Potential slight spoilers for the sequel, if a certain event actually happens. By now, I'm sure most have heard about the whole Frigga thing, which will most likely happen. Alright, it's basically definitely happening. The first in the series of 'Thor 2' fics I'm for sure going to be writing, especially after the movie comes out. xD
He often thought about monsters, in the suspended, electric silence of the night, when all of the guards struggled with the slumber persistently rapping at the backs of their eyelids with the gentlest of feather-light touches, when the world hung still and soundless around him, when the burdens of the day couldn't bear down on him in the careless atmosphere of weightlessness that encompassed all of the nine realms.
He couldn't sleep, and his vision was far too blurred for reading late-night books, and they hurt anyway, too sore and raw from all of the tears that had run from them, acidic rivers burning a trail down his cheeks.
So, Loki occupied his time with the one thing he could never shut off, could never silence: his mind. He entertained fantasies of breaking out of that godforsaken cell and losing himself in the wilderness of his childhood, or taking a few guards down with him before they decided to finish him off once and for all, or sneak into Odin's chambers and…
…watch him sleep, or cut his throat, or sit at his bedside and take his hand and try to share his dreams (just like the long gone nights of his youth), or make the All-Father suffer, suffer and wither and perish.
Loki couldn't do any of that, of course, and wasn't sure which he'd choose if the chance ever arose.
Maybe he'd go to Thor, cut his eye out so he could be just like Odin, the golden star-forever born to be a king-that could do no wrong, or maybe he'd wake him and have one last talk, or decide not to wake him at all and confess all of his sins to his brother's sleeping form, all those sins so very drenched in crimson, dripping droplets of blood all across his stained ledger.
Loki could let his mind go in circles, his thoughts always finding ways to end up at the same place, over and over until insanity was just a few mere inches away.
Deep down, though, Loki knew what he'd do, and where he'd go.
He'd roam the halls, dragging his slender fingers along the golden walls as memories of a dark haired boy, running hand in hand with the golden son of Asgard, greeted him, laughing as he sprinted down the hall, his green eyes innocent and happy. Pure happiness, in its simplest form, shining out at a new world from a new face, a fresh canvas awaiting the most brilliant of paints, the most memorable of moments yet to be made.
He'd go to his chambers, after that, in the hopes that it would look the same, and when he found the familiar scenery, he'd hum to himself as he plucked a book from one of the many dust-touched shelves, leafing through its worn pages to rediscover all of the reasons he'd fallen in love with magic, the wonders of new realization dawning on his face just as it had so many thousands of years ago.
He'd creep out of his room to sneak down the hall, lightly padding by Thor's bedchambers to hear the man snoring horrendously, and he'd imagine the blonde, sprawled out over his sheets with his mouth agape, eyelids fluttering with peaceful dreams. He'd close his eyes for a moment to picture a younger Thor, a more naïve boy and an easier smile, and Loki would take a deep breath before the pain became too much.
He'd think of Odin as he passed through the palace doors, sliding down the gilded stairs like he was floating on air, and the image of his father would nestle into that mystifying soft spot struggling to stay alive within the confines of such a hard, callous heart.
He'd find himself wandering into the grave yard, but Asgard wouldn't have cemeteries. It would be his grave yard, flat land interrupted by a single stone marker set upon its surface. There would be no body, and no flowers, and no pictures; only words, only a name.
Frigga.
It would be slow, the grief, and it would take its time to truly get to him, to register in that fluttering soft spot, and when it did, he'd fall to the ground beside the stone, splaying his hands over the smooth rock as tears dripped from his eyes, his throat shaking.
The dirt would be muddy, because it would be raining (it would always be raining in his imaginary world), and Loki wouldn't care to wipe the water trailing down his face, and he'd stare down at that name until it became a meaningless, empty mix of letters engraved upon a marker.
That's when Loki thought of monsters, of the particular one that did the unspeakable, the unthinkable, and took from the world the one woman that had treated him like her own son for all of her life, who had loved him unconditionally, who had never given up her treasured hope and cherished faith. And it was all gone, she was gone, just like she'd meant nothing, just like she'd never smiled at Loki and kissed his cuts and nursed him from sickness and laughed at his bad jokes and taught him magic and brushed his mussed hair back and encouraged his every action.
Just like she had never loved him.
Frigga was absent from the world and it did nothing. The planet didn't stop its spinning; it didn't moan in sorrow, it didn't cry acid rain.
It never rained in the real life around him; it was so sunny and bright that he had to shield his eyes from the light, so very blinding.
Loki would think of monsters and evil and death, and he'd cry into his hands, closing his eyes to shield his view from his own reflection, because he saw all of his thoughts shining through in his eyes.
And what eyes they were, glimmering crimson in an image of blue skin and runes, distorted from the puddle of tears, gazing back at him atop the name that meant everything in the world to him.
Loki would cry, cry and sob and shake, because, despite Frigga's loving murmurs, despite her efforts to open his eyes to her truth, despite the fading ember of hope in Thor's eyes, despite the betrayed look on Odin's aged face, Loki was one of those monsters, and there wasn't a bit of difference between the reflection grinning back at him and the man that murdered his mother.
And the god could only return to himself, blinking away his reverie inside his spacious cell, glass walls caging him and his magic in, his fruitless thoughts again circling to what he'd do if he could leave this place, and he barely felt, perhaps because of its constant presence, the wetness starting to dry upon his cheeks, fading from memory just like every last smile and laugh and whisper, lifting up and up and up until the watchful heavens were far, far below.
Please R&R! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated. If you have any prompts/ideas/pairings, drop one by and I'll try to write it! ;)