Want
Loki strode through the palace halls, an energised feeling of power and confidence surging through him. The palace staff he passed greeted him with smiles and bowed heads, a pleasant change from the unimpressed glances and spiteful whispers he had grown used to. As he entered the throne room, his suppressed grin broke free across his face. There it sat in front of him, the glorious throne of Asgard. The golden steps beckoned him to climb up and take his seat. His seat. He shook his head in disbelief as he sat on the throne. He gazed at the golden glow that surrounded him. Every morning, he woke half-expecting to find himself stripped of his kingly power and Odin, the old fool, back on the throne, as if the past few months were nothing but a dream to taunt him with what could be. But this was real. Finally, it was real. Finally, it was his.
Except it was still Odin's, or so the people of Asgard thought. Loki wasn't a fan of his father's scratchy beard and stupid eyepatch, and it irked him that he could not be himself and be king. But I have the power, he reminded himself regularly. And I have them all tricked. What could be more enjoyable? This is what I've always wanted.
Loki let his mind transform the empty throne room into the scene he had often imagined as a child. Crowds cheering, rejoicing to see him on the throne. He pictured his father nodding in approval, his mother wiping joyful tears from eyes, and his brother waving and smiling at him. Suddenly, he paused. The imagined gathering disappeared abruptly. Loki had always wanted to be king; however, the scene had always felt different in his imagination. It felt warmer, more joyous, more satisfying. He felt the love of his mother and brother, the approval of his father and the people of Asgard. He had more than power over the people; he had their full respect, loyalty and love, and that of his family too. They wanted him as their king.
But it would never be, he told himself. They never wanted me on the throne, and they never will. Usurpation was the only way to get what I wanted.
His thoughts were interrupted by a palace messenger entering the throne room. "Your majesty," he greeted him politely, "I have come to inform you that the performance by the royal dancers to honour the memory of your dear son, Loki, will begin in the courtyard as soon as you are present."
Loki nodded, thanked the messenger and dismissed him immediately, all in his best imitation of Odin.
A cluster of guests gathered in the courtyard. Loki made his way over to the lounge reserved especially for him. He relaxed gracefully onto the cushioned chair. People flocked to him and greeted him with warm respect. A platter with cubes of cheese, small squares of toasted bread and a bunch of juicy grapes was placed beside him. The people serving him did not do so begrudgingly, with sluggish gestures, rolling eyes, disapproving glares, or barely convincing false graciousness. They seemed cheerful, content, willing and honoured to be of service. They wanted to serve him and please him. And I want them to serve me and please me too, thought Loki with smug grin on his face… well… Odin's face. It was true; the people of Asgard believed they were devoting their efforts and care to the royal one-eyed, grey-haired fool, but Loki was reaping the benefits with no hesitation.
The dancers, three young women and three young men, dressed in costumes of emerald and gold, entered the courtyard and rearranged themselves into a starting formation. They began their dance, an abstract storytelling of Loki's heroic sacrifice. Loki had thought of endless ways he could keep his memory alive in the hearts and minds of Asgard's people: gripping plays, magnificent statues, an annual day of commemoration. Oh, the ways he could bring glory to himself, his true self.
Loki directed his attention back to the dancers, who moved with such emotion and poise, telling the tragic tale of a lost prince. The dance ended, and the on-lookers scattered around Loki erupted with applause. Some wiped tears from their eyes. Loki listened intently to the comments circulating in the air, speaking of the young prince's bravery, heroism, and forgotten good heart. It's quite hilarious how the perception of one changes once death makes them a memory, he thought silently. This, he would use to his advantage. He would plant the perfect image of himself in the minds of the people. He would move them to grieve him, miss him, want him.
Loki encouraged just a single tear to fall from his eyes. It would seem uncharacteristic for the stern, gruff Allfather to weep profusely; however, Loki wanted the people to see how grieved this father was by the loss of his son. "Thank you," he mumbled softly to the royal dancers. "Such a beautiful, touching performance. Oh, my dear Loki. Such an extraordinary, valiant soul he was. And let's not forget his endearing charm. I miss him terribly." He paused momentarily. The words sounded strange in Odin's voice. Strange, but pleasant. These were the words he hoped his father would say about him. These were the words he wanted his father to say about him.
Loki returned to his throne and took a moment to settle the conflict of the confused thoughts that battled in his mind. So, this isn't entirely what I've always wanted, he thought, conjuring up the mental image of his rejoicing family and loyal subjects. But that was a mere fantasy, an impossible dream, he convinced himself, and buried the image in the depths of his mind. Power, the throne, the title of king, those are things I've always wanted, and now I have them. I finally have what I've always wanted…