A/N: written: umm . . . summer 2012? I don't remember.
edited: August 21, 2013
I don't own anything!
()()()
He always had a flair for the dramatic.
()()()
Watch this, Mother!
In the garden, his fingers uncurl and splay out into the air, and up comes a shoot of green, creeping out from the dirt. He flicks his hand towards the prodigious walls of the castle, and as if on cue, ivy crawls out from under the soil, scaling the walls and imploring the sun's warmth. He looks to Frigga expectantly, and she smiles and says, "Well done, Loki."
Watch this, Thor!
In the library, he points at his brother, and one, two, three hardback volumes rise from the shelves and streak through the air. With a laugh, Thor ducks, and the books sail over his head, landing with soft thumps in the plush armchair off to the corner. He grins at Thor, and his brother smiles right back, clapping a hand onto his shoulder. "Well done, Loki," he says.
Watch this, Father!
In the throne room, he duplicates himself, shimmering doppelgangers of an eager, smiling boy with a mop of dark hair and wide green eyes appearing next to Odin's kingly seat. He beams at his father, a smile too big for his face, and waits.
But Odin does not look at him. Odin does not smile. Odin does not move at all.
And slowly, Loki stops smiling.
()()()
His fingers are slipping on the scepter. Thor's eyes will not leave his face, but the only thing he sees is his father, or the man he'd thought to be so. He entreats. He tries to make him understand; he was only trying to help. The realms would've been better off without the frost giants, that miserable race of wretched beasts with their skin congealed in hoarfrost, their eyes blood red—
His father says no, and he thinks, for one instantaneous moment, that perhaps they'd be better off without him. Was he not the same beast?
He lets go.
He thinks, more than a little bit spitefully: Watch this, Father.
()()()
The curtain rises, and he wreaks havoc upon Midgard.
The earth is his stage and the sun is his spotlight. He is a performer. The only witness to his crimes is the whole of the nine realms. The words of his soliloquy roll off of his tongue with ease, a shimmering web of words hanging in the air and capturing the fly-like minds of the imbecilic humans. He preaches to them and waits for their applause.
There are no second chances. He cannot turn back now.
His words are more than that; they are melodies, soaring softly through the atmosphere, dancing on eardrums and reverberating inside hollow skulls. The humans look on, awestruck; their jaws are slack, their eyes dull and blank. They are the ideal adoring followers. Disciples. Subjects.
There's a burning in his heart when the curtain goes down, when his not-brother looks upon him sorrowfully as if to say You knew this would happen, but he smiles nonetheless, smiles almost like he used to, and takes a bow.
()()()
Thor's hand is clamped too tightly over his arm, manhandling him into the great hall. He walks with his head high, grinning so widely under the mask that he can taste blood on his tongue. His footsteps are loud, but the silence is louder, deafening to his ears.
Waiting in the wings are the extras, watching the star of the show be escorted down the aisle. They do not cheer upon his return; they simply watch, tucking their children into the curves of their arms and doing little to hide the contempt written across their countenances.
The spotlight falls upon Odin now. His not-father's face is limned in gold, his august throne towering above his subjects. Thor kneels, but he doesn't—he simply stares.
Then, slowly, he smiles again.
Did you enjoy the show?
