A tongue of silver, with boots of lead, and as bad as the lies that filled his head; Loki Laufeyson proudly wore each facade, with the presence of deception from every word that went cascading out his mouth. His vibrantly brilliant emerald eyes were cautious and ever-alert. A glimmer of hope seemed to shine within them, the possibility that he could've been a hero like the man he once called 'brother.' Tiptoeing and teetering between redemption and utter raw insanity. There were traits that never seemed to leave the God of Mischief; Intelligent beyond belief, narcissistic, calculating, envious, self-aggrandized, self-destructive, and tragically mistrustful of everyone he came into contact with. And so Loki would proudly wear his misery, the reputation of madness, and the little dignity he'd come to salvage from his failures.
So be it that Loki may hold the status of being 'evil', keep in mind that a heart remained in his dark cavern of a chest; and that a kernel of goodness still existed in the rivets of hatred and violence that wrapped up the corners of his mind. It was illogical to feel senile and sentimental, for logic was all Loki could cling to now that he'd lost it all. He went unnoticed as he made his way exhausted down the streets of New York, in the stillness of 2:00 a.m. May he somehow manage to catch someones eye, his entire false cover would be blown. For, this time around, there would be no possible retribution; he had given up entirely. Distinguishing himself from a human only by the faint glow of jade magic at his fingertips.
Loki Laufeyson, unnaturally feeble and fearful, began to stumble as his vision became hazy; his entire body lacerated with gaping unhealed wounds, and the limp in his leg gave way that he had only managed to heal his vital organs and spinal chord. For, Loki escaped Asgardian prison, only to shortly be recaptured by the Chitauri; whom he'd failed in the battle with the Avengers. Streaks of white flashed in his vision, and the air was cold against his skin; and he felt his body caving in on itself. It must've only been 6 months that he'd been their prisoner, an unpleasant experience that involved tedious torture, but it seemed like lifetimes. It felt like lifetimes since he'd been home, and even now he let nostalgia creep in as death's embrace drew closer and closer.
Sweet perfumes of incense, and graceful towers of alabaster stone, all so serene and accepting; he'd been raised as a prince, yet left the life as a traitor. He recalled his childhood, and he recalled being full of terror; and he would run to his mother, Queen Frigga, and she would smile before taking his hand and bringing him into a lovely grasp. Whispering sweet nothings as he encased his frail form in her arms, burying his head against her chest and nuzzling towards her heartbeat; a steady slow thud that would lull him into a tiresome stupor. She'd murmur loving nonsense, and assure him that greatness was what he was destined for. Yet, his true being was a monster that he'd been warned of during the night. And someday, it was intended for Loki to know that he was that monster; to realize his hereditary flaw. It seemed unnatural, the name of a prince Asgard to be the same name that citizens grumbled so indignantly about. Yet, it was a suitable past for a suitable villain, and a suitable demise for such a significant god. Truth to be told, Loki never was misunderstood; but instead, he'd misunderstand good intentions for more lies. And people would find his twisted brain too unsettling to follow him into a spiral of delusion.
He'd be sporting his crown of lies into the gates of hell, the same he'd worn all his lives. No longer would salvation be a possibility; because unfortunately this would be his end. Loki collapsed onto his knees, knuckles white as he wretched and coughed up a handful of blood. The god felt tears brimming in his eyes, but refused to shed them; if he was going to die, then he would go out with the last sliver of dignity he wore. He'd always expected to go out in a way that a diva like himself should, in a battle for glory; that he would eventually win with his own death. Never to be beaten past recognition, thrown out by all who had once believed in him, loathed by everyone, and without an audience of any sort. No one would witness him leave the land of the living, and he couldn't help but compare it to the aftermath of a play; when the stage lights have been shut off and the crowd gone.
And so he decided he would proudly wear, with a fabulous sort of flare, the mischief and lies and deceit he bore. He would happily accept the hand of death, and lead himself into nothingness. He would waltz into hell, and he would gloat of the red in his ledger. Loki would dance in his grave, and he would not care that he was no more. So, if someone were to ask, then they would know that Loki went out with a snark wolfish grin; that he remained proud of all he had left, the fact that he could go into death on his own decision.
Loki heaved, his lungs feeling heavy and full of fluid, and he knew that the approaching end would come all too slow. He had already decided that he would die, and no one could save a soul once they chose to leave. He felt his muscles spasm, and his heart clutch; because his body did not want to cave into the concept of giving up. He took a shallow breath through his nose, and just as he felt lights come upon him; he took out of his knives and shoved it into the dead center of his skull. To make the voices stop. Just as he could've lived, he'd ended it on his own terms; he went out without a sound. A knife through his most vital appendage, his brain. He'd already lost what else he could've possibly had, this was an ironic yet... Suitable... End.
"You've found my brother? At long last!-" A jubilant and relieved voice boomed heartily, echoing in the Avengers Tower.
"Now listen, big guy, we found him... But...-" Tony Stark nervously shifted his feet, feeling a panic attack rising in the pit of his stomach. He strained the words out, the very sentence leaving a bitter vile taste in his mouth "He went batshit crazy and stabbed himself in the head." Thor's eyes widened, and his expression turned to horror.
"My brother... My brother would never do that to himself." The god denied, his voice trembling as realization hit him.
"They found Loki in the middle of the road, holding a knife in his skull; a clean shot right through the center, with multiple injuries. It is clear from his position that he was psychologically unstable, and that it was a suicide with full intention of ending it immediately." Natasha spoke outwardly, taking the voice of reason in the situation; when she'd usually make herself unknown. Everyone stared at her. "It's a pity, really, with the right encouragement we all know he could've been-"
"What? One of us? Don't be ridiculous." Steve Rogers harshly cut them off, receiving a glower and a few shocked gasps. "Just like we said earlier, that man was bag of cats crazy-"
"Don't you dare call my brother crazy! He was of the highest intelligence in Asgard, and no one will ever replace that greatness he possessed!"
Steve had been the unfortunate victim who was called on the scene to clean up the corpse, and to judge in the morgue that the disassembled and disfigured face was Loki's. There was a growing tension in the room, and lingering mourn and loss.
"It doesn't change that he's gone, guys. Let's not fight over something like this." Bruce sighed, rubbing his temples anxiously.
"He's right guys, we can't do this." Tony agreed with his 'science buddy.' Their eyes met, and with a resounding growl Thor stormed out of the room.
"Is he going to be okay?" Natasha asked, her eyes meeting Steve's.
"He'll get over the loss, like we all have in our own pasts." Steve hissed, turning and walking in the opposite direction. In the end, they all carried the same burden Loki had; only he was the first of them all to snap completely. There was never a happy ending for people like them.