(n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past
Blood.
There was blood everywhere.
Loki stood, frozen, in the halls of Asgard, his eyes burning as he took in the gore around him.
"No..." He breathed.
The Allfather's body, crumpled on his throne, his ancient beard flecked with red as his single eye stared lifelessly at him, his shattered, bleeding body still with death.
His mother lay crumbled against the stairs, her body contorted and shredded, cooling puddles of blood continuing to drip down the golden stairs. He only recognized her by the ragged mop of blonde hair above her mangled face, dripping crimson.
Thor...perfect, glorious Thor.
The warrior prince was still alive, crawling towards him, a bloodied stump where his hand should have been; leaving streaks of the precious life fluid against the immaculate floors. His leg was mangled, his foot nearly facing backwards, blood staining his gritted teeth as he looked up at the younger prince.
"You..." Thor snarled, furious tears dripping through the dirt and blood that streaked his face. "How could you...?"
Loki stared, blinking in horror at Thor's shattered demeanor. He slowly reached down towards him, to lift him (his idol, his protector, his brother,). "Thor..."
Loki froze. His hand...
"You Beast..."
Blue. Cold and carved with fearsome marks across his fingers, trembling with some unknown fear. Slathered with the blood of his family, a poison sinking into his skin. His hand...
WhatamIwhatamIwhatamIwhatamI?
His mind, tumbling into the dark, the Void clawing at his body and robbing him of sensation and thought, drowning in the nothingness of space.
Barren moons, cruel hands touching and tearing at him, his skin crackling like paper in a fire, dark voices whispering soft cruelties and soothing promises of release that made him want to sob and vomit all at once.
Death must be served...
Death will always be served...
A blinding white light-
()()()()()()
Loki shot up in bed, a choked gasp escaping pale lips as magic flew to his fingertips, ready to attack his tormentors-
His room was empty.
He glanced around, holding his breath, ears straining for signs of an intruder. The muted sounds of cars driving below, the soft lights shining through his window, casting a gentle golden light in his shadowed apartment. He waited.
It was silent.
He released his breath, fighting back a shiver of relief as his shoulders relaxed, his heart still racing in his chest. The trickster reached up, running slender fingers through tangled black locks as he closed his eyes. It's over. He cannot reach you here. They cannot reach you here. Nothing can reach you here. You are fine.
He took a deep breath.
It was difficult.
He tried again.
It caught in his throat.
He gritted his teeth, clenching his fingers in his hair. No. The time for weeping over oneself was long past.
Never again.
Loki took a deep breath, letting his hand fall from his hair as he stood with a shaky sigh, determined to pretend the fading sting in his eyes was never there.
He didn't sleep for the rest of the night.