MAJOR SPOILER ALERT. IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE MOVIE YET DO NOT PROCEED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
A/N: So I saw Thor 2: The Dark World last night and I have so many feelings for Loki, it's not even funny. Loki is my all time favorite character from everything. I love his complexities and humanness, I sympathize with his constant need to prove himself and show his worth, and his need to put up a mask of confidence. The way that Thor 2 really put a focus on these character traits had me curled up in a ball of emotion. Let's just say that I bawled when he died...
With my new found muse, I had to write this. Since I couldn't really put a summary in the description for fear of spoiling the movie (because it's still so new) I'll put a more detailed one here.
This is a one shot about Loki's thoughts after he finds out about Frigga's death. It really focuses on how broken his mind is. I also sort of wrote this as a back story to the popular gif of him that's going around. (If you don't know which one I'm talking about, it's the one of him sitting against a wall with a blood foot where he leans forward and screams.) I thought that there was a lot of material to work with in those few seconds alone and just went with it.
Well, enjoy!
- Antics
He could feel an agony filled scream work its way into his throat as he watched the Asgardian leave his presence. He turned around, fists clenched. His eyes burned, itched to let the tears flow, but he wouldn't allow them. His untrimmed nails dug into the dry flesh of his palms, causing them the crack and bleed from the pressure.
Gone. Dead. Murdered. Killed. The words attacked his mind.
Perished. Light snuffed out. Never to be seen again.
He blinked hard, trying to fend off the painful thoughts.
How could this happen? He had seen her only hours ago. Or had it been weeks? He didn't know. There was no way of telling in the dreary dungeon that he was condemned to.
Frigga had always been a fighter and a selfless woman. She had taught him everything that he knew. He had modeled himself off her. His skills with a knife had been nurtured by her. His ability to project images of himself where he was not was only because of her patient teachings. When no one else seemed to have any care for Loki, she was the one that was there plucking him up out of the dirt. She was the only one who even bothered to visit him during his imprisonment, and now she was gone. Dead. Murdered. Killed, and by some... some thing that had no business being in Asgard in the first place.
A monster that parents tell their children about a night. Just like himself.
Loki lost it. Furniture flew up and smashed against the walls of the cell. Dents formed in the plaster from the hits. He kicked the walls, broke chairs, shattered a table. The once orderly room was in utter disarray.
He paused a moment. The books his mother brought to him lay untouched in one corner of the room. They'd been there for a while now and he hadn't quite brought himself to the place where he would give in to such pleasure.
He didn't really deserve it. Comfort, that is. Why should he indulge when he had failed so miserably in everything? He couldn't compete with Thor. He hadn't been able to prove himself worthy of the throne. He couldn't win the battle in New York. Now he had one more thing to add to his list of shortcomings. He hadn't been able to protect his mother when she needed him most. Reward was out of the question.
A sudden ire bubbled up inside of him and he flipped the stack. The familiar sound of paper fluttering was amplified for the amount of books that he had thrown and then they hit the floor with a thud.
He stared at them for a long while, pondering a million thoughts at once. What had been his mistake? Where had he gone wrong? More importantly, why was he so deranged and incapable?
In a fit of rage he screamed and kicked out at a broken chair. The splintered wood punctured his calloused skin. A warmth flowed from the bottom of his foot and he stumbled back against the wall. He watched as the blood dripped in a pool. His vision blurred and stung with tears until all he could see was red.
Weak. The word was chanted over and over inside his mind as he sank to the floor in agony. Weak.
He ran his shaky, sweaty hands through the mess he called hair. The unusual texture only served to anger him more, though he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was just that the unfamiliar, greasy feeling reminded him of the disheveled state that he was really in. The state that he wished he wasn't in.
He could have saved her. He knew that he could have if only he had been there. He should have been there. He should have been there to stop her suffering. He should have reminded her of his undying love and devotion to her by standing by her side like a good son should. But of course he could not because of those bastards who stuck him in his cage.
The negativity and hatred surged through him like a current and he couldn't take it. He heaved himself forward and let a guttural cry burst from his throat. The muscles in his neck tightened and his hands contorted into shaky, curled forms under his chest. He closed his eyes and for a moment all was darkness as his emotions poured out into audible form.
After every last bit of air and sound had left him he slammed back against the wall in a crumpled mess of a man. He took a few shaky breaths, his energy now spent. His lip quivered slightly as he tried to compose himself. Though his eyes focused but three feet in front of him, they stared off into a distant place. He clutched one hand with the other and his chest rose and fell with his defeat. That was when he realized how truly damaged he was.
The god of mischief had broken.
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Please review.