The Shattering of Frost
A Short Story of Loki
Spoiler Alert: For those who have not been able to bear witness to Thor: The Dark World (or Loki: The Dark World to others), please, do not spoil it for yourself by reading. However, if you wish to, I will not be held responsible for what may come. It is something that had pulled at my heart after seeing the movie and came to me while I slept.
In the end, please respond to your hearts content by commenting, faving or flaming.
But please, enjoy nonetheless…
"Lord Loki, I bring you terrible news."
I glared at my Asgardian jailer, one of countless men and women deemed to roam the vast labyrinthine halls of Asgard's most feared offenders. He barely fit into his formal helm, possibly one of the younger spats just out of their swaddling robes and replacing it with their grown up ones. I kept my notions to myself, else I may cause him to become uncomfortable in my presence.
Perhaps he brought tidings of Thor's rise to the throne, but that would not have been something he would think of terrible news. It was from my position.
I turned to glare at him, "what is it?"
He pulled in a breath, straightening his spine, trying to look taller on the other side of the cage I was in.
"The lady Frigga has died in battle, my lord."
My eyes widened while the rest of me remained impassive. Surely this was some sort of cheap attempt at fooling a trickster.
But what of the battle that transpired earlier in these labyrinthine tunnels? The Svartalf scum that laid ruin upon the jail, killing and freeing vagabonds left and right, while leaving me here to rot. That was not flashing drill put upon for my benefit. Odin, nor dear brother could concoct something that demanding.
I could, though.
I shifted my gaze back into my spacious cell, nodding in acquiescence to his words.
Was it true? Did the beauty of Frigga, Odin's treasure, die?
I paced my cell, ten steps to ten steps, unable to remain still. I dodged around the furnishings, being that this was to be my only remaining residence here in Asgard. A plush bed, sitting chairs in the far off chance anyone would sit and visit, a small table and a bookshelf, all fitted for my benefit and comfort. Around the corner, a washroom was added, though there is not much to hide, being two of the walls were clear viewing barriers.
Slowly, the sterile cell all of a sudden seemed too cramped, too claustrophobic. I ceased my pacing, teeth clenched in the vain attempt to control my unease. I stiffened and let loose a pulse of energy throughout my body. It radiated in all directions, toppling the furnishings as one would sweep crumbs from their lap. The Asgardian tea set upon the spindly table clattered next to my feet, cooling tea slowly pooling nearby. I reached down for the unbroken cups, hurling them at the shining walls, the viewing windows which pulsed gold as it was hit, anything was fair game.
I kept at my rampage, even when I felt a shooting pain in my foot, I continued the destruction around me. I toppled the bookcase, flinging the tomes carefully chosen for me, every which way. The table became kindling, fueling my raging fire. I ripped apart the sheets of my bed, flipped the mattress until it lay higgly-piggly. I even pulled off my long tunic, for that too became constricting, flinging it amongst the ruins of my cell.
I slid on the pooling tea, cracking my hip against the white floor, ending up like the rest of my ruined furnishings, gasping for air.
It was then that I broke.
Warm, salty tears fell from my eyes, blurring my excessive temper tantrum, softening the lines of destruction about me. I curled inward, knees near my chin, arms clutching my stomach as the harsh swelling of pain rippled in my torso.
What are you doing, fool? I heard myself chide, she is not of your blood. You are a frost giant! Cold-hearted, unfeeling and unloved!
"Then what is this I am feeling?" I whispered, curling tighter against the nausea.
One would expect a Jötun to cause destruction, not feel pain. And I did, both physical and mental anguish plagued me to the core.
I shifted my pained foot into my field of vision, wondering what I did. The Asgardian pottery speared far deeper than I thought, for the shard gouged clean through my whole foot and surfaced through the top. A gruesome shoot of grass emerging from the crimson blood of my body giving it life.
Huh. Funny bullets from Midgardians and a deformed hulk barely do any damage, yet a small insignificant broken cup can make me bleed profusely.
I merely stared at it with unfocused eyes, watching my life's blood drip onto the floor.
I guess that is the continuing failure of who Loki is. Left to die amongst his fellow Jötun lineage, doomed to being the second amongst the Asgardian royal family and a hated, unloved being among all. Just another lost soul, a black sheep doomed to the slaughter because of what is seen.
Yet, at one time, I did not know that. As I lay there, unfocused and oblivious, I recalled the past. Sometimes it's enough to learn and grow from those fleeting memories gone by.
I was young, very young, when things were more simple and my black sheep was still unknown. It was a time of peace, yet an illness spread all across the nine realms, causing untimely deaths amongst the young. My bro-, no, Thor, was lucky to escape it's reach, whereas I was not. I was confined to a bed for weeks, fever ridden and hallucinating. Perhaps, now that I thought about it, my lineage may have helped me to survive it, yet it is one more thing I do not know.
At one point, when the fever let me rest more easily, I was able to recall one night. The sky was lit by a pale crescent, the stars twinkling in the deep blue. A lone candle flickered at my bedside, illuminating my chambers. Blankets were piled atop me in an effort to keep me warm.
My unfocused eyes took these in, finally resting on the figure of the lady Frigga, laying beside me, hand clutched around mine. She slept peacefully atop the numerous covers, unawares of my alertness. She was still dressed in her elegant robes, hair coifed high on her crown though slightly muddled from its perch. As I watched her, a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Her hand gave mine a gentle squeeze.
It was unexpected of such a strong warrior. This great, powerful queen reduced to a wreak at the sight of her son suffering. Unsure if he will live through the night, unwilling to leave his side should he decide to join the Valkyries later that night.
"Be strong, Loki," I heard her whisper before drifting off to undisturbed slumber, "you were strong enough to survive in your past. Do so again."
At the time, I had no inkling what she meant. She and Odin kept this secret for as long as I was alive.
Was I bitter? Yes.
Did I feel betrayed by those who I believed were my own flesh and blood? Most definitely.
Would I have acted differently?
I bit my lip. Would I?
I'm no saint by any means, nor do I strive to become one. A king yes, I was born to be a great king. So near was I to being one, a couple of times, only to be swept off the table to start from scratch once again.
I heaved in a sigh, suddenly weary of my earlier actions. Perhaps if the Svartalf let me loose…
I jolted upright. Was it possible I was responsible for Frigga's death? Didn't I just give out the easiest way to that thing, out of the dungeons?
I kicked away from my supine position, hands and feet flailing in a vain attempt to back peddle away from what I just realized. For the love of Odin, did I just deal out death to Frigga like the Valkyries to the slain? Did I cause the death of the only mother I have ever known?
A renewed wave of anguish and disgust at myself welled up deep inside my gut. Another pulse of energy, stronger than the last, obliterated the remaining bits of my furnishings. Reaching down, I yanked out the shard from my foot, reminding me with another lance of pain. I didn't care. I flung it away, droplets of my blood falling like rain.
My rage grew as I punched at the floor. I felt something break after a couple of hits as I screamed.
I screamed loud and hard, releasing everything I had into a howl of despair. My voice cracked as I slumped against the wall. The nausea came in faster, causing me to retch the bitter tea out of my stomach. I fell back to the wall, exhausted and hating myself beyond reasoning.
"I am a monster," I hitched, "what have I done?"
Days passed in a blur. I'm not sure where I was mentally, I was a shell of my former self. A guard, I couldn't tell if it was the one who gave me the news of Frigga's death, informed me of her final voyage to Valhalla. The funeral pyre and her prone body sailing away into a land far away from the ravages of our diabolical lives.
He noticed the ruin I have lain on my cell, to which I had no inclination to hide with deceitful illusions. I refused food and water, shunned new furnishings or removal of the destroyed bits. I repudiated any medical attention to the injuries I caused to myself. I was deaf to pleading and wrathful to any who tried to approach. Approaching a sick, diseased animal willing to die should be left to rot.
Even if said animal was a bastard Jötun disguised as an Asgardian prince of mischief.
Another day passes while I gazed about my broken kingdom of a cell. That's what it turned out to be after all. This was the kingdom I would rule till the end of my days. Which, I reminded myself, was an extremely long time.
I shifted myself slightly, feeling the bite of stiff muscles bunching from disuse. The servants left another tray of food in the opening of my cell. A pitcher of water, a hank of bread and one of Iddun's golden apples perched atop a golden plate.
I blinked at that. It was rare for Iddun to offer one of her precious golden apples to anyone. Then again, it could have been Odin's bidding to try and appease good favor. I turned away from the offered food stuffs, ignoring the groan rumbling in my stomach.
It was then that I noticed something else near the tray, a golden glow pooled in a lazy arch. I crawled towards it, not trusting my foot to be able to bear any weight.
It was an angular pendant, reminiscent of a rectangle curving inwards along the longer edges about the size of my thumb pad. One end was pierced and had a golden chain looping through the hole. I turned it over, and the rune of mischief shown in the blazing light.
I thought I lost that small trinket when the Bifrost bridge was destroyed. The little gift from Frigga, a few days before Thor was to ascend the throne.
She pulled me aside, away from the processions, the gayety, the joy, off to the spacious balcony overlooking all of Asgard.
"I know you are not exactly excited to see your brother taking the throne," she said, leaning against the railing.
I looked at her, my stomach clenching in resigned hatred for my brother, "what makes you think that. I'm proud of my brother."
"I know how you react. How you see things playing out. You plot and plan better than your father, even better than your grandfather," she gently placed her hand on my cheek. "You have greatness in you, Loki."
She smiled sadly, pulling the chain out from an inner pouch of her gown, "I know this isn't much, even on the eve of your brother's ascension to the throne-" she placed the trinket around my neck, "but I want you to have this. I know one day, perhaps, that you too, have the makings of a great king."
"A mischievous king," I chided.
"A king, none-the-less," she smiled.
I thumbed the scratched rune, cleaning away the blood that marred the surface.
"Maybe," I said aloud, "maybe one day I will be king."
I placed the golden chain back around my neck, the weight familiar, as if it had never left it's place.
It made me feel a sense of renewal, an understanding of something I thought of as impossible. Almost as if another part of myself came out of the woodwork to show what it could do. All it needed was a push.
I cannot change who I am, nor what I have done in the past. My stomach clenched again at the thought of Frigga. My mother. Her death will plague me forevermore.
I reached for the apple, taking a bite of the golden flesh. The single bite filled my mouth with sweetness, as it filled my belly and slowly began to heal the injuries I caused to myself. I flexed the fingers of my injured hand, hearing the knuckles pop.
If the Svartalves are invading Asgard, things may begin to move more rapidly than the others want it to. And if that is the case, dear brother may come to me for aid. I had to plan.
I sat back, taking another bite of apple as I began to plot and plan.
Good kings always have a plan…
Notes:
I had to go into a dark place for this one. After seeing Loki: The Dark World, I could sense a deep growth from Loki. He transformed in some ways, but , since it's Loki, he always has an ace up his sleeve. Not only that, but he had the best lines in the movie. I thought that Loki would have felt some sort of responsibility for Frigga's death. He did point the Svartalves down that way after all.
I give credit to great music for writing this. My ideas go better when I have music that sets the tone. I put Enigma's Gravity of Love on repeat when I typed this, so it will be in my head for days.
No one else could have pulled it off better than the talented (and extremely handsome) Mr. Tom Hiddleston. What a great sport.
On that little note, I think I need to see it again. I'm getting ideas for another part of the movie. And I think I need to write and draw them up.
One more note, no I do not own Loki or Tom Hiddleston, though I wish I did. I do own this idea though, so don't use without my permission, though I hope this does do justice for what (I hope) was a good idea.