POV of Loki
The reel before me is paused, and it is just seconds away from being ejected from the projector in which it is housed. The first time I was presented with this modern device, I made sure to closely watch how Mobius toyed with its switches and buttons. I noted how to move forward, how to skip uncomfortable moments, and most importantly, how to turn it off. To unfamiliar eyes, its technology seems complicated, and each part of the device seems to compose one, large, enigmatic puzzle. But, appearances are always misleading, aren't they? I realized most of the buttons were unnecessary, there for decoration. The important ones have arrows and symbols.
Knowing how to go forward in the reel also supplied me with the knowledge of how to travel backward. An arrow pointing in the opposite direction, a simple mnemonic device. At first, before I had been recruited, my fingers had solely danced along the switch, as if even my body was afraid to press it in. I think I had been more afraid to examine my past than to know my future. Perhaps it was for all the reasons with which Mobius supplied me. But, even though he might have neglected this side of me, it does not mean I have to as well. After all, I’m certain my true identity lies somewhere in these reels. Beneath this tortured skin is a soul that has been through an even greater hel.
So, the tip of my finger finally presses in the left-pointing arrow and holds it there. The film resets itself as I do, swift in motion, but ever so careful. My eyes remain locked onto the wall before me, onto which the projector shines its light. There is a click, then it is just moments before the start of my life. I should press play. I will press play.
My finger moves from this arrow to a triangle symbol right beside it. My body is overcome by a trembling, but with an even shakier breath, I push the button in. The tape flickers, then begins to roll. The sounds of the projector echo throughout this vast room, meanwhile I stay seated at the table, face expressionless. Through the darkness on the screen peeks just a bit of light, and then a small and blue infant is shown being held by the All-Father. I know the infant to be myself.
On the screen, my newborn self is wailing in this frozen wasteland, but Odin’s tender gaze and gentle smile seeks to quell my incessant tears. The King of Asgard has just lost his eye in this battle against the Jotuns, yet he still caresses an unfamiliar baby with such care. But from his touch, the skin of my infant self begins to turn pale. The blood red color drains from the whites of my eyes, symbolic of the blood that the Asgardians have spilled from innocent Jotun bodies. That gesture, Odin’s gentle touch and the change that stems from it, is the first thing to bring a frown to my face. Why did he not keep my Jotun appearance. Why did he have to cover it up and alter me?
I skip forward, aware of the way my blood is boiling beneath my skin.
Now I am on the screen as a child of about three in Midgardian years. Thor is just a tad older, but he is more childish and exuberant than I ever was. The two of us are sitting on Mother’s bed, red quilt around us. Mother holds an old book in her hands, her flowing blonde hair in waves. She is dressed in a lengthy gown of a sky blue color, and she appears to be a muse of the clouds above.
“Now, now, Thor.” Mother reaches out with a smile to keep my brother from play-fighting with me on the bed. “Be gentle with Loki. He is still too little to play with you.”
Thor looks up at Mother, wisps of blond hair falling in his face. A surprisingly anxious expression is painted onto his features. “Will he get hurt?”
“He might, which is why you must always protect him. He is your kin, your brother, no matter what happens. You two may fight or argue about matters, but at the end of the day, you must always remember that you are family to each other.” Mother ruffles Thor’s hair, bringing about a frown from him. Then she gently brushes mine back, and my wide green eyes watch her with childlike wonder.
I am drawn away from the screen and back into the mind of my current self, and I return to being a mere observer of the memories of so long ago. This child Thor returns to viewing three-year old me with care, making sure that I am intrigued, and not scared, by the story that Mother returns to weaving. In real time, I am afflicted with a small sort of sorrow for this brother whom I may never see again. I feel tears begin to well in my eyes, so I press the button again, skipping ahead to a much different time of my life.
In mortal years, I am now about eight years old. I am walking across the Asgardian campus, hugging several leather journals to my chest. Beside me wanders an equally young Amora the Enchantress, her long blonde hair styled with seidr to withstand today’s winds. The lengthy and airy dress she wears is of ivy color, and the garment is one that I would love to steal for my own.
“Honestly, if I were you, I would use my sorcery to my advantage all the time, not that I don’t already.” Amora turns to me, continuing to saunter along the rocky trail that cuts through the fields of this campus. “I barely see you use your seidr for anything besides mischievous endeavors.”
I sigh heavily, a frown crossing my pale face. “You don’t understand. It is either myself or Thor who will be made king, and Father has said countless times that seidr is not something that the Asgardian people admire.”
“Your mother uses seidr, and look at how the Asgardian people view her,” Amora points out.
A raven calls in the distance, drawing me to gaze at it just as it passes by overhead. My head does not move from the direction in which the bird flew. “Unfortunately, Father claims it is different for a ruler to be a sorcerer as opposed to that ruler’s queen.”
Amora sighs wistfully, directing her gaze ahead. “A pity. I like seeing you use your magic.”
Back to reality I am dragged. I press the arrow again.
A vinyl spins on the record player of the vast bedroom in which my fourteen year-old self dwells. The breeze creeps in through the open drapes of my balcony, and the night awaits outside. I am standing in the mirror, my black hair slicked back. I have been playing around with makeup that Amora has gifted me, and on my eyelids is a shimmering green eyeshadow. My platform boots scuff the golden floor beneath me, but I am unapologetic about it.
I look at the green and black tunic that I am dressed in, tilting my head to the side as I do so. Then I eye my reflection, and a green shimmer passes over my body as I shift to allow myself to have more feminine features. My hair lengthens, and my limbs become more elegantly slender. The change in my appearance brings a smile to my face. I turn and start across the floor, seeking to find some of my mother’s dresses.
I move the reel just a tad further ahead, careful in my motions.
I become faced with an image of young Thor and me. We are both standing in the outdoor corridor and watching the Einherjar practice sparring in the center field. I lean over the stone half-wall, my eyes on one boy specifically.
”I do not understand you, Brother,” Thor tells me as I quickly slick my hair back with the wave of my fingers. He has light stubble growing on his face now, yet another sign that we are finally growing up. “You never took interest in their fighting before.”
”I must have been blind before,” I return sarcastically. The helmet of the boy whom I am watching falls from his head, but he does not immediately turn to grab it. Instead, the Asgardian boy runs his hand through his dark brown hair, then he turns to gaze at either myself of Thor. Perhaps he is shocked by the appearance of two princes. Perhaps he is enamored by the appearance of my occasionally reclusive self.
”Brother?” Thor views me with an even more palpable confusion, and then, a lightbulb in his head turns on. He carefully creeps forward and leans over the wall as I do, watching me watch this Einherjar boy place his helmet back on and rejoin the spar. “What is his name?”
I swallow, eyeing the group of guards like a hawk. ”Asmund.”
”He seems to be nice.”
”Hm. He is.” Or at least I make him out to be in my poetry. Oh, well, suppose someday I will speak formally with him.
As soon as I become reminded of my current existence, I skip a little too far into the reel. Now, the image with which I am faced is one that I have tried so desperately to forget. I am standing in the Vault of Relics, reaching out to the Casket of Ancient Winters.
In real time, I pause, seeking to skip to the end of this tape if I have to. Yet, the buttons refuse to work, and I am instead forced to revisit this tortured plane of existence. I squint my eyes shut and turn my head away, but the voice of the All-Father draws me back to looking at the screen.
“Stop!” Odin stands at the steps, gazing out at me with weariness and fear.
Blue creeps up my skin at a fast pace, and ancient symbols begin to etch themselves on the backs of my hands and arms. My voice is ragged. “Am I cursed?”
“No.” Lies.
I set the casket down, causing a bang to both sound and echo. “What am I?”
“You’re my son.” More lies.
I slowly turn around, revealing my full Jotun form to the man who has only ever provided me with lies. “What more than that?”
And just like that, I am watching this terrible moment through an observer’s eyes. Maybe I had the same view the first time, the feeling that I was not truly a part of the scene. Maybe that is why I could not stop trembling, and why my mind felt so scorched and pained. Regardless, my current self watches my past self with such immense grief, as to mourn the loss of identity, of self. The Loki on the screen has the same amount of tears in his eyes as I do right now. I laugh dryly at that fact, shaking my head and eyeing the ground.
I am now too afraid to move ahead again, as what follows is cemented in my scarred brain. Actions that I mistakenly thought were justified, a desperate attempt at control, an introduction to wretched characters, an attack on a Midgardian city…
I reach forward and shut the projector off. The light of the screen is doused, and I am left in this dark and silent room. My breathing is ragged, tinged with panic, and my hands… they possess more emotion than my mind itself.
Footsteps sound, however, as does the closing of a door. Next is the voice of a detective whom I am still uncertain about. “Loki? Almost ready for your mission?”
I raise my head, and any expression I had in my face is washed off by a metaphorical tide.
I know who I am. Someone who has been feared, underestimated, trapped, misunderstood... someone who has forgotten themselves due to years of abuse at the hands of those I know, and those I barely know. Yes, that is exactly it. And now I refuse to be viewed that way again. My story might have not been my story in the past, but it will be now. I will claim ownership of my future through one way or another.
I quickly stand and turn to Mobius, who has left behind any visible weapon. He stands with his hands on his hips and an amiable expression on his face. He is so oblivious to my plans, to my nature, no matter what he claims to know.
A smile graces my features, and I too place my hands on my hips. “I’m always ready.”