.
'I knock the ice from my bones
Try not to feel the cold
Caught in the thought of that time
When everything was fine, everything was mine
Everything was fine, everything was mine
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put me back together again
Run with my hands on my eyes
Blind, but I'm still alive
Free to go back on my own
But is it still a home when you're all alone
Is it still a home when you're all alone
There is a reason I'm still standing
I never knew if I'd be landing
And I will run fast, outlast,
Everyone that said no. . .
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put me back together again.'
~ All The King's Horses, excerpt. Karmina~
He exhaled.
It was so frozen, the world around him, that he could see his breath. He hated this realm, but he had come because Thor wanted him to. He wouldn't have, but his brother had wanted him. After so long of mockery and taunting that he was nothing but a trickster and a scholar, Thor had desired his company. . . Truly, he could complete his machinations here just as easily as back in Asgard. . . But add to this unexpected companionship that it would supplant the blame of telling Odin of this illegal adventure onto someone else, casting suspicion off him for at least a handful of hours, if not more. He would have smiled, only it was too cold here to do anything but focus on caution and leaving alive.
It was too quiet, his senses shouted.
He inhaled, and the bitter chill seeped into his lungs like a poison.
He shifted, ignoring the cold sensations of the eternal ice and snow creeping up from under the soles of his boots. Try not to feel the cold.
He felt an inane sense of dread when Thor turned and allowed his pathetic pride to overcome his wisdom; not that the fool ever exuded much intelligence in any matter. Which was why he had manipulated this event into taking place. To prove, once and for all, that Thor was not ready to be crowned; that he would bathe Asgard in a new age of blood and war if he were to become her king. He wanted everyone to see and comprehend as he did, since they would not believe him if he uttered the concern.
He fought, not because it was amusing, but because it was something that must be done, though he did it minimally and reverted to tricks if he could. But suddenly tricks were not enough. He stared down a monster, a creature that was perhaps the last thing he and Thor shared similar perspectives over. He tried to pull himself away, heeding warnings shouted amidst the clash of weapons and ice, but found he couldn't.
He felt frozen.
He couldn't force himself to breathe. . . it was too cold, he was too cold. Fear clawed up his throat, desperate to scream, to be recognized in his soul, and he cursed it, dragging a dagger through the monster who had shown him something terrifying. Something. . . no one would understand, something he might be slain for if anyone . . . saw. He would be an outcast even more so by this. Thor. . . He would lose all of his brother's love, he was sure, if the other knew. He flew back into fighting; desperately his mind pulled for answers, grasping and clutching, but he felt only that nameless fear; it was drowning him in spite of his desire to throw it off.
Cursed . . . his thoughts hissed, and he felt the shudder start in his heart and expand toward his fingertips. He nearly missed his mark on his opponent.
If I had not consented to take this fool's errand with them. . . His mind refused to cease the pains of what could have been, and so he resolved to ignore them.
They must depart this realm, they must get out; he would have his answers when they went home, he believed fervently. Mother would explain, Father would offer his usual stoic remarks, and he could consider himself normal again. . . His breath caught in his throat because here he was, the Liar of liars, lying to himself.
It was too cold, and his heart seemed to be locked in ice. He couldn't ignore the pain of the frozen realm, and it bit into his skin and anchored in his heart.
Cursed, surely. . .
~|{o0o}|~
"One, two, three, four. . ." His hands slipped where they covered his eyes. He quickly fixed them. He did not want to be called a cheater.
"You cannot find me, Loki!"
"I can! I can find you; Mother is teaching me a finding spell!"
"You can't use tricks, Loki! You must use your eyes," Thor's exasperated voice drifted to his ears from somewhere overhead. Loki kept counting.
"You missed seventeen!" Thor scolded cheerfully.
"This is silly, I know you're sitting in the tree," Loki scoffed, dropping his hands and tilting his head back. Thor looked down at him, swinging his legs back and forth aimlessly on his perch.
"Can I climb up with you?"
Thor smiled and nodded.
"Come on, Loki."
The raven-haired little boy stood and began his ascent into the sturdy limbs of the oak to join his blond brother.
~|{o0o}|~
He stared at the whirling, illuminated Bifrost in disbelief. He had expected Thor to be reprimanded; scolded, perhaps, but he never believed Father would banish the favored son. He couldn't remove his gaze. He had wanted Thor to feel ridicule, not be turned out of the only home he had known; not cast away without power, without protection. The loyalty ingrained into him from a lifetime of growing up with Thor ached to find his brother, but that devious part. . . The side of him that had made all this possible, swore this was necessary. He couldn't decide.
He loved his brother, in spite of what the Warriors Three believed, in spite of what Sif believed. But the nightmarish revelation he had been given at the hand of a cold monster caused him to feel restless, ill at ease. He willed himself to be calm, and peered down at his hand again, afraid that if he looked it would be Jotun blue, garish and impossible. Unless. . .
Cursed.
The possibility attacked once more, assailing the careful walls he had constructed to block the fear. He left Thor's companions and went to the only place he knew he could experiment. If only he had kept to his well-laid plans. If only he hadn't given in to his childish need to be in Thor's orbit; acknowledged and respected as a brother, a friend, a warrior. Damn his naivety! If only, if only, he thought in a repetitious cloud, desperate to reverse time and refuse to go.
He stared at the Casket he gripped until his fingers ached to let go. He could feel it, invading and crawling along his skin like corrupted seidr. His eyes closed not of his own volition, but because he couldn't bear looking any longer. He heard them then, uneven and stately. Footsteps on the stairs.
"Stop!"
His eyes flew open, and his world was awash in a broader spectrum of colors. He stiffened. Dropped his hands slowly from the relic, curious and yet soundlessly terrified.
"Am I cursed?"
It was as a child's simple question, yet it held the weight of Yggdrasil. He did not wish to know, and yet he must, for his sanity, for his peace. Lie, lie, lie, he swore fiercely in his head. He was the master of lies, and he wanted them now; anything; any kind of lie but an unbearable truth. A beautiful lie, carved of crystal and bejeweled with diamond; brilliant as sunlight, fair as starlight. He wanted it now, so dearly that he wanted to scream like a madman for it.
"No."
No. No. No! He refused. No, he would not . . . but his mind flew faster than he could will it to halt.
"What am I?" He stood completely still, watching his hands. It was taking longer this time, much longer. He wanted eloquence now, words and more words; words to fill up the emptiness tearing at him; words to soothe the only possible truth he could conclude.
"You are my son."
Not that, he didn't want only that! He needed - please - he begged, but his voice formed other words. "What more than that?"
Now he transformed; slowly he felt the change weaken and fade. But he couldn't shake the cold. Numb from frost and exposure. He felt raw, and he wanted to cry out, for this to be made well, to be erased as if it had never occurred. Where was Mother? He needed words, explanation. . . So he explained, summoning conclusions and dragging answers from the All-father one by one in painful determination. He grit his teeth. This was not what I wanted.
His mind whirled as the answers spiraled. No, no, no, no! He was not, it was not. . . But it was. It was. It must be true, for his- no, he was not his father! The understanding was ill, a cruel taunt as to why he never belonged. He sought answers, but they were the stuff of nightmare. All the tales, the disregard and hate for Frost Giants. . . with him one all along. What sort of demented life was this? He was the Trickster, and yet those he had loved all his life had played the ultimate trick. He felt betrayed yet there was no way to gain justification, no resolve from this screeching crescendo. He wanted peace, reassurance, but there was no avenue out of this valley of shadow.
The guards removed Odin from where he had fallen, and he fled those chambers. He had needed comfort and found only weak professions of familial love. He had sought answers and found bald truth, ungently given and almost thoughtlessly presented.
"So why did he lie?" Calm, quiet, relaxed.
He was the god of lies; he would lie until he could bear it no longer. The child in him, the child that was ever-present in his mother's presence, screamed for him to ask honestly, to question with all the fear and the pain, but he could not find it in himself to cease playing this game with a facade that was easier than giving in to the baying fears.
"He kept the truth from you so you would never feel different. You are our son, Loki. And we your family."
No, not even she would bring him solace! He did not want to know they were family, he did not care for such empty declarations. He did not want to know that he was welcomed with open arms because no one had ever been told anything about him besides a gilded falsehood. He wanted to know that he was loved because they loved him as he was, for what he was and how he loved them ardently, not because he was something useful in some future chess game of politics and strategy.
He stood, but she paused him.
He stared at the spear.
He held its foreign golden weight.
No, not reassurance of their trust like this.
No, he did not want this faith in him.
Like a loyal dog entrusted with the hall only after the master departed. This was not his scheme. But she, Mother - Mother, why? - smiled gracefully and called him her king, seeming to believe this was her love shining through. No, he wanted the gentle kindness she had shown when she had taught him her tricks; the words of solace that he would be all right, even when he was hurting and thought he was nothing.
He did not want a golden rod of power and a golden throne.
~|{o0o}|~
"I will catch you! I do not fail at this game!"
"Never, brother!" Thor. In the air, probably. Cheating just because he was learning to fly without wings. . . He scoffed with annoyance.
"You won't catch me, liar!" Sif sang breathlessly, no double meanings in her words, from somewhere close to his shoulder.
To his left Fandral laughed.
He turned, and Sif exclaimed gleefully from almost directly in front of him. He stumbled, putting his fingers to the blindfold over his eyes. He stilled, calling up his seidr to locate them in the faux-darkness the material had created.
Something. . . The youth stilled abruptly. Why were they so quiet? Something was not right. . .
"Loki!" Thor screamed wildly, from somewhere . . . not where he had been. He heard it then. Hoof-beats. He froze, heart pounding, mind empty.
"Run, Loki, run!" Sif shouted. He ran.
"Loki, to me! To me, brother, to my voice!" Thor cried urgently.
He ran, attempting to remove the blindfold. . . Damn his magic. Not until he had caught one of them, that had been the arrangement agreed upon before the spell was cast. His hands struck one of the courtyard walls painfully, and he might have fallen backward from the sudden contact had not Thor snatched him upwards by the front of his tunic with a desperate jerk.
He panted, fear having taken over.
"You caught me," Thor murmured, adrenaline deepening his tone, and the blindfold slackened. Loki tore it off and looked down. A sleek ebony bull paced irately below them near the wall. Across the way Sif and Fandral were clutching the stout branches of a tall oak. The animal's horns were long and cruel.
He exhaled. He could have been gored and trampled to death, but he hadn't. Blinded temporarily, but at least he was alive. Thor laughed weakly and roughly embraced him.
~|{o0o}|~
He stood before the throne, and it was then that they came. Thor's friends. . . his friends. Once. To beg and plead and ask to have their war-loving, chaos-inciting companion back in their midst without learning the lesson he so desperately needed to learn.
He might be some temporary regent, instilled by default with a power he had not desired, but that did not mean he would undo what had been done. And so he said, even as his plans formed. He had been given power. He must prove that he was loyal, in spite of what he had learned; in spite of the fact that he was not a true-born son of Odin. He must prove that even now he was faithful, so that there would never be doubt.
He must.
But first, to schemes and fine designs. He could not fail in this.
And then it came to him.
For centuries Asgard had spurned the Jotuns. They had fought them in countless wars, with great loss. And what had the Gatekeeper said? If the Bifrost was left open it would destroy the world it had been left open to. . . He could subdue that realm more thoroughly than with the ineffective efforts Odin had undergone. Then the All-father would no longer see him as weak; a failure that played with seidr instead of sword. He would finally be a worthy item to be in possession of, if that was how Odin had seen him when he'd discovered him in the ruins of that temple so long ago.
He would prove that he was always a son of Odin, never the son of a monster. No, no, more than that, that he was Asgardian. He was. He breathed Asgard, loved Asgard, would care for it while he was its king. Yes, so be it. The first act in this play as king would be to become worthy in the eyes of its true king. Worthy. . . at last. He lied so beautifully to himself that he could taste victory like a heady summer wine.
He lied and he lied and he lied.
He lied to Thor, he lied to his companions, he lied to his mother, he lied to himself, he lied to the Jotuns, he lied to Heimdall.
Creator of lies, god of mischief, it was what he did. He formed chaos so he could be the savior. But he was doing this for something different. How else could he prove his undying fealty? He must, somehow, become the good son without having a drop of Odin's blood in his veins.
It was unraveling at the ends, but he blinded himself. His plans were guided by childish need; draped in the thought that, by a violent and swift stroke, he could achieve his ultimate desire, a desire that had haunted him all his life: equal standing beside Thor. Not above, not below, but equality. It was all he asked, all he wanted.
He unleashed a demon on a fragile world, intending it to be a distraction. The Warriors Three and Sif had disregarded his authority; they had gone. It was an unforeseen disturbance of the quiet waters of his plan, but he would force these ripples to conform to his intent before they became waves. He listened and he knew, he saw and he realized. But gods cannot be killed, and Thor would not die. . . not now that he had found his humility and was stupidly offering himself for the lives of the Midgardians.
He accepted this offering, and left the throne room. Thor did not need his aid any longer to reacquire Mjolnir.
He coerced and imprisoned, using his newfound heritage to silence for an interlude his only threat: the Gatekeeper.
And for a moment, he felt that this could be perfection. Mother beside him, and the demon who was his sire nothing but ash. He was victor over the monsters, and he would finish. He would prove whose son he was, whose relic, whose weapon. In spite of the living lie he was, in spite of the heritage in his veins resting like a roaring river under silent ice. He was loyal, he was loyal, he was loyal, he would swear it until he died.
But then all at once, Thor.
And his meticulous designs were failing, and he hated his brother.
But he would finish.
He would tear Jotunheim out of the World Tree with one violent twist, like rotten fruit from a healthy vine. He was Asgardian. He did not belong with monsters in a land of darkness and ice.
~|{o0o}|~
"Fight me!"
Thor laughed and Loki grinned. "Of course, but so long as you accept defeat gracefully, brother," the older boy teased, blue eyes sparkling.
The fought, and Loki lost his great blade quickly. Thor paused, but Loki brought a dagger to his palm, as Mother had shown him. It was one of twelve.
Thor lunged forward, laughing, and Loki ducked and twisted and dodged, as Mother and he had practiced. A dagger was small, but no less dangerous when the opponent was not skilled in them. Then Loki produced his ultimate trick; Mother had taught it to him only two nights past.
Forty specters, all in his image, ringed his brother, and he stood just to Thor's left, smiling no less exuberantly than his images. He lunged, and Thor tumbled to his back. Loki crouched over him, dagger at his throat.
"I win," he chuckled. Thor laughed loud and boisterously.
"Of course you do, brother. A good trick that was." Thor stood and dusted his tunic off. Loki magicked the daggers away. But his heart no longer soared with the victory and exuberance of a spar well-won. Tricks. He smiled faintly, and turned. Thor called up Sif and Fandral, and the two came sprinting with their weapons.
Tricks, nothing more. Disappointment scored his heart. He inhaled and exhaled, closing his eyes and guiding his emotions back into sure control. He would go read until the pain was less. Reading was good; it soothed invisible aches and distilled unintentionally injurious words so that they became meaningless and forgotten.
~|{o0o}|~
He stared up at the destruction he had wrought. The light was terrifying and yet. . . he was delighted by it. It meant he would finally have victory not earned through tricks. It was power, a king's power, a loyal son's power. Asgard was eternal, strong and glorious. The head of Yggdrasil. Here it was, defined and displayed in a more efficient manner than repulsive war. He had never been a lover of war and the brutal madness she espoused. This was finesse and perfection, all strength utilized in achieving what had before been impossible.
"I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all!"
No, it is I who shall slay them, not you, brother.
"Why have you done this?"
What? Why had he done. . . ? He turned to face his brother, the god who had been mortal but was now endowed with strength gained from worthiness and a transformed soul. This was something he had always spoken of, and now he questioned it?
Were his intentions not clear? How could Thor not see. . . This was all they had spoken of when they were younger, unmindful of the irony within their fantasies of war and victory. A Frost Giant taught that his people were nothing but monsters to be slain and subdued.
"To prove to Father that I am a worthy son! When he wakes, I will have saved his life, I will have destroyed that race of monsters, and I will be true heir to the throne!" But was that really what he wanted? Yes, he decided ferociously, he wanted it. He wanted to be doggedly loyal, bound eternally to Asgard; he would have his tricks and his cunning, and from then on he would have no need to stir the demon sleeping beneath this perfect Aesir facade.
"You can't kill an entire race!"
How could he not? Surely Thor hadn't forgotten their play as children? To wipe out the monsters, to make them suffer for each and every drop of Asgardian blood they had spilt. They had always dreamt it, but suddenly here was sympathy instead of support. He was . . . uncertain and confused, but he suppressed it in favor of his determination. If he poured out his secret and his heritage, Thor would kill him; he felt this as he felt the deliciously delirious thrum of Gungnir's great magic.
"Why not? . . . And what is this new found love for the Frost Giants? You could have killed them all with your bare hands!" Thor had wanted to, once. No lies now, only truth, he convinced himself.
"I've changed."
That was something he might have laughed at in another age, but he knew. . . There was no lie behind Thor's words. He had changed. But they both had changed. Thor had become a man worthy to be king, and it ate at him. For his mind whispered that he had become the careless one; the one who threw caution and planning to the wind in favor of actions to stave off his fear. But he would do anything to risk never being seen as a monster. He would kill and kill and kill until he was believed and his faith was assured.
"So have I. Now fight me!"
They fought, and they fought not only with blows but with words, and he knew that somewhere in the madness he had admitted his longest desire, his oldest hurt. To be equal. But never his nightmare; no, that was his to hide and his to share when he willed. Thor let a blow fall like thunder on the thrumming bridge before the Bifrost, and he stood amazed. What was this? A second sacrifice?
"What are you doing? If you destroy the Bridge, you'll never see her again!" He implored to sentiment and affection, but it was a futile venture, and he knew it instantly. The ground began to tremble, and he saw all his determination fade in an instant. The bridge tumbled down into the infinity of a hole in space, and he felt terror, tenfold what he felt in Jotunheim. He reached for something, anything, to stay his death. He did not want to die, not when he could still swear himself true to this race. His fingers encircled the golden staff of Gungnir, and he grasped it with everything in his being.
He looked up, and Thor looked down at him. But he looked beyond his brother, to the ultimate liar in this realm, to the ultimate strategist. The king who had given him a lie he had embraced and clung to so tenaciously that it was foolish hope from that falsehood he believed in now. He wanted to go on being the son of a king. A better king than the demon he had vanquished. And he implored this to the man who kept them from falling into a dark abyss.
"I could have done it, Father! I could have done it! For you! For all of us!"
For the alleviation of my fear, for your approval, for this realm's love. I would do all you might ask me, and beyond. Do not let me go. It was all he had that remained; his handhold slipped, but he refused to be the weak one, to let go when he couldn't hold on any longer. He screamed with his soul, and he implored with his eyes. Please, give me now what you denied me. His heart yearned wildly. Peace, understanding, consolation. And if you cannot give that then lie as I know you can! For you have fooled the Lord of Lies, so do it once more in this moment.
"No, Loki."
No. No. No! Five thousand meanings in one word. He stared as if a dagger had gone to his heart. Lie, his soul hissed venomously. Lie, lie, lie! But do not tell me I am not yours, that I am not worthy, that I am a monster. You cannot mean I have never been equal, and I never can be. Do not say that with one word, one look, one soft cadence of breath. Not with my name at the end as if I am a child who asked for another tale before bed when I had exceeded my time. The wind rushed, and world was silent, but he felt as if he clung to infinity. He couldn't breathe, and his heart pounded.
"No, Loki."
His strength fled. No, he was not worthy. No, he was not loyal. No, he was not equal. No, he was not a true son. No, he should not continue to hold on when it did not matter whether he breathed or perished. His eyes fled in terror from the face of the man who deemed him a failure, to the man who had been his brother. Knowing flashed with fear to rival his own.
So be it.
"Loki, no. . ."
A different declaration, but he was decided. His fingers uncurled, and he let go.
"NO!"
A/N: Well, I'm sure I've given some unsuspecting readers some unexpected feels.
This is chapter one of what might a be a two or three-part one-shot spanning Thor, Avengers, and Thor: The Dark World. Honestly, I can't comprehend where this materialized from. I think it came from watching deleted scenes. Or maybe comes from listening to All The King's Horses by Karmina religiously while watching YouTube videos (on mute) compiled of Loki's life before and after Thor, Avengers, and Thor: TDW. Or maybe it's just because I read Way. Too. Bloody. Much. into Tom Hiddleston's acting. Thanks, depression! *sarcasm*
Anyway, I was giving myself some serious feels after watching the deleted/extended scene from Thor where Loki manipulates Thor into going to Jotunheim. (The "yes, of course" clip. Yeah, that one) I realized Loki never meant to go. He went only because Thor was like "you are coming, right?" He intended to stay behind and orchestrate his little scheme from the comforts of home, being the dutiful little brother and tattling when "his conscious couldn't allow him to keep it from father" or something along those lines, probably. So, I have theorized that when he was grabbed by that Frost Giant, and his face was pure shock and horror, it was because he was doing that "oh, god, if only, if only" line of thought everyone in terrifying situations does. So I incorporated it into my fanfic.
I also had a late night with my sissy during which we chatted for almost three hours (I honestly can't believe she let me go on that long about Loki and Tom and all my wild theories). Point being, my sister is studying psychology, and she said that Loki wanted someone to comfort him when he was in the Weapons Vault. She suggested that he might've been spurred to his actions by a lack of reassurance. I also think it's just horribly pitiful that his only thought was "Am I cursed" and not "Am I a Jotun?" in that moment. He legitimately thought Father Dearest could make it go away with a wave of Gungnir.
So, tell me what ya'll think, and over the weekend I'll be here writing chapter two! With more wild theories and desperate-sounding writing inspired by All The King's Horses and the song Fallen Angel by Molly Svrcina. Both of which I recommend listening to if you want to have tear-jerking feels. (the song All The King's Horses fits Loki So. Perfectly. Well, almost.)
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I merely wrote this as catharsis for my fangirl pain (lol) and to work off my sudden onset of depression instead of using other, more dangerous methods. Please don't sue me, because I am a poor little nobody with no money to my name. Tell me if I made you weep, haha. Happy Reading and I wish you all a good weekend!
WH