If he tried hard enough, Loki could remember with perfect clarity the exact shade of Frigga's attentive eyes, and the same timbre of Thor's bellowing laughter, and the very angle of Odin's weary smile.
If he tried hard enough, Loki could even find it in his heart to feel that grief always threatening to wash over him, the tell-tale tightening of his throat and the slight watering of his eyes. He could realize, in a distant, disconnected part of his mind, that he would always feel those familiar trappings of affection for those he once called his family, for that human side of his past, for the lie he'd been so securely cocooned within for all of his life.
It was a disappointing fact, that he would forever be unable to erase them all completely from his mind, that he would always be lesser for it, for those damned emotions that so strictly controlled him. Trying to break free was both exhausting and almost futile, and so Loki often found himself victim to a few moments of what Thor would call realization, but he only viewed it as an ugly obstacle eternally in his way, unmovable and stubbornly unmerciful.
It was in those moments that he heard Thor's joking quips tickling his ears, that he felt the ghost of a burly palm clapped against his shoulder, that he saw the shadow of a smile in his mind's eye.
It was in those moments that he almost saw the shimmering golden fabric of a dress flowing out of sight, that he felt feather-light fingers carding through his hair, that he felt the warmth in Frigga's comforting voice just like the heat from the fireplace at his back.
It was in those moments that he felt the sickeningly familiar longing for approval swelling in his chest, that he nearly saw the twinkle of a smile in Odin's eye, that he could have sworn he heard something, anything, lurking within that aged voice of his.
And it was in those moments that Loki felt closer to a child than he ever had, that he seemed more human than monster in his own reflection, that he could have believed there was any chance to be taken at redemption, that he perhaps, maybe, could have even wanted it. But no, it was a lie, and he was left with tattered memories, left to stare at trembling hands that had once been stained with the All-Father's blood, left to search desperately for the gleam within his eyes that still made Thor believe, left to wonder for the rest of his existence what Frigga had seen beneath the exterior, what she'd seen to make her so adamant about giving him her love.
It was all very torturous for the trickster, and he only ever ended up with more questions, more unresolved needs to simply know, the greatest, burning, toiling desire to find inside of him what had made everyone so empty when he'd severed the connections.
And when he smashed the mirror before him in frustration at coming up empty-handed, he was, still, surprised to find that the blood streaming from the cuts on his hands ran crimson rather than ebony.
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