Loki could recall very distinct flashes of imagery haunting the back of his mind, leaving a traceable trail after every thought that plagued him.
He could slow down each individual glimpse of light and sound and sensations to go back into the past, to his childhood and his youth and his family and his life before everything got flipped over, bent backwards at oddly twisted angles.
He could fast forward to a moment where he felt his heart break, the silence of the weapon's vault enough to drive him to madness, tears growing cold upon his pale cheeks. He could look back on that instance and watch it all play out with perfectly clear vision-all due to hindsight, of course.
He could let himself believe that he saw it coming, when Odin denied him the one thing he'd always hoped to achieve, the weight of his betrayal pulling Loki down and down and away, falling faster and faster into dark oblivion.
Loki could even go so far as to say that he couldn't have stopped what came next, the plainly inevitable downfall after falling so far already, Manhattan lights and smoke and screams and the wind lifting his ivy cape as he held his arms out, as if beckoning something unknown.
He could tell himself every lie ever created, murmur to himself late at night-when no one can hear, when the darkness hides the tears on his face-that his actions were justified, make a mantra out of all of his reasons and logic and sanity.
But Loki knows that he is wrong, and somewhere in between being a child and being a murderer, the ability to realize the fact has left, and is only just now revealing itself-after so many years of lying dormant, forever being an afterthought. It is at times like these, when Sigyn is settled and sleeping amidst the covers beside him, her silvery hair shining in the late night shadows, flickering moonlight dancing across her pale features, that Loki finds the peace and quiet to regret, the tumultuous roar of his mind dying down enough to allow him to truly think. And when Loki regrets, when he thinks, he cries, for the heaviness of it comes close to breaking him. The blood thickly coated upon his hands, the echo of screams in his ear, the light of Thor's eyes reflected when he looks in the mirror; it's all far too much for one person to handle.
He tried so hard to make up for it, dedicated the rest of his life to helping rather than hurting, and yet-it makes no difference. The fact that his ledger is cleaner for it, though, so often pushes him over the edge. The mere idea that a few good deeds could eradicate the many horrific ones baffles him, and he has to have Sigyn's reassurance when he can't face it by himself. His late night whispers become so loud at times that they wake his two young sons, sleeping in the adjoining room, as Sigyn stirs to soothe him. It's not that he needs her words, not that he wants to interrupt her slumber for his own selfish purposes, but he can't do it alone, and the gentle press of her hands carding through his hair lulls him, puts him at ease for a glorious, silent moment.
His mind is a weapon, one that wounds him daily, and only she can dull its deadly blade, her soft murmurs pulling down his eyelids so that he can finally find sleep.
And when Loki wakes, somehow curled up on their bed beneath the warm covers as the shy sunlight spies down on them, he is reminded why he gets up every morning-to face his guilt, his mind, his past, his horror, his demons, his insanity, his family, his home, his conflict, his memories. It is for the fleetingly infinitesimal sensation of not having a care in the world, of looking down at his wife's sleeping face and feeling awash with calm, of being happily aware of the silence of his thoughts, of, for one fraction of a second before the day descends upon them all, being free to enjoy the pure simplicity of life and all it has to offer, and of being able to blissfully ignore the flashes in his head-the ones that remind him how fading a line he walks, sanity and insanity two very indistinguishable things-as Sigyn smiles in her sleep, her hand absently placed in his, like some final lasting touch before the world changes for all eternity.
Please R&R! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated! ;)
Aaaaand this is THE END. BUT I'm debating on whether or not to write a sequel to 'Choice', which wouldn't really be a sequel, since this is the sequel. So, it'd be the third in the series.
30 small drabbles and it's over (all spanning over 6-7 years after the events of 'Choice', if anyone was curious about the timeline).
Any feedback on the idea? ;) Let me know!
A big thanks to all who read, reviewed, and prompted! I greatly appreciate it! *gives all encompassing hug to every one of you*