, so dark he couldn't bear to look.
Loki collapsed to the ground face first and pain shot through his chest, harsh and colder than he'd ever felt. He mustered up the strength to push himself onto his back. Then he laughed. He laughed long and hard and kept laughing even as his lungs and throat filled with his blood until all that came out was a gurgling as he choked on it, wheezing pitifully in an attempt to drag in air. It poured from the hole in his bare chest and bubbled down the sides of his mouth, pooling beneath him.
And still he laughed. Then Thor was there, and he wasn't sure what amused him more: the fact that Thor acted like he cared, or the fact that people were actually rushing about as though they were going to help him. He knew that they cared even less about him than Odin did.
He could feel himself falling and he kept laughing, and blue gushed from his mouth. His heart was gone and he felt so free. He felt light, even though his eyes felt heavy and it was getting harder to focus and he couldn't breathe.
Loki could hear Thor. "What did you do—stop laughing, brother! Please, stop—someone's coming to help, please brother—why? Why would you do this—" and he couldn't help but think, Pathetic.
In return he offered Thor the widest grin he could manage. With the last dredges of his strength, he managed to speak through the blood that filled his throat.
"I'll send my condolences from Hel, brother!" he shrieked, eyes wide, his grin bearing all his teeth, stained in blueblueblue—
The laughter abruptly stopped, and Loki's vacant eyes stared up at Thor, manic smile frozen on his face.