The color of dying grass. He stared blankly at his reflection in the forming puddle below, rain rolling off of his face in a steady stream to feed it. His eyes, once a vibrant, shocking, nearly fluorescent green, were now merely no more the color of dead grass; not dissimilar to stained glass windows in their transparency. They stood as one of the medals he wore of the pride he no longer had. Of the humanity that had been long since ground down and dusted away.
His stained glass eyes flitted upwards, watching the clouds with a careful sinking feeling as strings of lightning enveloped the clouds, followed by violently shaking thunder. He ran his tongue along the backs of his teeth, drawing in a deep breath from his nostrils, as if the oxygen supply around him were to fully deplete at any moment. And, really, it might as well have. He fingered lightly at his lips, each finger pad delicately tracing the stitching that held his top lip to his bottom lip. He drew in another deep breath, turning away from the crevice he stood next to, retreating in to the small, cavern-like area that had been designated as his dwellings.
There wasn't any furniture, or any other accommodations that a home might have. There were rocks. Rocks which, by now, Loki had moved in to positions that resembled what might have been furniture, though it was really more out of boredom, and he never really used any of it, opting, instead, to sit on the floor of the cavernous area, his back normally against the cool wall. He moved slowly, eyes fully and angrily scanning over every inch of the area, his lips pulling in to as much of a sneer as they could muster in their current state. Loki threw himself down heavily, adjusting his posture a bit as he found the nearby wall, the sudden rush of cold air causing him to momentarily prickle a deep blue color. He tossed his head backwards, meeting the wall, his wet hair sticking to the dirt and grime that created a thin layer of brown against the stone, closing his eyes wearily.
An almost whisper, it had seemed, had brought him out of his meditative state. His eyes open wide, he drew in a sharp breath. It took him a moment to steady himself, but once he had, it took him only a moment more to move to the other side of the cave, slipping carefully out of the mouth, a firm hold on his helm by its beautifully curved horn. He glanced up for a moment, slightly surprised that the rain had already subsided. He didn't think he'd been inside that long. He noted, however, as he slid the helm gently over his hair, adjusting it slightly, that the sky remained an ominous obsidian color, as if threatening to storm once more.
Wrapping his arms around his back, he grasped the wrist of one with the opposite hand, pulling his shoulders up to erect his posture, pulling him up as tall as he could. Hello, he breathed internally, curling his brow in curiosity as he turned the corner of his small cavern, meeting familiar eyes, his own full of malice and ill-will as a mask of apathy once more befell his features. He watched carefully the faces of those standing opposite of him, their features ranging in expressions from disgusted to scared, but all contained an underlying emotion he couldn't quite identify. Appropriate expressions, he supposed, for looking upon his pallid features, the lower half of his jaw stained red with coagulated and long since dried blood, his cheeks somewhat hollow, and his frame much more slender than he was sure they remembered – they would be wise not to mistake him for weak, however, he mused as a side note, as he was anything but.
They stood there for what seemed like a decent chunk of eternity, just eyeing one another. Loki wanted to scream. He wished he could scream. A low humming sound of annoyance in his throat would have to suffice, as he wasn't capable of much else. He shifted his weight, sliding his foot out in front of his body for a moment, watching carefully as they all exchanged nervous glanced to one another. He wondered, for just a moment, where Odinson was. There was the man of iron, the Russian (or, rather ex-Russian) and Steve Rogers – the man out of time. The god of mischief thinned out his lips the best he could, curious as to what new they could possibly bring him that Thor wouldn't be chomping at the bits to carry. He tilted his head curiously to the side slightly, and lifted his chin, as if inviting them to talk.
There was another moment of silence; some awkward shuffling between the Avengers before him, causing Loki to get frustrated. He set his jaw, flaring his nostrils a bit at those before him, rolling his shoulders. Finally, the blonde stepped forward, though he kept his eyes averted from he god – Loki, admittedly, found some joy in the submission.
"Loki," he began, clearing his throat ever so slightly. He wrung his hands a bit. "We came here to…ahh…Thor…" he pursed his lips, looking up at the man before him, "Thor is gone." The last bit passed through his lips much like a whisper.
Loki merely rolled his eyes. He could tell Thor wasn't here. He wasn't sure why it was such an overwhelmingly difficult thing to tell him. He once more curled his brow, humming a bit in acceptance. The Captain let out a sharp breath of disbelief, seeming to crumple a bit on to himself, shaking his head a bit in disbelief. The corners of his eyes gleamed lightly, causing Loki to furrow his brows at the other's reaction. He studied his features almost desperately, searching for the something he was missing. He swallowed hard, eyeing the others for something. Anything.
"Loki –"
"YOUR BROTHER IS DEAD, YOU UNGREATFUL BASTARD!" The man of iron cut in, his metallic voice sharp with an underlying pain.
Loki took a step back, his shoulders slumping a bit. It felt as though all of the wind had been knocked out of his chest; he struggled for air, his heart beating heavily as it sank. Lies. They're lying. He parted his lips lightly, feeling as the threads tightened against his skin, as if to warn him this was a bad idea; not to part them any further. He looked to the ground, and then back up. Again he swallowed, once more struggling for air as the heavy words –the insult behind them – weighed against his shoulders. He looked back up, watching the red head as she shook her head, her lips in a thin line that conveyed anger as well as sadness. He shook his head. Lies.
"YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT, YOU FUCKING…..FUCK!" Tony was struggling for words, Loki had quickly inferred. He tilted his head, watching maliciously as the iron suit took a step forward, lips curling in to a sneer, despite the resistance against the threads. He could feel them as they began to cut in to his skin, but didn't care.
"He was shot, by the way -" he continued, the familiar hatred seeping through his voice.
This was too much. Loki was having some sort of diaphragmatic attack, the feeling akin to hyperventilating. He looked away from the metallic beast. He sank to his knees trying desperately to even out his breathing.
"In the fucking head -"
He reached his hand up, placing it on his mouth. He could feel the tears as they welled up, blurring his vision. They stung, like small pinpricks biting at his irises.
"The fucking head, Loki –"
He started clawing. Desperately – harshly – his nails picked at his lips. He quickly fumbled, clenching his jaw as he grabbed at the strings, feeling as they tugged against his lips. He was shaking, and hated it. Hated the vulnerability he was showing to these people. He grunted, feeling as the strings loosened themselves; feeling the trickling of the warm blood as it comforted the frame of his features. They ripped, tearing flesh with a noise akin to thick sheets of paper being torn in to bits. The feeling was sharp, shooting pain through his entire body. He didn't care. He pulled again, another stifled shadow of a sob; more blood tracing his face. He ran his tongue against it, lapping a bit at the blood that lined his lips. He gave another harsh yank; a tight feeling that gnawed at him, the thread wanting to remain unmoved until it could hold up no longer, ripping its way through the flesh to find itself on the ground below, deep, crimson blood steadily forming a pool upon it. He spat at it, the warm spit foreign against his lips. He took in a deep breath, wiping away the blood from his face that desperately cried out in pain, watching as a large pool of it flung away from his sleeve, the flow not planning to cease any time soon. But he didn't care.
Standing himself erect once more, he bared his blood soaked teeth, lunging himself at the man of iron, who still seemed to be taken up with his dramatic monologue, grasping at his shoulders and taking him to the ground, his fingers digging desperately in to the metal.
"Where is he?" the god choked out. He stopped for a moment, his eyes widening in surprise at his own broken voice, having not heard it in well over a year and a half now. He took a deep, though shaky breath, eyes scanning over the man who he was currently on top of. He could feel the blood as it steadily began to trickle down his neck, the warmth soothing his broken voice.
No answer. He practically growled, gripping tighter. "WHERE IS HE?"
"On earth," the woman chimed in, stepping forward. Loki's gaze shot to her. "He requested to be buried on Midgard."
Loki bared his teeth, clenching his jaw tightly. He straightened his posture, swallowing hard. "Take me to him." He said softly. His eyes scanned the Captain as he shook his head in denial.
"We can't."
"Take. Me. To. Him," he growled, over annunciating his words as if speaking to a child. There wasn't room for question, and there wasn't room for argument. The Avengers would take him to his brother, or they would not return. It was simple.
He looked over the body of Thor. His Thor. He swallowed hard, leaning his weight against the metal table that the large frame of the blonde rested on. He reached a hand up, running his fingers along the overly pale features, leaving streaks of his own blood along the other's forehead, fingertips lingering against the startling wound just off of his left temple. Foreign. In every sense of the meaning. It did not belong. The edges of the hole were calloused, rough and stained a reddish-purple, almost crusty against his fingers. He took in a sharp breath, removing his hand. Then, much to even his own surprise, he let out a laugh. Loud and boisterous; maniacal by nature. "This is all it took," he mused, his lips parting wider as more of his hysterical laughter seeped it way in to the air, ringing uncomfortably against the walls. A slight hitch in his voice, shoulders heaving forward against the laughter – he brought a hand up to his eyes, as if he could hold in the tears.