Oblivion still unfolded in front of the clear irises, which had remained hidden, while the senses had slowly begun to awaken. The perception of numbness, however, continued stubbornly to impose itself on the entirety of his figure. His thoughts, on the other hand, turned out to be still blurred and slowed down and dull, unable to escape, harnessed as they were in almost total unconsciousness.
Delicate noises to tickle the hearing; a light trampling almost echoing to whisper a confused suspicion. That could not in any way be the cell that had hosted him in recent times, but for the Deceiver the times in which this secret would be revealed were not yet ripe for him to know - thanks to the faculties of the mind that were slow to awaken him.
A sigh reached him, accompanied by a more pronounced sound of footsteps that followed one another at regular intervals as, marked, they moved away and then approached again.
If he had found the right words to describe the havoc revealed to sight, the effort cost him would have proved immense, perhaps comparable to the victorious battle fought in his youth in Svartalfaheimr, when most of the warrior exploits that had made him famous in all Nine Kingdoms still had to find a place among the glorious memories of the past. And, despite the atrocities he had been forced to witness as he led the Æsir in heroic deeds - some of which were imprinted in the mosaics that decorated the vaults of the palace - he could not deny that he was horrified as he approached that cell annihilated by the destructive fury of the god of 'hoax.
The signs of despair were marked on the once light walls, while dragged footprints testified to the confused movements that had made him approach the luminescent barrier and ended in a large crimson pool.
The ferment that had inflamed the basement in the previous moments had been consuming itself, now leaving sinister gazes - at times curious, but certainly devoid of any pity - sticking to the faded figure of the thunderer. Why had he ventured into that stinking hovel? The air became heavy and the new and elusive oxygen had to be sufficient to supply the lungs of anyone who was locked up there. The first were envied, those - including Loki - who had received the privilege of obtaining one of the opening cells in the long trail of nurseries, display cases; pardoned, compared to the last who touched faint and even more scarce leftovers.
In scandalous contemplation, Thor ventured to reach tomes to which he recognised that he had never paid particular attention, even as a child, preferring to go out, train, show off his exceptional strength; and he saw in it, in the order in which they were stored, his brother's lust for knowledge, the same that had prevented him from scattering the pages on the floor in a messy carpet . A beginning of a smile reached his lips, perhaps enraptured by a memory of his youth, and he died once he moved his gaze to the frame which, violently obscuring his small parenthesis, demanded overwhelming attention to himself.
His feet moved, making him make an almost complete turn that would have allowed him to assess all the damage, then he shook his head slightly and a hand reached his face, stopping under his nose and covering his mouth, now stretched in a thin line, while the other leaned on the crease generated by the elbow. The expression contrite and absorbed in silent considerations.
He was in the hands of the healers in that instant. Brought to you by urgency, he was greeted by drawn and dismayed faces in becoming aware of a gesture that was evidently not his.
The God of Deception, that brother with whom he had fought and who turned his back on him during the battle in a gesture of trust, but against whom he had also found himself fighting furiously in an attempt to make him think, to quell an offended pride, to mend a wrong for a lifetime, his. He had shown that he wanted to give up everything, when his actions had always been driven by the opposite desire, by greed.
How can a mind conceive such a drastic and sudden change? The answer escaped his reasoning, despite the fact that the reputation of the Deceiver also derived from the ability shown in battle in changing tactics and plans and decisions in relation to the winds, favourable or otherwise, that propelled the Æsir. Witty machinations and incredible strength to collaborate guaranteeing yet another, but not obvious, victory for the people led by Odin.
He remembered him wandering among the tents of the camp with a sure, quick step and a proud look. The cloak once again worn to cover his shoulders, wrap his back, whose care and good workmanship contrasted with the concrete legacies of a particularly challenging fight, still imprinted on the skin, on the drawn lines of his face, on his severe expression.
An image certainly in contrast to the one that the inward eye still made it possible to visualise fervently and vividly to the point of being tangible and frighteningly real at times. An incurable furrow compared to a brand used to claim ownership of livestock.
He had always been the most slender, so much so that the strength he showed off to many seemed improper, illegitimate, unexpected, generating flashes of amazement in the many glances that had had the honour of witnessing even one of the numerous enemy clashes. Undefeated in speed and cunning, feared because of his characteristic pride, before then, he had never let himself go, abandoned to desire - perhaps imposed on him with a no - of oblivion into which he would have let himself fall.
Several times he had come to fear for his brother's life, but on none of those past occasions had he had to face so concretely the terrible horror that only the thought of losing him had unleashed in him.
He lingered for a long time, sharing the annoying lack of clean air with the outcasts of Asgard. He could have gone. Escape from the asphyxiation of a cell that is too small to spend there what largely still remained of a millenary existence. Nobody would have prevented it. Anyone would have envied him; I included a pair of honey-coloured eyes that, like dozens of others, had not stopped focusing on that red cloak that fitted snugly over the shoulders, on the contrite face in a grimace that anyone would have taken as affliction for two excessively close tragedies. What if he had been guilty instead? For having left him alone. For not having verified more often the mental-emotional-conditions of his brother. For allowing him to remain isolated in his own thoughts, aware of the subtle as well as labile mind that had always characterised him when it was pain and disappointment that animated him, overwhelmed him. When the same clarity he could legitimately boast of, he was clouded by explosive, long-latent feelings.
He would have questioned anyone who might have kept silent on such a pitiful and desperate scene, he would have asked, bothered, asked questions. Because, whoever it was, he had plotted, complicit with the madness, with the selfishness of those who choose to deprive the world of themselves. He had watched gestures with unflinching awareness, the outcome of which had unfolded with cold clarity line after line.
Then a flash. A new, frightening certainty. That of a cleverly woven illusion in order to delay an atrocious sight, avoiding the risk that the few still free from dark implications with the God of Deception, could urge the guards to take a quick and organised intervention. Probably also the only ones whose conscience was devoid of the ghosts of lives broken with detachment and indifference, the weak condemned for despair rather than barbaric ferocity.
He would have investigated. He would have done it. To understand. To understand. Not at that moment though. His mind was still clouded by the gloomy surprise, confusedly animated by the momentum that had pushed him into a frantic race to reach that brother he had been forced to ignore, whom he had chosen to avoid. She was able to recognise the outlines of an investigation that was anything but objective - perhaps she never would have been, even more so if deprived of the coldness necessary to conduct it.
He moved without warning and, in a few steps, the figure of the sovereign disappeared, leaving behind him only a shadow, the only element to which he could cling.
How long had he lingered mixing the bright red of the cloak with the crimson of the floor? He would never have been able to establish him having returned as he was in the anteroom from which he had previously been removed.
A man, who recognised that he had helped him several times in battle, came to meet him urgently, signifying a long and tormented wait.
A quick and obsequious bow before meeting the clear eyes of a proud fighter who, however, only in that moment, seemed to have really known fear.
"Your Majesty,"
The Ase silently followed the movements of the man with tired features and an aged appearance.
"What happen?" he asked, alarmed by the expression turned to him.
"Is there any problem?" he added then, with growing concern to tinge his tone. The answer was annoyingly slow in arriving, thus allowing the agitation to grow, to widen the path already trodden towards the heart.
"Eir, by the gods, speak!" little difference between the order and the supplication. Restless hunger to sate.
He had only seen it for a brief moment. Surrounded by guards and healers as if to form a barrier. Suddenly irregular and violent beats against the rib cage.
He hadn't been able to observe his face. To notice the expressive features of an inanimate face. But only to steal the stained hems of the tattered garments, battered like the pale body.
The battle had always led to unfortunate consequences for his physique, but never had Loki, prince of the Æsir from the blood of Jotun, allowed himself to be so overwhelmed by enemy weapons. Never have the offences caused so thunderous as to isolate him in a struggle that is as personal as it is unconscious.
"His he Highness of him has not yet regained consciousness," he finally began in a trembling voice. "But the care provided to him has borne fruit; once the last medications are finished, you will be able to see it, "he concluded, lowering his head and thus offering his thick red hair, still devoid of the signs witnessing the passing of centuries.
"Thank you, Eir," Thor conceded, accompanying himself with a grateful gesture.
The oldest smiled seeing the hand of the god resting on his slender shoulder, moving away only after wearing a slight smile.
The thud of a heavy door slammed by mistake alongside a faint as well as offended curse caused no reflection in the body stretched out with order to abandonment at the back of the large room. The tattered garments replaced by clothing worthy of a prince.
A sound of footsteps that followed one another not without a growing hesitation. Heavy leather boots to defy the violent rumble of a purely unadorned environment of furniture that was not necessary, yet equally sumptuous, in line with the rest of the royal palace.
Thor lingered for a long time several paces away from the large bed intended for the very early stages of convalescence.
He peered at him closely, as his brother's chest rose slightly and silently, and then lowered again. The features tense and pointed and sharp, shaken by invisible shadows. The lids closed heavily.
He shook his head and let out a heavy sigh in an attempt to deprive himself of an oppressive heaviness weighing on his shoulders.
Oblivion still unfolded in front of the clear irises, which had remained hidden, while the senses had slowly begun to awaken. Yet the body could not respond privately as it was to the commands of an active and capable mind. The same chaos that had led him to collapse to the ground, to abandon himself in a liquid bed to find peace. Suddenly he had felt a heavy boulder about his existence. Unable to control, to control himself, to dominate himself. He who had always been a skilled manipulator, how could he fall - slip and fall - get lost like this? How was it possible that a death like so many mixed the variables of his existence so long that it could be defined as eternal? One death. One loss in the face of many.
The silence sporadically interrupted by the thrill of dry, at times impatient movements, evidently lacking adequate consideration for the conditions of unconsciousness between the folds of which he still lingered. Better to recover appropriate clarity before uncovering the cards and let yourself be bothered by tedious questions and inappropriate clarifications. As if the irrational will of the god had not already been sufficiently expressed by the merciless deeds.
His fingers trembled with a timid, light, discreet tremor. Nothing that the eyes of those who were waiting for his awakening could perceive, so rough and coarse. He thought, Loki, it was one of the first reflections of a mind that has found the right moment to wake up. He thought so and couldn't help but remember that it had always been so. Thor had always shown little attention to minutiae, even in battle; more inclined to action and timeliness rather than strategic and prudent waiting. Vigilant warrior, the strategies had always been reserved for the magician, flanked in the moment of approval by Odin himself. And that had always been enough. Each would feel indispensable in his own way, ensuring the victory of the Æsir and fostering the prosperity of Asgard and the rule of time had passed, the dynamics changed; nothing was as it was then, in a fluid and independent succession of events that had led him to wake up once again.
She remembered the sight of clouding over in a last act of surrender, the shivers to go beyond the boundaries of the body, reaching the entirety of the limbs - a cold of the soul more than the physical.
Peace had reached him at the very moment in which the prospect of death materialised before him.
However, his plans would change again. He understood it immediately after the moment of confusion that he had caught when he was not yet awake, but not even asleep.
He had longed for a reward too desperately sublime for which the Norns had evidently spun a longer wait, but fortunately not infinite, he said to himself in a glimmer of hope aimed at briefly cheering him up.
He would still have had the opportunity to compete with those creatures who enjoyed unfolding their imagination on the flow of other people's lives. He would never stop challenging them. Because he was Loki of Jotunheim and he couldn't accept that his fate depended on anyone other than himself.
"Do you want to stop moving? I've had enough of your boots, "it was a long time, in fact, that the thunder had begun to consistently undertake the same path, waiting for an ever closer awakening. He was moving away, to get closer again and further away, in an idea without an end.
The irises had not yet been discovered.
His voice hoarse from long silences but always decisive; this time with a lighter shade of ill-concealed malaise. The only concession from the Deceiver.
Suddenly silence - surely he was turning his back on him, he assumed - followed by a quick and urgent trampling.
"You finally woke up, complete idiot,"
Hard tone? Apprehensive? That appellation meant nothing. What did Thor want to express? Anger? She started to part her lips in response, before realising the words wouldn't come out. What to say to the one whose face was still hidden in the light? It was not possible for him to decipher the attitude of the thunder god without observing the expression painted on his face.
A broken throbbing to challenge the temples and it was the eyelids themselves that rose, revealing to the eyes a reality less and less nebulous, more and more clear.
Where was he? He did not recognise that of his own cell in the elaborate ceiling. It rather resembled the inlaid one in the healers' room. The wooden chests of drawers to animate the roof, embellished with very fine acanthus leaves, also much loved by the inhabitants of the distant Midgard. Golden decorations to spread their brightness up to the corners, and then gradually fade as the gaze lowered to the walls.
Too many similarities with an environment that, over the centuries, he had come to know well - war after war, each one fought alongside Thor, each one carrying bruises, cuts, more or less important fractures.
He didn't move. He didn't even speak. His head ached. He perceived every movement as blocked although any attempt still remained untried.
"Speak," he just urged him in a firm, authoritative tone worthy of a sovereign.
He persevered in carefully scrutinising the richly adorned vault, recognising moments experienced by those ancestors who did not belong to him but whose undertakings he had long had the opportunity to study, locked up reading with boy's eyes among shelves of volumes so extensive as to appear endless.
An enviable collection, which he had drawn on with an insatiable thirst for knowledge, with a desire for wisdom that was impossible to satisfy.
He moved his head imperceptibly, thus accompanying a downward movement of the eyelids. The desire to push back into oblivion those memories uselessly fixed in moments unrelated to all that irritating fraternal concern.
He raised his head with only a movement of his neck and his gaze touched the blond hair of the other.
"Come closer, as interesting as the ceiling is, you know I hate talking to people I can't see," Laufey's son observed sourly. Thor did not move a single step.
"What's more, it's about good manners; ah no, I forgot, you never gave a shit, "he continued, causing a single whiff in response. Not even after getting so close to his death would Loki lose his contemptuous manner towards his brother. And, as if that wasn't enough, the pounding temples hadn't stopped bothering him yet.
He started to move his arms, in pain. The desire to massage the head with the fingers, in an attempt to alleviate, at least in part, the continuous pain to insist on the skull.
He failed. He found himself, with horror, to corroborate with facts what had been born as mere sensations; immobile, chained, unable to carry out any activity.
He closed his eyelids angrily.
"I tried to get them removed," he admitted.
"You are a goat. Have you not yet understood that every attempt will be useless? " Bitterness, complacency. His voice almost reduced to a whisper. He had just opened his eyes but was still exhausted.
He had always professed to be free when in reality he had never been. Whether it was to submit to the authority of Odin, or to that of a purple alien with questionable plans; whether it concerned physical imprisonment symbolised by chains or the freedom to die in peace. An acrid reflection, a new awareness from which he could have been able to take advantage once the time had matured.
"Useless like you here now," he pointed out acidly, giving the right weight to each word.
This time the only answer came from the silence that subsided in the room, making the atmosphere oppressive. Absence of noises but not of words, whose hollow insinuations continued to show themselves from every angle without being properly interpreted by the voice.
"Come on, say it," with an irritated sigh he drew upon himself an expression that some might have called confused, but in reality it only hid the amazement at the much sagacity that had gone to his brother; even without seeing it, even not being able to observe it, he understood it himself.
"For the love of the phallus gods. I know the words are burning in your throat and, frankly, your unusual lack of bravado is bothering me, "apathetic, cold tone, as if the issue could not in any way affect him.
"If you already know what I mean, why don't you save this little theater and start talking yourself?"
"Because, to be honest, I enjoy seeing you in trouble," a sharp and petty sincerity that certainly wouldn't be mitigated soon. "The mighty Thor ..." he then let go of a wry grin. Contemplative. Mischievous.
"Why did you do that?" The words came out in a whisper, as if, after a brief moment of silence, he had not thought about it, throwing himself into a conversation that probably would not have found any response. The ending of which had already been decided, even before the question was openly addressed.
Because you deserve it Loki. It is your atonement. You don't think you can escape the consequences of your actions, do you? You never learn ... The reasoning silently slipped from the wizard's mind, but he could hear the sound just the same. A fleeting grimace formed on the forehead and then disappeared with the same speed with which she had appeared.
This time you cannot escape, in reality you have never done it, you cannot escape from yourself; it is a truth at least as old as the foundations of Asgard, like the birth of the first of the Nine Realms that Odin controls.
A dog, a vile and useless dog that bites its own tail by repeating the same mediocre mistake and is disgusting even at death itself.
The irises moved swiftly. His own voice had spoken those words. His lips had remained tight, but that voice that Thor ignored had reached his ears instead.
Could it be the seiðr? He had learned, in one of the boy's readings, that this had the ability to flow freely as a result of a hypothetical and momentary weakening of the one who skillfully possessed it. Different appearances to indicate this, among which, certainly, the manifestations of a brilliant mind with dark backgrounds.
"And you would like an answer why ...?" He disguised his confusion knowing that she should investigate, or at least find a way to do so. The books he needed were prohibited and only with deception and cunning he was able to get hold of them for the first (and last) time. Certainly his inmate status wouldn't help. "Allow me a trivial observation. Could anything change? Time would rewind? Would you have a chance to fix it and run before all this antics takes place? " no remorse in those words, but hatred, and a touch of rancor to accompany the indignation addressed to his brother.
He had hit the mark. Loki, the skilled archer, had hit the mark focusing only on the extreme banality of the question received.
"Let me understand," the thunder continued with renewed coolness in tone.
"No!" He exclaimed even before he saw if the thunder god would continue. He yelled accompanying the inflection of his voice with a decisive movement in order to sit up. It would not have been possible for him, immobilised as he was, for two reasons: medical and precautionary.
He lay down again not without numerous and energetic shots with which his physical suffering only increased.
Thor watched the scene in silence before deciding to open his mouth. "Loki stop it," he was used to such sudden changes in attitude.
"You don't want to understand, you refuse to do it, too immersed in the bullshit that Odin tells you to deceive you. Who do you think is to blame for what happened?"
He approached with a firm step, until he reached the side of the bed.
"Then answer, why did you do this to yourself?" The clear irises met, collided and the shock wave hit both of them. "What else can push the proud God of Deception to such an extreme gesture?
"You, Loki, do you understand? You who first admit that you want everything, and suddenly you are ready to give up everything "
The gazes did not stop challenging each other, remaining linked for a long time in a sort of challenge. While one was busy trying to hide and disguise, the other was busy reading those green eyes cloaked in anger. He had to understand.
"Perspectives change. Everything is a relative concept, "he remarked sourly, limiting himself to a few words. He had to recover, relying again on the usual austere and cold demeanour that on several occasions had proved useful in order not to discover all the cards, in order not to show himself too much, keeping that subtle nebula useful to confuse and ensnare and manipulate with the right machinations to impose his of truth, properly fabricated for the purpose of reaching its goals.
The thunderous man lingered a few moments longer before retreating, turning his back on him.
"Soon you will be taken to the cell again. I'll let you rest,"
"I could have done that if no one had bothered me while I was locked up there," harsh sentence, much, too much. Frosty. Words that left Thor dejected, horrified by this obscure comment. Disappointed.
Indeed, who had had the brilliant idea of disturbing him? Loki wondered, while, in the uninterrupted silence, his gaze still weighed on his brother's back. Sooner or later he would have made anyone who dared to get in the way pay for it.
"Enough" concluded the worthy of Asgard and, walking towards the massive door, he continued "you will be guarded on sight, and as soon as Eir confirms this, you will be transferred," after which, a few more steps and disappeared leaving a cloud of golden armor to unfold until almost to surround him, while he gave a sigh full of satisfaction in a sneer, closing his eyes.
But what he saw did not please him at all.
"Let me speak to the guards who have rescued him," he said grimly to a servant. The steps were swift and long and he struggled to follow their rhythm in a frenzy that had the flavour of running.
He should perhaps have spoken to Odin, but for what purpose? Relations between the two had become irremediably strained, it would certainly not have led to anything useful. On the other hand, Father Everything had already been clear about it. The special treatment Loki had already received with the comforts reserved for him in his cell, he would certainly have obtained nothing else. Indeed, anything that could be used as a weapon against others or himself would be systematically eliminated.
Such a scene would never have to repeat itself.
"A scene?" He had asked Thor in a voice that still betrayed the deep disturbance that had shaken him. He couldn't be fake. He certainly hadn't studied such a cruel deception.
We are talking about Loki, Thor, remember that his background only confirms my thesis. Odin's words had been a harsh sentence, provoking deep resentment in the legitimate heir to whom the Hliðskjálf would have been, from whom he was observed by the merciless eye of the sovereign.
No, he could not have sought solace in his father figure. The interview would have proved hopelessly inconclusive. He therefore retired to the tranquility of his own rooms, awaiting the interview just requested from the servant who had joined him at his call.
He wanted to understand. He had to do it; to find peace, to be able to understand the brother's feelings, to find ways to help him.
It could not have been jokes, whims, mere deceptions. Didn't get to that point. Not when everyone had the key clue in front of them. Both had always felt a special affection towards their mother, yet Thor himself realised how much this bond had always meant in the existence of Loki who without exception - more or less openly - had taken refuge there, in search of that same approval that his father found it hard to grant him.
When he opened his eyes he felt as if he had dozed off. He felt dizzy, as if following a long rest. He hadn't even had a chance to realise it. Initially, the void left by the lowered eyelids was filled with unpleasant images which were followed by deeper oblivion. The total absence of thoughts. The physicist had given in, too tried by the tension and fatigue due to the corrosive works carried out by the god himself, despite the fact that he had regained consciousness only a few minutes earlier.
He woke not with a start, but agitated, not at all calm. The irises were in plain sight, the tension shining through the clear green.
The soldiers had stood still, motionless. The gold of the armor reverberates throughout the room, adding to that of the best workmanship of the inlaid ceiling.
Silence. He found himself wondering when he would be moved. When the light of day would return to being just a faded memory over the centuries, in the worst of options. But he was certain that, with the right wait, the conditions would turn in his favour.
He could not escape from himself, well, he would have escaped from Asgard, a land inhospitable to anyone who did not belong there by blood bond. Bond denied him once he learned not only the truth about the shameful origins, but also about the selfish intentions of Odin who, first, had put his lust for power and control before the good of a child whose only certainty was the royal half of his origins . If the slender forms had sanctioned his death sentence, the ruler of the Æsir should not have allowed himself to upset a fate already woven by the Norn.
That was the exact moment in which, once the dark secret emerged, the image of a cunning prince had been replaced by that of a blue body skillfully and unconsciously concealed.
The soldiers' eyes caught on to his weakened figure. He felt exposed, understandably uncomfortable. Visually inspected. This must surely have been the order imposed by the Father of all gods. And obviously those simple minions hadn't hesitated in following such absurd directives. How could he ever free himself, immobilised as he was on a sick bed?
He stopped observing the ceiling and made the only movement allowed him, he turned his head to one side.
The wait would soon prove to be longer than hoped for.
Agitated movements. Arrogant clangs to approach the huge inlaid door of the apartments of the god. A heavy roar to interrupt conjectures and thoughts, to approach to open to half a handful of men who were waiting in rigid expectation.
He received them in the richly furnished study, adjacent to his own bedrooms. He had never been a great visitor to those spaces. The solid wood of the table was poorly decorated with letters received from afar and stripped of any other element.
The guards arranged themselves neatly, following the movements of an heir who, in his time, would prove to be a much loved ruler.
"What happened down there?" A clear request expressed with severity and tinged with concern. Waiting for a certain, immediate, due answer. Words to utter irremediably to quench a deep thirst.
"Your Highness," the first began hesitantly. "There is always a lot of hustle and bustle in the basement," it was evident that he was trying to find the best words to go on.
"After your visit there was an episode, just one, in which your brother resented, with very bright tones, after which we didn't see anything again,"
And so he told him how Loki had insisted on seeing his mother, how he had taken offence at the lack of notice regarding the end of the funeral ceremony, even devastating the interiors of his own cell; of how they had drifted off after making sure he calmed down by putting the furniture back together with a trick.
According to those hesitant words, everything was back to its place, normal. Nothing that aroused concern or suspicion.
They were expert guards, if there had been reason to investigate a not very clear attitude they would certainly have noticed. So how could such a staging come about? He was not just a prisoner who was involved, but Loki, Loki of Asgard, his brother and special prison warden. No negligence would be tolerated, Odin had said, giving due weight to every word from the top of the golden Hliðskjálf from which he had rarely seen it separated.
"We immediately rushed when we heard screams," added the younger, capturing the attention of the god who observed him with questioning eyes in a tacit question.
"A girl, she was a girl to call for help,"
"A girl? What guilt hangs on her head for being locked up among the most dangerous criminals of Asgard? "
And everyone understood that, among the shadows of the question, there was also that skilled archer that a female voice had saved.
No one answered. Nobody seemed to know.
Thor then hastened to dismiss the five men. Many unknowns to form in his thoughts to burn on his tongue. He had to get those long-awaited answers.
The footsteps moved quickly and, in a few minutes, the stairway traveled, the nursery open, to show itself in all its gloomy entirety, before his eyes.
It seemed like endless moments since he'd been left alone with that handful of idiots. The light coming from outside slowly began to fade and he was still there, on the same bed, with the same position and the oppressive awareness of not having the opportunity to grasp that glimmer of freedom that had been creating.
Silence and only the voice of one's thoughts to fill it. He had always been a great thinker for as long as he remembered, but in those endless moments, for the first time, this feature felt like a heavy boulder on his shoulders. His head still ached and he would have preferred emptiness rather than the activity of a thousand brilliant and sharp ruminations. His mind was engaged in constant machinations so much that he finally wanted a moment of absolute peace.
He closed his eyes and held still. For a moment he alone held his breath. Then he let him go. Exhausted. Was it possible that he wasn't even granted the right to sleep?
He struggled to stay in control, it was not the time to give up, not a second time. He wondered if it was all part of a strategy that continued to elude him since the senses had once again welcomed him into their close embrace or if he had really let himself go in that shameful way, in front of everyone's eyes.
The logical thread escaped him and this lack of absolute control troubled him annoyingly. If only he could move, if only to reach his temples with cold fingertips, if he could hide in the plots of his wizarding to spare himself from the sight of those unworthy men who had never looked away since they were allowed there. 'entrance. But none of this had happened nor would it ever be allowed.
The fear was great, it filled the air and Loki was aware of it. He felt it, he felt it. The atmosphere was tense, the possibility of a high escape. The God of Deception was feared, the effects of the fighting on Midgard still evident, his longings to reclaim a power he had been entitled to from birth never subsided.
He let out a silent sigh and then curled his lips. This is the price of failure, an interminable prison devoid of any kind of stimulus. A chasm for the mental faculties that he would have to train alone in an attempt to escape a second act of madness, whatever it was.
He wouldn't let go, he wouldn't let it go. Alien, like the inmates for the longest time - most of them at the bottom of the huge underground room - from reality; locked in a limbo of imbalance and nonsense that would lead to nothing like the coveted final, honourable and worthy, which he set out to achieve when the time came (no, he was free, he would never accept the idea that it was the Norns who controlled the unfolding of his existence). Exactly the opposite of the extreme gesture he had made.
Again the same question. Had he indulged in a dangerous act of recklessness or was it all part of a plan whose plots were momentarily eluding him?
The same question to torment his tired mind, to mark his sharp features, to traverse the limbs forced onto a bed imposed on him by force.
A fleeting answer that would not be offered very soon, the ghost of which would have engaged the magician's reasoning for a long, long time.
The last blade of light filtered through the heavy eyelids and it didn't take long before it disappeared in a poetic greeting - more certainly a melancholy farewell. From that moment, the darkness.
No one could any longer perceive the changes in the face, the changing features folded into a hidden grimace. Indecipherable.
She turned to his immobilised wrist in a fist that she couldn't see but only feel, as his nails dug into the tender flesh of his palm.
He made no noise, not when, finally, he was allowed to act hidden in the shades of darkness. And, as much as he had found himself sincerely grateful for the rays that he had been able to see from the large window of the room facing west, he recognised those moments of absolute or almost absolute darkness much more functional.
The first candles had been wisely lit by a handmaid whom he had not seen, but whose light footsteps and the delicate rustle of thin robes he had heard. She had been hesitant to leave the hall behind her. She had been afraid. Fear of the God of Deception. He had understood this from the breath held as much as possible in the anguish of sharing the air with the most feared criminal of Asgard, from the rapid movements to carry out his work quickly and free himself from the hindrance of an unwanted and uncomfortable assignment.
A single guard had turned to watch her enter, distracting himself for a brief moment which, if she had had the chance, would have been enough for Loki to act, sharp and quick and shrewd.
Now the fledgling flames flickered, casting impending darkened armed shadows on the walls turned amber by the fire. A dance that knew how to be sinuous and clumsy, fast and slow, still and dynamic.
And the cunning irises got lost in those improvised and never repeated steps, isolating themselves from the noise that the rumble of his own voice created in his head.
Odin would certainly have asked for explanations. And he would have been able to answer him. To prove the legitimacy of this predisposition. Because Loki hadn't pretended, even though he was busy making sure the opposite would appear. It was not a simple staging in order to pity the last remaining family members, albeit not related by blood ties. That death had shaken the green-eyed god to such an extent that his mind was overwhelmed by it and, clouded, it had pushed him to act in ways that had never belonged to him - despite the changeability of his plans - and that, in a one and only begotten spasm, had led him to contradict himself. To condemn themselves. In the long life that awaited him, he would not come back a second time.
A new and annoying noise shook him from invisible dancers.
No words. Only a nod of the head that made the guards all move. However, Loki recognised the heavy footsteps when they still plowed the floor of the corridor amplified by the high ceiling.
"Don't you even greet me, brother?"
A grim look in response that the god did not hesitate to accept.
"What's going on with you? Before you wanted to talk so much, "he uttered that sentence absently, as if he hadn't specifically studied it to make him uncomfortable.
"Did Odin scold you?" He continued after the guards had brought him to an upright position. Placing the sore feet on the ground was like medicine, after being forced for hours in a position that was anything but natural.
He finally saw Thor narrowing his eyes, making them two slits ready to study every detail of his brother, to interpret him.
Jotunheim's son, for his part, had long ago learned to recognise every change in the behaviour of the thunder who now stood before him. The heaviest and most marked, rapid steps. The severe features in the expression of the face. Fists clenched. The body tense in the entirety of him. Typical attitude adopted following a discussion with the leader of the Æsir.
He didn't look away, his eyes continued to collide. To challenge each other. Looking for each other in the hope that the other would yield, that one of the two would surrender, aware, however, that surrender had never been engraved in the folds of their nature. He had simply never been a part of them.
Familiar looks. Which did not break even when the movement was imposed to the rhythm of the guards' footsteps.
"In a few days you should be better," Thor concluded in a drastic change of subject, thus alluding to the wounds that still had to face a complete healing.
"Don't pretend. Playing the part of the caring brother does not suit you," he pronounced as sharp as the expression on his face before being escorted into the wide corridor, also richly decorated.
Annoying tinnuli coming from the golden armor scanned at each foot that preceded the one previously moved.
They met no one. Odin had probably given the order to keep the path clear. Or the rumours had circulated quickly and all the servants had run to hide themselves so as not to meet the cruel eyes of the god behind which it was believed were hidden evil and dark deceptions recited in silence. There were many legends that swirled and enveloped the figure like satellites. And precisely these layers of uncertainty allowed the Deceiver to move, to act, to be changeable and unpredictable. He had never been interested in denying rumours or frightened, frightening conjectures.
Lost in his own reflections, he could not tell if the path had been swift or eternal in his senses.
He hadn't lacked that stale air at all. Within a few, short, moments, he had the irritating sensation of not being able to fill his lungs with oxygen freely. That natural and unconscious action became a constant thought for anyone who descended that staircase darkened by humidity and poor material.
The pace slowed abruptly. He felt everyone's eyes aimed at a single fulcrum, him. Expressions of anger, of rancor, some pleased to see him there, others, inexplicably, amused. But soon it would all be much clearer, only that he still couldn't be sure.
However, he decided not to turn his gaze elsewhere, in search of clues, preferring rather to keep it fixed in front of him, with the pride of a sovereign, aware of the royal blood that flowed in his veins, although steeped in shame and unworthiness for a kingdom that had collapsed. under the work of Odin. Both paternal figures that had belonged to him, albeit for different reasons.
The guards turned him to the side. Now his shoulders looked out onto a row of overcrowded cells, while his eyes closed in two slits from which a sharp and curious, annoyed expression branched out until it reached the interior of that cell made up of few sides long. steps. A number that never decreased or increased.
And at that moment of hesitation, the answer was a sharp push that made him reach a different environment from what he seemed to remember.
So... there are a few notes eheh:
1 Invented by me. I also found that Svartalfaheimr and Niðavellir can be identified as the same thing as the matter behind them is unclear - in the Edda of Snorri the land of the Dwarves is called Svartalfaheimr, while in the Völuspá it speaks of Niðavellir. So I take the poetic license to separate them and treat them as two separate worlds.
2 On THW we see the opposite, indeed, the floor is really covered with torn pages. I take a poetic license to make some changes to the plot that the MCU has reserved for the Deceiver.
3 Well, for those who have not recognised it, this is a reference to the wonderful poem I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud - also known as Daffodils - which was kindly left by W. Wordsworth. The last verse speaks of this inward eye, of an internal eye, that of the mind, which allows us to relive what has already become the past in the imagination.
4 Oh no, here things went a little differently. Loki never let go, I leave it to the imagination to understand how it went taking into account that events still led him to New York and from there to his cell.
5 Originally Eir would be a goddess, the Goddess of life capable of resurrecting the dead. The art of medicinal herbs is also attributed to her. It seems that she taught women the spells of life, only to them, and that she regenerated the health of all who sought her.
6 In these sentences "always" is repeated several times. This is a deliberate expedient.
7 Among the powers of the seiðr were those to predict the future as well as dispense death, misfortune and disease. A very powerful magic based on the concept of communication with spirits and the dead. What I wrote is a machination of my mind that finds no basis except in the plot itself.
8 I said in the first chapter that pain also turns into a sense of guilt and this leads to all of this. But remember that Loki is a mutable god. You have to be able to discern behaviours and words. He never plays cards that are totally face up.
9 Specially it is about free indirect speech.
10 Throne on which Odin sits and from which he can observe all worlds.
English is not my first language, so, if you find some mistakes please try to have mercy on me.
I'm really sorry I didn't post before. Hope you enjoy.