Broken
by: oO PLACEBO Oo
No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man, to be the sad man
Behind blue eyes
No one knows what it's like to be hated, to be fated
To telling only lies
But my dreams, they aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be
I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance that's never free
Behind Blue Eyes – The Who
He was many things and very few others.
A walking contradiction on most days. A simple man the next.
He was stubborn and proud, but didn't mind losing under the right circumstances.
He was a master of manipulation, and yet, hated being lied to.
He was intelligent, a natural survivor so in tune with his instincts that made adapting to any environment easy – the better to gain his enemies trust and then destroy them when he no longer needed them.
He was cunning, gifted, ambitious, an alpha predator.
In the end, he was all that could go wrong and most knew better than to associate themselves with him.
Despite all of this, his worse trait was that he was easily bored.
"Welcome child of the Aesir." Hera, the Olympian Queen greeted him, waving an elegant hand at the table, motioning to the empty seats next to the others. "We are delighted that you've decided to finally join us."
He fought the urge to roll his eyes, and instead let out a sigh he wasn't aware he had been holding in. A bored Loki was the worst kind of Loki. He had, after all, started wars to appease his own boredom.
It was out of boredom that he found himself in his current predicament and surrounded by women of myth who most certainly were prouder than he was. He smirked, raising one eyebrow at his benefactors. Any resignation he felt was slowly being replaced by annoyance, and a small part of himself now wished he had ignored the summons – like all the other ones before.
Too late to run, his treacherous mind whispered as he found himself closing the door behind him. Six pairs of eyes discretely followed as he made his way to the farthest seat in the table possible. He had, no doubt, arrived late, furthering his annoyance at being considered anything less than punctual or perfect.
"Morning ladies and young Eros – or is it cupid now?" He asked dismissively, his hands in the pockets of the pants suit Bacchus forced him to wear, his emerald green eyes surveyed the table. He tried waving off his irritation. The child with golden brown curls giggled, and whispered to a voluptuous blue-eyed female who rolled her eyes, he recognized as Aphrodite, now busy filing her nails, looking uninterested.
Across from the pair, he recognized Athena, ever the wisest, she smiled politely as she stuck a strand of red-brown hair from her asymmetrical bob behind her ear before crossing her arms across her chest. He smirked, "The new look truly does fit you, my Lady." If anyone could pull off a men's suit, it was definitely Athena. He moved on to greet the next Goddess, blinking in surprised. The twinkle of curiosity gone just as it came.
Next to Aphrodite sat a goddess he hadn't seen in a long while. Frejya, platinum hair held up in a bun, with her bangs falling sideways on her face, looked as beautiful and demure as he remembered. Her slim figure was covered in a black turtleneck dress that fit snuggly. Never one to let go of her beloved furs, he noticed her long boots with fur trimming, one leg crossed over the other on top of the table. Brisingamen around her neck as was her usual custom. He supposed that after stealing it himself once, she had chosen to never take it off again. She fiddled with a small ball made up of many different lights moving it from one hand to the next, a piece of an aurora itself.
The Queen of the Valkyries nodded his way and fell back into a conversation with the Egyptian goddess, Neith, next to her. Neith shot him a bright smile and waved, her hand and arms adorned with gold and jewels, she had grown out her hair and while at one point she sported a short bob, it now reached to her back, braided with golden beads weaved through it. Her love for golden undergarments and turquoise chest plates could be seen from beneath her silky see-through white dress. "Great Mother." he greeted, sending a two-finger salute as his feet found their way on top of the table. He patted his black Armani suit jacket for the much-needed flask Bacchus had stuffed inside the inner pocket before letting him leave his premises.
Loki scowled.
For one, he was hungover – something that hadn't happened in over one thousand years. Bacchus and his hardcore entourage of satyrs and Bacchae did not lie when they'd said that they'd bring out the good stuff in commemoration of their longtime friend finally joining them for one drink – which turned into seven, then into a full-on rave in some obscure club in the highest building in New York city that Bacchus owned.
For another, he had woken up amidst sleeping bodies of women he didn't recognize. One in particular clung to his body and had he being a mortal man, he doubted he'd be able to disentangle himself from her grasp with the elegant ease he had. While he wasn't against sexual encounters with mortals, he wasn't fond of the idea of having those creatures touch him any further, claiming ownership of him even if it was in their dreams, now that he was conscious.
He took one drink and let his mind wander.
One thousand years before, he would've welcomed the parties, the liquor, the women, the carnage his twisted silver-tongue would bring with one single phrase whispered into the ears of men and women alike.
One thousand years before, he would've dance with the pagan druids in the forests of old, blessing them for every animal slaughtered in the name of the god of chaos and fire, in his name.
One thousand years before, he would've fought for the throne of Asgard, despite not truly wishing to rule. Asgard was stagnant with other gods wanting peace. No, he wanted to take the realm just to prove he could, nothing else.
One thousand years before, he would've taken over Midgard and have the mortals worship their new king.
Once he had coerced and twisted most of the Gods into attacking each other's pantheons while he looted their treasuries for powerful objects that would help him in time. With him being a master of lies, and for his own amusement, it only took one well-placed whisper to make the Olympian god of war, Ares, go into a killing spree when he suggested that Athena was to inherit the throne of Olympus itself, bringing the perfect opportunity for him to steal Zeus's lightning bolt.
He reveled in the chaos that came after. It fueled him to know that this would forever go down in history, and most certainly in his top ten list. It was thanks to that that one of the biggest wars in the realms happened, and while the other gods pointed fingers, blamed each other and even managed to wake the Greater Old Ones to appease the bickering, he looked from above them all, laughing at their pettiness – given he hadn't counted on his daughter stealing the bolt from him and using it to try and release her brothers from their prisons and start Ragnarök in his name.
He scowled at the thought, impertinent child. He wanted to usurped Asgard himself, not destroy it and most definitely, did not want Asgard handed down to him.
Although, he wouldn't deny the fact that that had been one of the proudest moments as a Father. To see that his three younger children had at least had the gall to attempt to come up with such a strategic plan that even he didn't see coming had brought a smile to his face at that time.
Yes, once upon a time, he relished in plague, cataclysm and eternal unending violence. He relished playing tricks to both gods and mortals alike. Wherever chaos ensued, there was Loki in the midst of it.
He was the paragon of evil incarnate, and then the world began to change. The mortals replaced the Ancient ones, the true gods. While they wouldn't die, the thought of being replaced by some powerless deity shook him with anger and insulted him down to the core of his very being. He was chaos. He was fire. He would be the last to start losing worshippers. Anger such as he had never felt before overtook all remaining rationale. He remembered, no, was forced to remember who he truly was, and it was amidst this that he brought power to an old forgotten ally.
Thus, the Great Wars began throughout mortal history.
His downfall had been a pair of golden-brown eyes. She favored those for whom war was life, he was to bring the end of all life. With deep conviction, he slowly descended into the Underworld itself for her. The mortals did not deserve to walk amongst them. The mortals were nothing more than primitive beings too small, too weak, too many for his liking. She agreed with him, whether out of her own twisted pleasure or pride. Despite popular opinion, they were only friends – they needed a trustworthy ally, not another lover.
His infatuation became something else. Something more. Something greater. She was fire and fury and vicious, blood-soaked joy. She was his oxygen and soon, she was his reason for being.
He took another swig of the flask, refilling itself with the nectar that only the Roman god could provide.
Then one day it was over, their plans had been foiled and they had been apprehended and taken away from each other. The trial came, a decision was made, and although he pleaded to take her place, it fell on deaf ears. He recoiled in his own guilt, shame, and remorse, pleading, begging that it was his fault. The whisper of his silver-tongue – the command to start world war II in her name had been his doing after all.
The others knew better. It was hard to trust a volatile God of War like Bellona. She was the matron of war and her rage and power were more powerful than any other God or Goddess of War. No. Loki was the lesser of two evils, thus, it was decided that Bellona would be bound to Tartarus and Loki, stripped of his powers and bound to sleep in the mortal realm until the Great Old Ones themselves lifted the punishment.
Problem being, that he slept for far too long. He slept to the point where mind and body refused to remain awake and aware of the changing world around him. When, for the barest flicker of a moment, he roused to consciousness, there was no strength to his limbs, no impulse to awake, to rise, to recall who he was nor remember where he was at. To be cognizant of the world until Hera and Neith brought him back.
He took another drink, deep in his own thoughts. He was in a new world that drastically changed while he slept. He was broken. Lost. Tired. This wasn't missed by Hera at all.