Loki Laufeyson burns.
It’s ironic, isn’t it, how a frost giant succumbs to flame.
Loki isn’t a good man. No, Loki has always been selfish. Loki has always been about self preservation, about survival, about himself, even at the expense of others. Especially at the expense of others. Loki was content to dwell in the carefully constructed threads of his own reputation. Cruel. Heartless. Spiteful. Yes, Loki was all of these things, and he embraced them, if only to hide his true self.
Never in his life did Loki ever allow himself to hope for warmth of any kind, and Loki has lived a long life. How could he? As a frost giant, Loki simply accepted how he was always destined for the cold — always abandoned. After Odin, after Thor, after Frigga, Loki simply stopped trying. No, Loki would not chase relentlessly after people who constantly betrayed him. Why should he? Loki was not a helpless child left to die; he was a god, and gods did not plead. Gods did not cry, did not beg, did not bleed. Yet at the hands of the Mad Titan, Loki did plead. Loki cried and he begged and he bled, and Loki prayed. He prayed to Odin, to Frigga, Hel even to Laufey. Yet Loki’s cries fell on uncaring ears, and again Loki was left to stare at the backs of those he once trusted, marching towards a glory which did not include him.
Once Loki had returned — returned from the very pits of Hel, from dying a thousand deaths, he was a changed man. He knew it. Thor missed his brother: the mischievous, bright eyed trickster with whom Thor grew up with. Frigga missed her son: the eager, sharp boy who delighted in the arts of seidr. Odin, albeit silently, missed his son: the clever, level headed young man, desperate for his father’s approval. Most of all though, Loki mourned the man he once was. He mourned the hopeful boy who delighted in the pursuit of knowledge, who still held love for others, and who indulged in the simple delicacies of life. He mourned the man whose hands were not stained by a thousand deaths, whose eyes had not shed a thousand tears, whose mouth from which there had not been torn a thousand screams. Loki mourned the man who was not broken. For Loki was once a perfectly sculpted vase of the finest china, only to be dropped, smashed, and crushed repeatedly. Now Loki was nothing more than a fine powder, easily blown away by the slightest wind. Loki too, mourns the vase he once was. But them? No, they had no right to miss the man Loki was. Not when they all played a part in making him the man he is now.
You see, some things can be fixed. Others can’t. Kintsugi embraces one’s history, carefully putting together broken pieces back into a whole. But there is no process for powder. Not even a god — not even Loki — could piece powder back into a vase.
So he stopped trying.
Instead, Loki built up walls around his heart, carefully guarding the remaining powder of his soul, relentlessly preventing anything and anyone from venturing too close. Powder is so fragile, even more so than a vase. A gentle wind and the vase may sway, but the slightest breath could blow half of Loki’s soul away. And he already has precious little. Yes, Loki misses the man he was, misses the beautiful and regal and complete vase, but he fears the man he will become if he does not even have the sand of his soul. Loki cannot risk even the slightest wind, for his tether to his sanity is already so desperately strained.
And so Loki resigned himself to live out the rest of his days alone.
Yet she disagreed. Her delicate, fragile, mortal self saw completely through his wretched reputation, through his iced defenses, through the countless shields thrown around Loki’s pathetic powder of a heart. She walked up to Loki and phased through the dungeon bars through which his heart lived as if she alone held the key. Perhaps she always did.
Loki never wanted her warmth. Loki was content to guard his sanity and freeze for all of eternity. In fact, Loki hated any semblance of warmth. Any form of warmth too easily scorched his icy skin, burning the agony deep into his very bones. Yet here he is. Here Loki lies, willingly burning — all at the hands of a mortal. This mortal cradles Loki’s entire frozen heart in her carefully cupped hands. Loki remembers what she said to him, when he choked out an explanation for his pathetic shards of a heart, ashamed he could not give her more.
Loki the thing about powder is, you cannot keep it contained. You can’t grip it with all your strength in a vain attempt to keep it from blowing away. Much like sand at the beach, you have to gently cradle it in a loose palm. Yes, the wind will blow some of it away, but ultimately you will be left with more than you had. Loki, please, let me be fire to your sand. Let me burn you, so that you can be glass again.
Hence, the miracle of his mortal. Loki never expected to find acceptance, much less embrace warmth. Loki had come to terms with the loss of the man he once was, the soft young man who believed in love and art, who delighted in sweets and lazy mornings, who permitted himself to hope. Loki vowed never to think of the vase he once was, no longer reminiscing pointlessly only to drown in despair. But damn. She managed to warm him from the very grains of his shattered heart. Her patient hands pieced together his wrecked mind, soothing the scars with her gentle kisses. Her very soul, so different from Loki’s, melted his own, resurrecting a man he thought dead. For with his mortal, Loki does believe in love and art. He bakes with her and lies with her, and he allows himself to hope with her.
If Loki was the frozen terrain of Jotunheim, she embodied the fire of Muspelheim. It was fitting — Jotunheim and Muspelhiem, opposites in every way, yet bonded by the shared disdain from the Aesir. Sworn enemies, destined to bring about Ragnarok.
No, she would not bring about Ragnarok. How could she, frail and delicate and so unforgivingly mortal? Yet, she would be the cause for Ragnarok, for if Loki ever lost the fire that warmed him, he would burn the entirety of the nine realms just to feel a flicker of warmth. The world must pray they never see a time of Loki without her.
For now, Loki gazes at his mortal. She is tangled in the sheets, limbs haphazardly strewn over Loki’s own, mouth slightly agape, soft snores gently stroking his neck. She looks entirely helpless, vulnerable, powerless. Yet unbeknownst to this mortal, she single handedly protects the fate of all the realms. For as long as this mortal draws breath, Loki would do anything for her, protecting realms filled with wretched souls.
But as soon as the Norns take her, Loki will take everything else. Loki knows who he is. He knows he is a selfish man — a villain, if you will. If her grounding warmth ever leaves Loki, he will once again freeze: Loki will become so cold he burns.
Loki Laufeyson will burn, but only for his mortal.