Title: Untitled
Author:cathat77
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1214
Characters: Loki and Baldr
Summary:After the fall to Midgard, Loki is renewed.
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: In no way, shape, or form does Thor belong to this author. Thor is the property of Marvel, and this author is merely borrowing from the Marvel Universe.
You wake up. The room is bare. The window is open. Light cascades over you. You don't see any other people, but you can hear them whisper sometimes. You don't know your appearance...couldn't explain your life or philosophies. Nameless and alone, you know they, whoever they are, have decided to take care of you. Sometimes, if you think hard enough you remember a flash—so many colors. Mostly though, your eyes shut from the attempt, and when you wake up, the sunlight has shifted its dance across the room. Sometimes, the window is shut. One day, you see one of them, and their smiles shock you, just a little, as if you weren't expecting it—as if they could see under your skin and expose you for the monster your truly are.
They come in more often now, knowing that you are more awake than unconscious these days. You've been here for days and weeks and months. You feel cheated. As if, somehow, you were expecting someone to be there for you, to check up on you. You mention randomly your bored state of mind, and they start to bring things for you to do: puzzles and books. They still haven't told you what is wrong, but that's okay because they aren't doing it to hurt or deceive you. Truly, they care. You learn later that once your leg finishes healing you can go home. "Home?" you say. "Where is that?" They frown and check their records and say someone must be paying for all of the bills and wherever they are, that's likely to be home for you.
But sometimes in your dreams, home is radiant and effulgent. Never-ending and terrible and great. But that is a dream.
You are released. They cut the thing on your leg off, and whatever was wrong with it has righted itself. No one arrives to meet you at your departure. "How sad," you think, "that no one comes for you in such uncertain times." You feel bereaved of something greater, but, sigh, you walk away. The world moves on yet.
You are swept into some sort of government building. They interrogate you, find nothing wholly suspicious, admit they paid for the hospital bills. They leave you to society. No home here. When you ask them what to do, that man, Agent something-or-other, says, "Do anything you want as long as it doesn't land you back here as a criminal." He nods. You nod. This feeling of unrestrained freedom scares you. You don't know what to do, but the options are limitless. You like these people around you. For the most part, they are kind and simple, so dim compared to you as you are dim compared to home. You feed them. They are dirty and hungry and sad too often, but their faces light up at the food and warmth and freely-given kindness. You feel wanted, secure in your place, needed. Being needed is the ultimate pleasure. It defines your world. Nothing compares. You give until the hollow place inside of you becomes whole again. As if giving to them gives to you. You don't care that this feeling is condescended upon, that others feel that giving charity in this manner is selfish. You do it anyway, secretly keeping the warmth of their smiles and gratitude to yourself.
You make friends. They smile when they see you. And you know that it's wrong to expect them to drop you any second now. You hope they don't pick up on your insecurity. They do, but kindly not mentioning it, they cheer you up on your down days, when the warmth and gratitude hasn't sunk in deep enough to the very bones of your body. They don't expect anything from you, and you don't really expect anything from them either. They accept your eccentricities, pass them off as something everyone has. Even though a part of you rebels, you ultimately realize that all of them are something more in some way: in speaking, in maths, in every little thing existing under this golden yellow sun. You come to relish in the morning coffee and groaning about taxes—those crazy super heroes and villains need to stop damaging people's property because money doesn't grow on trees. You've become so normal, and you love it.
And even if thunderstorms make you strangely nostalgic, makes you want to curl up on a window seat and stare outside into the churning darkness, you are finally at peace. This is your home: the one that you've made and preserved and cultivated. No one can take this away from you. Not even if they tore your whole world apart, you still fervently believe that it will all be okay.
You take comfort in the sun that graces your shoulders, in how nothing is radiant underneath it. Instead, even the most glorious of buildings and people are subjects of time. How everything here is laid to waste under this sun. This place is not everlasting, and you know it shouldn't. Even if these people know that "an apple a day keeps the doctor away," at least here an apple cannot stay death at the door. You relish in your mortality. Your time is so precious, and you fill it with happiness.
They say your hair has gone from pitch black to curly bouncy blond. You never really paid that much attention in the first place. You personally think that somehow your hair has chosen to reflect your personality: relishing in freedom. It's hard to maintain. You vaguely wish someone else would take care of it for you, to delicately brush your hair and remove the knots. You don't like having a sore head.
Your hair is how you meet him: Baldr. Your memory recalls him when it has brought forth nothing else. You remember your happiness and the ultimate sadness. And even in this mortal body, you know it is him because the very light of Asgard shines through him. You clasp his hand, and though, he startles, he does not let go. He looks at you, and he does not remember it all, not like you do. His memory comes in bits and pieces, and you realize that though his radiance has restored your memory, you cannot do the same for him. No Jotun changeling despite living in Asgard can restore what has long been lost.
He has mistletoe tattooed on to his breast. You ask why he would choose to remember such betrayal, but he does not see it like that. He knows we play parts, and though the settings and events change, you trigger Ragnarok through his death inevitably. And somehow, he is okay with that. Here, he says, we are exempt through mortality. Our lives are so fleeting, he says. You worry all the same, but he swings you into his arms and sweeps you off your feet.
"Don't worry so, Loki. If it is to be so, then one day, we will come to that crossroads, but now we will enjoy this companionship."
You silence him with a kiss. He has given you the greatest of gifts: your name (so elusive) and his trust (so undeserving). Not blindly, but knowingly, lovingly he gives you his trust, and you, Loki, smile.