Loki

A thousand memories whirled in his head. Stolen memories he felt, or rather realised. They were his; he made them, he shared them . . . but they were stolen. They stole them from him.

Loki stood before Odin his father—no, not his father he now knew; Thor's. Unshed tears stood in his eyes, blinding him. But that didn't matter. He didn't need to see to hear the words that were tearing his life apart. He was shaking, trembling ever so slightly as if gripped by a fever. Odin's words hit him like Mjolnir, carving a hole in his chest that was making it harder and harder to breath with every swing. One word in particular. Jotun. A frost giant: The monster that parents frighten their children with at night.

Loki closed his eyes, suddenly lost. Lost and alone. He had always been alone, but not like this. With this he was alone even within himself.

A strong, gentle hand suddenly gripped his shoulder. Loki flinched and like a snake twisted away from it. He glared at Odin who merely stared sadly back at him, pityingly; like he was a lost dog in need of help but too disgusting to even look at. He couldn't bear it, he just couldn't bear it. With a sob he turned and ran, ran as fast as his legs could carry him past guards and childhood acquaintances, not caring who saw him or what they thought. They didn't matter. Nothing did. Nothing.

He ran to his room and locked the door. He leaned against it gasping brokenly, unable to fill his lungs even once. His hands wandered up to his face and numbly he felt his cheeks. They were dry but cold, like ice. He was so empty yet filled with so many emotions he couldn't tell what he truly felt. It was like the puzzle of his life, being put together piece by piece over the centuries, had been missing one, tiny little square where nothing would fit. And then just as he found the piece and completed it, the picture changed. It wasn't the picture on the box anymore, though. Someone had made a mistake. Someone had lied.

Loki etched all of this into his mind, every word, every detail as he remembered. It had been seven days ago now. He had fought with his brother only yesterday. That terrible fight . . . the rainbow bridge was left shattered, just like them. They hadn't decided what to do with him yet, except take away his power. He didn't even need guards now; his weakness was a guard within itself.

Loki clenched his teeth and pushed himself away from the door, where he had been deciding whether to face the world or hide like a coward. He chose coward. He collapsed onto his bed and curled into a ball, fighting the pain rising inside of him. He didn't want to think, he didn't want to feel. He wrapped his arms about himself as if to keep the rest of him from falling into the cavity forming inside his chest.

He lay there for awhile. He didn't know how long, but after awhile Thor came looking for him for the first time since the fight. His brother pounded on his door and called his name. Why now? Loki stared silently at the door, willing him to go away. He feared that Thor, being as stubborn as he was, would try and knock down the door before long. Loki rose from

his bed and stayed up long enough to move some furniture in front of the entry before things started to escalate.

It was a long time before his brother went away. Loki just stared listlessly at the pile of bookshelves when he was gone and then only when night began to fall did he rouse himself. He gathered his things slowly, deliberately, calmly even. He pulled off his casual clothing as though pulling off old skin, like a snake might, and in its place he put his most formal shirt and newest trousers. Then he sat and painstakingly polished his armour, scrubbing away every speck of dirt, rubbing away every blemish from its surface. He put that on as well, adjusting it until it sat perfectly, unnoticeably. Then his emerald cape. He slipped into his midnight black boots and smoothed back his raven black hair. Lastly his helmet out of which curved the elegant golden horns that had become in a way his trademark, his identity. They glinted in the moonlight as he fitted it resolutely to his head.

At length, feeling complete, safe, he turned to the mirror for the final check. He didn't want to miss anything. He found himself staring back; a tall, slim man dressed as though for battle or—as would be in Asgard—a funeral. In the moonlight his pale skin appeared blue.

Loki turned away before the red eyes appeared as well. There was nothing more to see anyway. He was ready, both mentally and physically.

After all, he wanted to look his best for his suicide