[Make your life a story worth telling.]
[All the good ones end in tragedy.]
[At least they end.]
Loki had always found the beauty in things he could not touch, especially if it was because they were forbidden. So while Thor had basked in the might and undeniable prestige of the golden Asgardian realm-eternal, Loki had looked into the endless Void, between the in-between, and wondered; wondered about what lay beyond the Nine Realms and through the branches and gnarled roots of Yggdrasil .
Could anything even live down there?
Or exist even?
Each time he would cross the Rainbow bridge of the Bifrost and stare out as far as he could into the nothingness, as though he could bottle it with only his eyes and drink it in. And Father would fix his solitary eye upon him narrowly and tell him to be careful, not to fall in — that those who got lost in the Void never returned, and to even dip one's toe in would be to fall into madness. For all the warnings, Loki would still allow himself to look. Just look. Nothing more.
After all, what could be the harm in looking?
[And what might look back?]
Loki is clutching on, fingers grasping around the smooth shaft of Gungnir, gripping tight and desperate and futile .
He’s slipping.
Loki gazes down and thinks hard but quickly, weighing out each option. The fall into the Nowhere would be whole and overwhelming and empty and silent and dark and endless. It would be madness. And really, Loki cannot see much difference between that and death. He is not to be going to Valhalla after all. Of that he has already been assured: only Helheim.
Thor is crying, face distorted into a fierce, golden, ugly mask of fear. Strong, courageous, burning Thor. Hands chasing his so desperately even as the Void threatens to swallow him too. Ever the Hero .
It makes him want to snarl.
He bares his teeth and meets the eye of the Allfather, who looks down at him. Tries for a smile.
[You fool.]
[Monsters do not smile.]
“I could have done it, Father! For us!” His voice is hoarse and a step away from hysteria.
Isn’t it pathetic how he still longs for this father after killing another? But his throat seizes and—
(Because maybe if he cannot have his father, then he might still have the Allfather. After all, the Allfather is father to all citizens of the Nine, and even the frozen blood in his veins. Jotunheim is one of the Nine, are they not?)
And maybe there is hope—
“No, Loki,” says Odin Allfather.
No.
Of course not.
[But it is not flesh which makes monsters.]
And he makes his decision. Because if this is death, if this is madness; there are worse fates than this.
In the end, letting go comes easy.
[Always the easy way out]
[There is no honour, no test of strength or courage.]
[Not for a trickster.]
When Loki falls through the Void, it's a little disappointing, to be honest.
It is but a series of doors stretching towards infinity, more a poetic sort of interesting than a curious interesting. It is known, but what is known is unknown . Or perhaps what is unknown is known? Hmm.
But for as many doors as there are (infinities layered on infinities), Loki does not open a single one. Instead he just lets himself fall, fall, fall for eternity. Perhaps, if he falls long enough, he can fool himself into flying.
Just like how a madman does not truly know his own madness.
There is no pain. No relief or balm either, just a lack. Barely acknowledging it. Like perhaps the vast emptiness of his surroundings (or lack thereof) is drowning out his senses and nerves. Or maybe he is simply fading away here, one with the numbness.
It's dark — r efreshing and endlessly, overwhelmingly so. He both revels in it and chokes on it.
There is no up or down here. No left or right or backward or forward. No current in which to measure. Directionless.
The Void is just that. A void. A vacuum.
So perhaps, he really is floating instead of falling. There is no difference is there?
There was once a Heron who always lied,
Spun lullabies with whispered omissions and brittle silk.
Loki and his elder brother are very different people. Thor, who seems to be the personification of the Aesir Dream, is strong and brave, unyielding and outgoing; Loki likes to stay inside and read, is sneaky and underhanded, taking the coward's way out. A liar. Silvertongue. Someone should teach him a lesson. Before he is even four centuries, he is dubbed the God of Lies, Liesmith. (And thinks, Well, and decides that he can own it.)
Loki uses magic, whereas fair Thor uses a his brawn like an honest man. Trickery and deception are all Loki can do. A cheat. That's what he is. Fine. Even if people are not wrong to accuse him of envy. But then, who wouldn't be jealous of his dear brother?
And Loki likes his magic, just like he likes gazing into the Void—it's forbidden and unknown and nobody truly knows its limits. Besides, even if Thor mocks him for it, he always seems rather grateful when it's the reason he doesn't end up dead—smashed by a troll or something equally as ridiculous. And even more so, Thor is an idiot, quite frankly, so if he says magic is a woman's art then there's no reason for it to be true, right? Even if the rest of Asgard happens to agree. Even if Father happens to agree. Argr scum.
Surprisingly, Mother encourages it. She says his magic is powerful and strong. Which is nice. Really nice. Because it's the only time someone has ever described a part of him as strong. He does not do well in traditional combat weapons like swords or shields and has average skill in throwing knives and daggers. But magic. Magic is his art. Mother teaches him at first, but he quickly surpasses her and graduates to the library, snatching whatever moments he can studying and absorbing knowledge, and if Thor in all his boisterousness will not look for him there, well Loki can certainly reap the benefits.
He is not really trying to be overtly cruel to his brother. Rather, he does not try as hard as others to overlook his faults. And Thor does have faults, as few and far between as they are; they do exist. But, he does love his brother truly. Perhaps it is not the quantity in which he loves but rather the method. For Loki loves his family perhaps a little too much and a little too destructively. For all the Allfather's impersonal coldness, if asked to jump, Loki really would say 'How high?' And Loki owes everything to Frigga, cherishes every moment spent with her and every single action he makes is for that warm glint in her eyes. As for Thor, dear Thor... Loki loves his brother so much that he wishes to be him. For all the supposed flaws he sees in his brother, they only serve to make him more perfect. The casual flaws of a fairy tale hero and his perfect imperfections. Loki wants to be Thor and all his golden charisma.
And with all his magic, Loki learns to change faces before even Sif is accepted into the training guilds. But never does he attempt his brother's face, for he knows if he does, he can only tarnish it. And his brother's face is too pure to be soiled.
So, yes, Loki does love his family. Loves them perhaps a little too much.
Other than Mother, the only other noteworthy Aesir with seidr is Heimdall. And he must have seidr. How else would one expect to control the Bifrost and use the Allsight as he does?! And nobody, as far as Loki is aware, has ever told him it is a job meant for women.
So one-day, as Thor and himself are accompanying Mother to Vanaheim, Instead of only his usual greetings he adds on a "How does the Bifrost work, Heimdall?" And sees the Gatekeeper blink his golden eyes back in surprise. How, he thinks to himself a moment later, is it possible that nobody has asked this before?
"Why do you ask, My Prince?" responds he, in turn. Inwardly, Loki scowls. A non-answer like that means only that there will be none. Always.
This is especially true for Loki because knowledge is a dangerous weapon to wield, especially in the likes of him. And he is a mere four centuries old.
Loki shrugs, and tries for a haughty tone. "No reason. Besides, if I am to be King one day, then I must surely know how the Bifrost works." This of course is so obviously not the real reason, yet nobody can dispute it. So Heimdall merely raises a single brow.
"Then perhaps you should ask your current King what must be known if such a time should come."
Loki is a good little liar though, so he does not wince at the particularly heavy emphasis on the "if." Not in the slightest. And he sees Mother's warning glance and knows not to push. He can find out for himself, then. So, he bids Heimdall goodbye and Heimdall bids them the traditional farewells and warnings. Then, Mother grasps their hands tight. Loki closes his eyes and tries to reach out with his seidr, that of the Bifrost.
It's only fleeting, though. That much concentrated power rushing through in such a short space of time...Loki feels himself overwhelmed and almost drowning in it. When they arrive at Vanaheim, he stumbles and almost blacks out. He feels dried out and filled over and flushed out, and his nerves are in a snapping frenzy.
"Loki?"
It's his mother, he knows, calling him from...somewhere. A steady hand grips him and he hears her voice again. "Loki? Are you alright, my dear?"
"What's wrong with Loki?" he hears Thor ask impatiently, but still somewhat worried, anxious even.
Loki allows himself a moment to regain his senses before responding.
"I am fine," he says at length.
After this incident, Loki does not try again.
These were sweet lies—delicious and ripe as fruit—but forbidden.
Because even the sweetest of things can be poison.
Sometimes, despite himself, he thinks he hears Mother, calling to him, whispering meaningless comforts meant for another time. He wonders if she sees him now, through her scrying — an ability which is both a blessing and a curse. After all, just because one knows how a tale ends does not mean they can change its ending, or even its course. Perhaps all she sees with him is falling. Darkness. Perhaps that is all there is to his future. And eternity of blind senselessness and delusions of the mind.
He wonders if Heimdall sees him. Falling. Not paying attention of course — there is only so much falling to do before the sight must become monotonous.
He wonders if the Allfather sees him with his Allsight. Wonders if he mourns the loss of his youngest son at all — or at least the loss of something.
He wonders if Thor misses his brother whom he held down (and pushed to the shadows and belittled and ignored AND —) Or perhaps he is simply a tragedy, a part what must be Thor's epic which will be passed down for generations, like "The golden prince had had a monster brother whom he had lost to blood, madness and the Void, and he had sworn to never let another fall, from that day on. So yes, Little One. Our glorious King will always protect you…" and now that he has fallen and opened a new chapter, a new plot in the prose, the Norns have simply discarded him. Uncaringly tossed, not even disposed of fully. After all, there is no need for a second, back-up prince who cannot even abide by Asgard's values.
Not for the first time, Loki wishes briefly that he had stayed to await the Norns’ judgement. For at least he would not have to bear the solitude, the loneliness, the same anonymous darkness—the departure from even feeling sensation. This deprivation from anything (even the pain of starvation and thirst) is a slower, colder, perhaps more bitter type of torture.
(Or perhaps this is his judgement. The judgment of his choice — literally.)
Because it is infinite and endless and he has no other option but to drown, not even death. And it is painless. And he was wrong, the Void is not death. Death is not madness. Death, he thinks, is sweet and merciful and quick and final.
Not this. Never this.
[There is NOTHING.]
When Loki is but five and a quarter centuries, he decides to perform a series of experiments. He is a scholar after all (or at least considers himself one.) It starts off simply, a cheap golden yo-yo toy he drops off the bridge, its elongated string held in loose fingers for fear the Void might try to tug him in. It does not.
In fact, the results are a little disappointing; the yo-yo bounces back up normally with not even the slightest trace outside of the norm. Nevertheless when Heimdall approaches him warily to warn him off the edge after his ninth trial, Loki returns and records his observations dutifully into his book.
But the Heron was caught in their lies; tangled up in the webs of it and trapped.
Yet still, they lied...
(The blood in his mouth doesn't taste anymore either.)
Loki is nothing if not determined (though it is not a trait one would usually ascribe to him, for he is not Thor's loud brand of determination but a quieter one,) and he is nothing without his books. So, Loki returns to the library, stares into the Void, and continues to wonder.
The Bifrost, he notices after his third visit to it since the incident, thrums at his appearance. Well, it is always thrilling—almost alive, but not quite. He feels it reach out to him, always drawing him closer and closer to the edge...calling him and strumming his seidr.
This must be, he thinks to himself the fourth time, the madness Father once foretold to me. After all, what could be the appeal of nothingness in contrast to the liveliness of Asgard and the luxury of being a prince in its palace? And Loki does like being a prince. He is not like Thor, naïve to all those around him, he knows he has privilege most will never know simply because of his blood. He will never know hunger unless it is on the battlefield. He can be assured of his health due to his priority in the wards. He benefits from the best education all the realms has to offer, and he can know peace and safety, comfort and sanctuary.
Like Thor, perhaps his favourite part of being a prince is the Queen, that the Allmother is truly his mother — The woman who birthed him and nursed him as a mere babe and is connected with him in a bond of trust and blood. He likes best when she still reads him stories and tales of the great Asgardians and their victories.
"Asgard's victories are your victories,” she'd tell them both.
Though Thor will be the one with the crown and its power, he lets the stories weave dreams into him of a quiet control, behind the throne, leading his kingdom and his brother to victory.
Those are his preferred tales: the ones with those who use their wit and talent to defeat foes — such as those of Mimir the Wise — or ones with impressive military strategies with great generals and tacticians — such as Lord Tyr and his own father, a battle of the minds.
Thor's favourites are the ones with blood and gore, action and heroes of honour and valour — which Loki does not find distasteful, but rather...repetitive and predictable. They always prevail the same way, after all, and what's the point of telling stories with the same plot but just different names?
However, they do share a common favourite — mainly because it has both formidable warriors and tacticians, and bravery and brawn and brains, and the protagonist is both their favourite hero: Father.
She does not tell the story very often, no. And when she does, they have to beg it out of her before she complies with a great sigh. But, she tells it tremendously.
Mother sets the scene: it is the year Loki is born and Thor is only a little older than a century and a half. She is at home taking control of the running of Asgard and performing her duties. Father is fighting in the war, defending Midgard from treacherous Frost Giants (treacherous is an odd word, Loki thinks, to describe barely sentient beasts, but it is accurate). There are more than a thousand slain on both sides, which is no small number. The thick hide of the Jotun skin leaves a frost burn on Aesir and Midgardians, so they can do more harm than most creatures. And that's not to mention their impressive stature and strength.
But the best part of the story is when the Allfather uses the Frost Giant's own weapon against them. The Casket of Ancient Winters, which some say to be the life force of Jotunheim, falls into his hands. And Odin Allfather traps the strength and whatever power there is from the Jotnar and draws it into the casket. Then, it is sealed and the realm of beasts is just a barren wasteland of death and cold, bitter darkness. How fitting. Loki's father slaughters the rest save only a few due to his mercy.
The mercy of the Allfather is a great thing, not to be taken for granted, but those creatures lie defeated and stewing in their contempt and poisonous fury. It's their own fault for being too greedy for power anyway. Midgard is notoriously pathetic and a realm filled with only poultry, but Frost Giants are much worse in how they take advantage of them. Gnats. Monsters. Icy demons made from tangible hatred and devoid of any type of emotion. Only semi-sentient in their lust to destroy all that is not them. (The last part is always added by either Thor or a passing nursemaid or himself. Then Mother will scowl and stroke the hair on their heads and say "I love you, goodnight," anyway.)
Luckily the Nines have their father on their side, and their father has the Norns on his side. Order is restored. And Father, once again, prevails for the goodness of all.
[He who grants protections to all the Nine’s people.]
Once, Frigga had told him, "Your father does everything with purpose; he does nothing without a cause."
And perhaps, Loki muses now, this is true. They see it in all of Father's actions: conviction, no matter how it is summoned. But a cause that is petty is still a purpose, is it not?
(Though it is not Loki's place to question the Allfather.)
(What place? There is no place in the house of Odin for liars and leftovers and beasts.)
[But not all are people.]
[What are you but frozen blood?]
Idly, Loki wonders how long they've been falling for. There is no measure of time here, so anything between decades and seconds seems feasible.
They've read about it before: the flow of time passes differently in each branch of the Yggdrasil, bringing balance to each distortion of time. So naturally, in the Void, time is erratic and changing and tangled.
But it's a comfort, because even if he cannot feel it, cannot touch it or see it — it is the only thing here which Loki is sure is .
And because of that, it is a gift.
There is no sound either in the Void. Or perhaps there is. Perhaps there is, but the falling just renders him deaf.
Perhaps it is not really so dark and endless, but instead he has merely lost his mind to it, already. “To fall is madness,” Father had said, and he'd been correct.
He had thought it would be chaos, tangled and curling, and imploding explosions — paradoxical insanity. But it is not. It is not chaos; nor is it order. Just nothingness, expanding and hollow.
It does not drive you to madness, because how can a lack do that, but you drive yourself to madness with the loneliness.
It's the absence of everything, and the prolonged observation of It, and the not knowing — because what is real is not and really how long have they been here?
It is not death, Loki decides again, but worse.
For it is not a lack of experience, rather the experience of a lack.
Loki's next experiment commences only a week of pondering later. Perhaps the lack of results is due to the physical tether of the yo-yo to his person, causing it to act as though the yo-yo did not really fall into the void. So to cancel out this error, Loki decides a basic summoning charm will have to do, if not a summoning bond. It is quite easy.
For this task he chooses a book, because it is amongst the easiest and most potent things to bond. He selects a common story book made often for those younger than himself and tears it in two. Then he bonds the each half together, each an incomplete object, an incomplete body of knowledge and an incomplete bond without its other half.
He's not an idiot: he knows he needs to be more careful, so this time he stays about ten paces from the edge.
And then he flings the book off the bridge and as far into Void with all the strength he can muster. He counts to one, two, and three. Then he tugs on the bond weaved in the in-between. This time is different — He cannot sense the book, only the threads of the tapestry stretching into nowhere and the nowhere tugging him in too. It's light, though, so he can ignore it. Ignore it enough to wrap his seidr around the threads and ground himself into the Bifrost to keep him from tipping over. The bridge thrums and he melds to its rhythm, closes his eyes and concentrates, tugging back from the Void as hard as he can, picturing the book in his hands with its bright colours, it's thick parchment of the pages, the tale written inside. He pulls, slowly increasing the tension as to not snap it. There!
When he finally opens his eyes, he has one half of the book in his left hand and the one he threw into the abyss in the other, and one foot is hanging precariously off the edge. Stumbling back quickly, he clutches the two halves and grins.
This experiment, he thinks as he pulls out a stylus and his writing book, is not a disappointment.
The Heron had smiled sweetly,
All sugared words and soft honey gazes.
How young is too young to be called bitter? Loki has oft been accused of such, after all. It's no wonder he is the God of Lies.
Not even of age yet and already such a spiteful tongue!
So bitter and just a boy!
But anyone can be the god of the realms he possesses. Lies, mischief, chaos and Hel, sometimes even magic can all be wielded by the ordinary.
(Thor, however, controls the storm. He wields his hammer that controls the lightning and thunder, ergo he wields the storm. A force of nature — and now a force of Thor and nobody else's, for it is only the power of the worthy .)
It's hard not to be bitter when Loki seems to be just a shadow. A slip of darkness and no other consequences.
Oh, in the grand telling of his brother's story (over feasts laden heavy with meats and spirits and rich fatty foods and — and Loki has to stop himself,) let their subplot be dramatic irony, and litter it with metaphors. For perhaps they ought to feel more at one with the Void.
Instead of devoured by it, he should feel a peaceful coexistence.
After all, a shadow is just a void of light; Loki really ought to feel more at home.
[Trúa…]
[If everyone believes, can the illusion be real?]
Loki loves his father, and he is told constantly that Father loves him (which he supposes must be true since Mother is honourable and never lies.) But he wishes he was Thor. That maybe instead of being told of such love, he could be shown it. Father is not cold, no, just dismissive. Mother says that it only seems that way because as King he must prioritise other duties, and Thor needs more attention because he doesn't take to the lessons as easily (not to mention he is probably the one who will actually need them.)
They are loved equally, as true parents should love their children.
Any reasons Loki thinks otherwise are merely just his inner anxieties. Imagined slights. No fault of the Allfather. Never.
Still, Thor is quite a bit older than Loki so surely he does not need that much more attention? A century and a half is not that much more but still fairly significant. And every time that same excuse finds its way into his mind, it always falls flat and leaves a bitter, gritty taste in his mouth. But it is fine. It's just — well, Mother and Father always make it sound so reasonable and obvious, so it must be.
Yet, Loki has to wonder why and how Thor can be so flawless and golden and yet require more teaching and lessons than weak, dishonourable Loki.
All the other birds had been eagles and canaries—loud and proud, regal and unwary.
And Loki likes knowing things, but he's smart enough to know when to stop, when he might regret knowing. It's a fact not many know about him. To them it is always that the youngest prince ought to stop meddling with knowledge beyond him, that one day it may be his downfall, that knowledge he craves so deeply. Perhaps they are right. Loki knows this so he stays cautious. Know your limits, he will tell himself. Even though he wishes he did not have any—like Thor doesn't think he has, like the Void does not have.
[All things that are empty must be filled.]
[The Ginnungagap is always hungry.]
Yggdrasil is not a metaphor as most poets use it. It is a real living, breathing thing—as real as the flesh on their bones and the skin on their flesh, as real as the darkness that surrounds it.
But you cannot see its branches, twisting and growing and spreading; really the artistic interpretations of it are quite misleading. No. It's not something to be seen, rather it is something felt. Mapped out with those who know magecraft and can traverse the energies of the universe.
But the thing is, Loki can't feel his own seidr, much less that of the universe. They can't feel anything.
Actually, you know he has a theory for this. They think it might be because the chaotic erratic nature of the Void's nature means the senses and nerves have just been flooded and overwhelmed by the force of the Yggdrasil. That, or the Void is just such a vacuum that his seidr has simply been pulled out of them. Except, that should kill him.
And he's never experienced death before, so for all his certainty that he is not truly dead, what would he know?
Perhaps it is just so.
Perhaps, as Father had once said, "Madness sees madness and sees logic. Jealousy sees jealousy and sees reason."
And so, perhaps it is like this: death sees death and sees life and being where there is none.
Can the deceased see?
It had been all too easy.
Well, Loki thinks wryly, they certainly cannot see.
[Norna dómr — but the Norns see all.]
Around his fifteenth test (dropping jars of water and ice to see if the Void energy has any effect on the state) is when his family begins to know something is happening.
Mother is the first. (Of course she is.) She visits him in his usual spot in the library one day. This is not unusual, though, so he pays it no mind. But when he sees her hand flicker in that familiar pattern of a privacy ward and her eyes skimming his piles of books and his ink-stained hands, he looks up and turns the book in his hands so it faces down towards the table.
"Good afternoon, Mother." He addresses her pleasantly, folding his hands together on his lap.
"Hello, Loki,” she begins, and pauses briefly but he does not dare interrupt her. "Your brother is looking for you."
He quirks his eyebrow. This is not what she wants to discuss, clearly. After all, as much as Frigga loves her sons, the Queen of Asgard has duties to attend to. But, he will play along.
"That is nothing out of the norm."
Mother shrugs. "No, it is not," she admits carefully. "But you do seem to be absent from his side many a day now."
What is he? Some breed of goat? Is his only noteworthy feature following Thor and his friends around like mindless cattle?
Loki clenches his fists but does not allow his face to frown. Fine, then.
"I am busy with my studies." Not technically a lie, just a little misleading. When his mother doesn't say anything, he continues, "And perhaps I am simply not interested in Thor's adventures anymore. Thor has many friends to have them with, so you needn't be worried for sake of his loneliness. Really."
And that is definitely not a lie.
Unfortunately, this does little to satisfy her and Loki hears the Allmother sigh. "Loki... it is not his loneliness I am worried abou — "
"—I do not need company! I prefer my books over company,” he cuts in abruptly, sharply, forcefully.
"Do not interrupt me, Loki,” she chides, but only gently. Loki settles and regains his composure. He is a prince, after all. "What have you been doing? I have seen you leaving the palace grounds several times of late. Unaccompanied. Do not assume that just because I have neglected to mention it, I have not noticed, my dear boy." And the look she gives him is so powerful, he wonders how Father ever truly manages to win any arguments. He ducks his head shamefully.
"Of course not, Mother."
Mother just shakes her head. "Well, then," she prompts, looking at him expectantly, "Where were you?"
Loki opens his mouth… and does not answer. Cannot answer.
Perhaps because he has disobeyed Father almost directly, perhaps because he is not doing this for anyone's approval, but simply his own curiosity. Perhaps something else entirely.
"You could just ask Heimdall," he says instead, in lieu of a proper response. Belatedly, he realises this must mean that the old Gatekeeper has not tattled on him, and feels a grudging sort of warmth at the thought.
"Yes, well I should not have to ask Heimdall the whereabouts of my own son."
At this, Loki does not fight off the frown. Is this some kind of test?
(Stupid boy! Of course it is. It is always a test, isn't it?)
He knows the correct answer is an honest one, but he is almost certain the honest answer is not the one she is looking for. But he can't lie, not to Mother. Never. She would never lie to him, after all. So… an omission of the truth is not exactly a lie, is it?
"I was doing some research for my studies. Just some basic experimental work, Mother, really. Near the Bifrost." None of this is, of course a lie. So hopefully it should suffice.
She merely raises an eyebrow. "And you could not have conducted your, ah — experiments within the palace, with supervision?"
Oh, Hel.
"I admit it was irresponsible of me, but they were fairly basic experiments. Though, perhaps I was a little overconfident,” he says, and he sees her realise that neither of them will yield. Hopefully she will let this matter pass soon enough. He'll just have to be more careful after this. "I shall not repeat it."
Frigga sniffs, eying him narrowly. "No, you are free to wander when and where you please, Loki. Just as Thor is. But I trust you will know to keep yourself safe, and know when to ask for help."
"Yes, Mother."
With another pause and a brief scan of the books laid out around him, she nods and leaves. Faintly, Loki feels the air shimmer as the ward around them releases.
After this, his ventures out take longer. He knows it is no use to avoid Mother's gaze altogether, lest she grow more suspicious and alert Father, so instead he makes himself more legitimate alibis; he brings vials and satchels to collect random samples, shears and clippers, a net and magnifying lenses, little things to support him. And who knows? Perhaps he might find some genuine use in them.
As it is, he actually does. He smuggles small insects and rodents past the palace gates and tests them with the Void, tracking them with his seidr. He grows tiny vials of cress and sees if he can accelerate the growth rate as it falls. Once he brings a crystal ball and tries to capture the essence of the Void's strange tangibility, but it diffused out when it appears in his hands.
Perhaps he is venturing into the madness.
The Heron had thought, this to be was their role in the story: the Trickster, messenger.
(Once, Mother had warned him. Warned him that he had had a tongue so sharp that he'd cut himself one day.
She'd been right, of course.)
Maybe they were not the page turner,
But they had lines to say — a lot of lines — and that was enough.
[But paper can cut.]
There is something creamy, savoury, slightly sweet on their lips. A broth of some sort, perhaps.
A happy sort of delusion.
Loki is not sure whether he is experiencing physical hunger or if they just miss the taste or sensation of anything. Perhaps both.
They know which one they prefer, though. Because he'd like to think he can trust his own mind, thank you very much, and somehow the thought of his body being able to feel is really quite thrilling.
Except he can't tell. And the realisation is shocking to him except he also can't bring himself to care—that maybe he's been here (or nowhere) for so long that maybe his body is is no longer existing at all. Just a loose stream of consciousness floating (or falling, or perhaps just in stasis) around the cosmos ripe for the taking.
How would that work, anyway?
Have his remains become just mere individual particles, adrift, ready to become part of the great energies of the Universe? Perhaps a star, shining brightly on new life. Or a jewel possessing great power. Or the heart of a great Queen.
No such luck, he muses. He'd sooner that than be a wet slug, or a blade of dead grass, or some foul beast. (Ha!)
It's of little consequence to wonder anyway. After all, he can do nothing but observe the cold marble stillness of his being.
Loki does not hear the sound of running water, crystal clear and cool, or feel it trickle down his throat like a river.
No. He does not. Not at all.
...And even if they were not always true, at least they were not always false.
At least they had mostly tasted sweet.
Mother no longer questions where he's been, but Father does begin to take notice.
"Loki, I would have thought you had greater aspirations than a botanist,” he mentions snidely at breakfast one morning. Beside him, Thor snickers.
So many bitter words, thrown like daggers, stinging like acid; poisonous ones, too, which were a different category altogether.
Because even the sweetest of things could be poison — in fact, often that was the case.
Loki can tell what he means. Even though there is not much to claim as second and (even by now Loki can tell, he is past his sixth century after all) least favoured son, he is still expected to achieve respect. A worthy aspiration, if he may. This can be anything from Governor to a high scholar to successful merchant. For a Prince of Asgard however, this means a warrior and, eventually, a general. (Even if no one will follow him.)
"Of course, Father. They are just mere hobbies. Not so important."
Allfather nods, satisfied easily at compliance. "You are to join Thor and your friends for their extra weapons training today."
And Loki nods, trying hard to look eager and not at all perturbed by this, and dismisses himself.
See, the thing about their (Thor's and his) friends is that they're not. Loki does not have any friends, unless you count Thor. And Thor's friends are good, yes, but they are not so weak-willed as to compromise to Loki's interests. Loki is different. He has always known that. And neither Thor nor his companions will let him forget this.
(Well, Loki had thought again, different would have to be fine. Different would have to be better than fine. Better to be different and cunning than stupid and worthy and brave like everyone else.)
So, he resigns himself to his fate and hopes to the Norns that they'll go easy on him. Especially Sif. Not that these are particularly honourable thoughts, certainly not those of a warrior or a prince (but he us just an ergi), but at the moment he can't seem to bring himself to care for honour.
He can deal with it, though. Just like he always does.
As usual, after these sessions he comes back sullen and Thor would say "brooding." They had paired him off with Sif (something about "size and agility" apparently) and she'd taken to the offence viciously. Quite rightly so, he thinks. For Sif is at least on par with Thor, if not more capable. And Loki is... Well, Loki is Loki, which is explanation enough.
He pushes the food on his plate around in silence at dinnertime and eats little. He should, he knows (as Father and his brother are quick to remind him,) eat more if he wants to gain more muscle and a physique more like Thor's, but he can't bring himself to care anymore. Years of mockery and belittling will do that to a person, and eventually he'd given up. It seems to be a miracle he's even a son of Odin, what with their golden features and eyes of summer blue. (Or maybe it is a shame.)
But when he is dismissed for the night, maybe he thinks he hears Frigga's "I love you" sound more forceful and desperate than normal.
He looks her in the eye solemnly and says, "I know. I love you too." And he thinks she looks relieved by it.
Which is silly, he ponders later that night. Just preposterous really! Just out of the question! She's Mother, of course she loves him! As all mothers should love their children; as the Allmother loves all. It would be an insult to even suggest otherwise.
The next day, he takes the experiments he postponed the day before into his bag and makes the journey again. This time he is more discreet about It. He brings a little money with him and tells Father he is going to the market, and although Odin sees no reason he should feel the need to buy when they have all they need and more in the palace, he agrees. Which is great, but now he needs to think of something to buy. He supposes he could always go for things for magecraft but he knows that will not please Father. Perhaps a gift? He'll think of it later.
It's been several months since his first experiment, and though he is really not much closer to unveiling the secrets of the Void, he thinks he has a better grip of its essence now. It feels almost sentient, each visit makes its call to his core more abundant and gripping. But, he no longer finds himself a half a step off the edge as he used to, so perhaps he can withstand it better. Or maybe he is simply more attuned to it.
Like eyes adjusting to darkness. That he likes; it is almost poetic.
Today's experiment is just a silly little one. He almost had it last week when he tried with his hair, he's sure of it. This time he pulls out a small pocket knife and pricks the edge of his finger, holding the bead of blood on the knife. He's tried it before but in a vial, but this time the aim is different. This time he is not trying to summon it back, just track it.
At some point (and Loki has realised this by now) it is not really curiosity that motivates his experiments. Don’t get him wrong, he still thirsts for the knowledge of the universe greedily. But it is more the calming ritual of the journey to the Bifrost, the tests and the writing up that he likes. It's just nice. And it makes him feel worthwhile.
Loki lets the scarlet droplet fall and closes his eyes, syncing himself up with that little piece of himself. He opens his gaze to the darkness and tries to perceive beyond it, through airy layers of nothingness and hollowing silence, feels it try to drown and smother him and embraces it. It makes him feel numb and electric and hollow and full; and perhaps he is addicted to the sensation, but there's really no harm is there? He follows it down further than before, and the further he gets the more it pulls at him, untangling his seidr and draping it like a blanket and he inhales the scent of fresh nothingness, it is beautiful and —
The droplet splits.
[Everything breaks in the end.]
[And what is in your veins?]
[You ought to drown, bitter-blood.]
Splits into thousands of razor-edged fragments, and each one gets lost; suddenly he cannot see, he is blind, and it's dark, so dark and silent and echoing. It feels as though he is stuffed with cotton.
With a gasp, Loki reins himself back in. Feels the thrum of the Bifrost pulling and tethers himself to it. Just for a moment. He looks down and is suddenly stunned at the vivid brightness of the colours of the bridge glaring at him, and squints. It almost hurts.
(And some part of him finally registers and accepts that, yes, he is in way over his head. But he can feel the Void stroking at the corners of his mind again and thinks, Later .)
Eventually he stops just standing there and gathers his things quickly, not even bothering about stealth. He's in an excited sort of daze, a happy contradiction.
He sweeps into the palace like a breeze, careless and dreaming. So, he does not take note that the door to his chambers is unlocked already, and does not prepare himself for what greets him in the study. Or rather who.
Odin Allfather sits at his writing desk flicking through his writing journals as though it were the latest periodical issue.
For a second or two, Loki's brain does not truly function at the sight. Father does not seek Loki out often, and truth be told he does not remember the last time he saw Father in his rooms, much less his study. However, even as his brain short-circuits, something in his gut clenched and twists.
And what is love to a Heron?
"How was your trip to the market, Loki?" Says the Allfather without ever looking up. And like a hunted animal, Loki's first instincts are fight or flight. Unfortunately he can do neither.
And drat. He can still feel the unspent money weighing down in his pocket and the all familiar feeling of dread he associates so well with his father sinks in. Loki swallows.
"It was well,” he manages eventually.
Odin hums and flicks the page. Loki recognises the diagrams, the writing and—
"Did you buy anything of interest?"
Bor help him. Father looks chillingly calm which can only mean the complete opposite.
"I..." Loki falters. And really, what is the point of this? Father surely already knows. Is it to humiliate? Is there an audience somewhere he cannot see? What a mighty show that must make, catching the Liesmith. "I am sorry, Father." He says instead, lowering his head. He knows he has already lost this, so best to just get it over with.
"Sorry? Whatever for, my son?"
Loki has to stop himself from gritting his teeth. He knows Father is probably just worried for him, and angry at being lied to. "I am sorry for deceiving you, Father."
This time Odin looks up. And apparently one eye makes for a more piercing gaze (or maybe that's just Father.) The book in his hands closes softly, silently but it startles Loki all the same. "Hmm... Yes. And tell me where did you go today, Loki?"
"I..." he swallows again, throat dry. "The Bifrost, Sir. The Bifrost."
Odin nods as though this is fascinating news. As though he does not already know. "Like you did three days ago, I presume? And twice last week too, and, let's see," he pauses briefly to flick and skim over the dates written in the margins of each page, "Since last year, apparently."
Loki wishes the Void would swallow him now.
"Yes, Father."
And Odin stands, imposing and tall, all the things Loki admires about his father. "And you have neglected to tell me this, boy?"
"I — "
"And did I not make myself clear to you and your brother when I said to keep away from the Void? I thought you were supposed to be the clever one, Loki, the one I could rely on to understand the things I taught you. Or did you understand and simply decide to ignore? Do you take that much pleasure in causing grief and mischief that you simply decided to brush aside my direct commands and do the exact opposite?" Odin pauses, breathing deeply and Loki not at all. "You wicked boy. I tell you that the Void creates only chaos and madness to those who try to venture even a step, and you decide to project yourself into it. This is not some game, Loki. You are not merely a child anymore; in a few centuries you will be of age! Do you not understand? I love you, child. But some days...you exhaust me."
When it feels as though Father is finished, and the only sound that permeates the room is the blood rushing to Loki's ears and ragged breaths, Loki opens his mouth to speak.
"I understand, Father. I will pursue this no further. It was dangerous and stupid and I am sorry to have caused you grief." He replies. Curt. To the point. He dare not mix anything else to it.
Father nods, looking away now. Not really breaking contact so much as dismissing it. He picks up the books and the pages of scrawled notes and strides towards the door, Loki stumbling to the side to let him pass.
"I will have these burnt. I do not want you tempted anymore. For your own good." He says, opening the door.
"Thank you, Father."
The only person that speaks at dinner that night is Thor, and even he can sense the room, but he reacts to it by trying to fill the silence with volume and grows more animated. It's veal tonight and Loki cuts the slice on his plate into tiny pieces and eats only a little, instead tries to enjoy the sounds of his knife scraping on the ceramic surface of the plate.
Later Mother will whisper to him fervently, " Oh, Loki." And stroke his hair. " Why can't you—" and she will not finish her sentence, but she will not need to.
Why can't you be more like Thor? And Loki will wonder why. Why can't he? As everyone does. As he always does.
After all, nobody liked the taste of medicine.
There's a memory. Short, but Loki remembers it vividly. They'd been just a child—well, a younger child, maybe three centuries—and Father had just sentenced a criminal (and what irony that is.) Loki, though a clever prince, had not been particularly wise at the time and had thought it fit to taunt the cursed man. Well, Thor had done it, and they had followed the footsteps of their brother dearest.
Young and foolish, Loki had spat, "You should be glad the Allfather has mercy, níðingr." But the man had not fought back. No more vile words or agonized pleas were exchanged. Instead, he had stopped. Eyes bright and dull all at once, and even though his face had been grimy with sweat and his hair stringy and falling, he had looked strong. Strong and forged of fire. And he'd smiled.
And Loki hadn't understood then. Hadn't understood much at all.
"May you never need to learn this lesson, Your Highness." He had said, looking Loki straight in the eyes, fresh green meeting the deep brown, almost black. A guard (Brynjar, Loki's favourite guard due to his rare fondness for Loki's magic) had kicked him in the shins for it. A criminal had no right to address a prince of Asgard, after all. But the man had bit his tongue and opened his lips again.
"Your mercy is not my mercy."
Oh, Loki understands now.
At first, you know, at first the eagles had eaten them all up, and the canaries had sung them perched on high branches, tune whistling for all to hear,
But then,
But then something changed.
Something always has to change in tales — in order for the plot to move forward, you see...
[Hel waits for no-one.]
There is no sleep in the Void, no refuge such of that.
Every so often—or at least what Loki perceives to be often—Loki likes to imagine. Imagine something idyllic and dream up conjured worlds. And it's easy.
Well, they didn't become the God of Lies without a little creativity, after all.
Cruel child.
It's all golden palace walls, richly coloured tapestries and frescoes, Frigga's magnificently lush gardens. It's the smells of her wild flowers and fresh grass and the fruity scent of trees in the orchard and never her roses. It's the scents of warm honey baths, that bitter spiced mead, the lavender of their pillow.
They're nice things. Comforting. Even if after the touch of mother's warm embrace fades, or the volume of Thor's noisily careless chatter ceases, or the taste of rich meats on their tongue melts, they only feel more hollow. It might be worth it, they think.
And of course, the blank darkness is really the perfect canvas to paint themselves a masterpiece.
The air shimmers briefly as he conjures the mirror, and suddenly he's staring back at this... beast.
Jotun , his mind supplies, revolted.
Ridged, icy blue skin, thick like tarp. And violent blood-lust red eyes. A monster. It is not like the terrifying giants of the story books which devour children and use their bones as toothpicks. It is not huge and bulking and looming. In fact, the thing looks almost pathetic but it is still just as ghastly. Instinctively he recoils back in disgust and shifts his stance in preparation for a fight. And it. It does the same. Following his movements through in perfect synchronisation like a mirror. Loki clenches his fists. It too, does the same.
And then Loki remembers the colour of his own fists.
And the beast closes one crimson eye. So does he.
Something dark and ugly and rotting sinks inside him. Making itself home deep in his body. Like some sort of parasitic magic. He swallows thickly and tries not to stare as the creature does too.
With as much power he can will, Loki tears his eyes away from the burning soulless ones that stare back and snarls and feels himself boil over and shriek in violence. Like one of those.
No, not like — is.
Was everything a lie then? Did Father truly not love him? Yes. You were never loved. You are a lie. Loki Liesmith, how fitting.
What about Mother? Yes, her, too. All of them. And if she did (for she is too kind, too gracious, and she — cares for a monster) more fool her. More pity her.
Thor said he wanted to kill all the monsters, though. Would he still…
Yes. You are a monster. You are not brothers. You cannot be. He should kill you, if only for the deception (Silvertongue.) He shared a bath with you when you were young, you know. How you have defiled him, tainted his life with your wretched blue, blood red, and he ought to slaughter you for it.
Only monsters have tongues that are silver.
But colours do not matter in the all-darkness of the Void.
[You are cold, my child; frozen down to the bone]
The Heron was not sure what it was at first, too caught up in the lie that they'd been the same. They were all just birds after all, with wings and feathers and beaks, but they did notice, eventually. Maybe it was the too-long neck, always craning into the nests of others where they were not welcome; or perhaps maybe the Heron was just not as strong and swift as the eagle, could not fly as high, did not catch as much prey; or that their feathers were grey and dull and not as colourful as the canaries, and that their songs did not sing as loudly or melodically, no matter how sweet the words.
The reason did not matter, though. What did matter was that the Heron had been caught. Caught in their own cradle of lies and even some truths (but the wrong truths), all tangled together in thorny nests of roses and silk. Because they had not been made to live amongst those in the trees, after all. And wasn't that the point?
They'd been kind, though. Merciful, even if the Heron had been an alien living in their homes, taking root and perching like some perverse imitation of one of them. They did not drive them out. Did not push them off the tree. Rather, they had waited—waited for them to fall off.
Of course, even though the Heron's lies had been caught out, they still lied. Lied and lied and ran their mouth over and over and tried to make the snares of their own words into a cocoon of safety.
For some reason, the Heron had found they could not stop... not even when the eagle had warned or the canary had threatened. And look at them now: caught in this sea of anxiousness, just waiting to be forgotten and hoping they wouldn't be. Because their lies had been revealed, the shock value had passed, leaving only unease in its wake. The Heron's purpose fulfilled — they were no longer necessary in the story.
"I'm here!" They'd cry every once in a while and others would turn around and pat them lightly and leave them sitting there again. And again and again. (And think maybe, why was the Heron still there?)
They hated being forgotten, left out, ignored. But that's what was to become of liars: people only remembered their lies. Because they didn't know how else to speak, they'd insult, ask and comfort (when it wasn't TRUE) but the Heron would never answer honestly. Because truly, they had never known the answer and the Heron would not admit that. Not even to themselves.
Amidst these lies and half-truths, finally the Heron realised that maybe it was best. Best to forget themselves, because then they'd never really know when they had been forgotten.
Sometimes it was best to fall from where you did not belong. Even if you could not be sure where you were falling…
.
.
.
.
.
.
If a leaf falls from a tree, in a forest, alone, does it make a sound?
Does it even happen?
Is there even a leaf at all?
[Hello and hello and hello and no goodbye...]
[Why good-bye?]
[Why are the byes always good?]
Loki does not mean to twist his words quite as much as he does. It is only on pure instinct. Perhaps if he were braver, like Thor, he could be more honest. As it is, he lacks that bravery.
There's a look of such disappointment in Father's eyes that—no matter how familiar it is—Loki can't help but wince.
A weight is pressing down on his chest, and Loki thrashes against it wildly, though he already knows it is futile. Thor places Mjolnir down like a paperweight and uses even his own golden body to pin him in place, though he need not bother. Loki can do nothing for his unworthiness.
After all, why bother with lies when you can simply smite your enemy with lightning?
Above him, his brother sobs like it is he that is in pain, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Over and over and over again. Loudly, tearlessly. For even now, his brother shows no weakness. And is he? Is he truly sorry? If he were truly sorry then he would make it stop. He would release him. But he won't. Thor has no power here. The only one with power here is the man on the throne.
So no, do not be sorry, Brother. Instead, be angry. Be angry that I bring disgrace to the house of Odin. Be angry that I must always be so difficult. Be angry that I never learn. And if you are sorry, be sorry that I share your blood, and Mother’s, and Father’s. Kin.
[What is in your blood but your life?]
[What is in your life but them?]
He and the Dwarves pinch his lips tightly and hold out the needle. Its silver is glimmering in the great Asgardian sun.
But Loki has brought this on himself, after all. He was the one who forced Father's hand. The King must not show favourites, not even to his own sons. It is in his political interest to allow Loki's punishment, and he should be glad the Allfather was merciful enough to let him keep his tongue.
He is simply being a good, fair, just king.
(And a good father too. For he is still just a boy, and he must learn to grow into a good prince of Asgard. One he can be proud of. One which is worthy.)
The eldest Dwarf—there are two of them, but at the moment Loki cannot concentrate on remembering their names above the bile rising in his throat—reaches into his bottomless satchel. And with his hand comes a spiked gag and a thick coil of tightly braided silver thread, though Loki cannot make out the type of weaving from his position. The Dwarf, hands his brother the thread and hands Loki's brother the gag.
"Your Highness." He says, presenting it to Thor like a gift.
His brother hesitates for a second and Loki sees his eyes flutter up — to his father and then mother — and Father must have agreed somehow because a hard look glazes over his blue eyes, and Thor takes the gag. Honestly, Loki wishes for him to get it over with; or do they just want to prolong the torture? He tries to meet Thor's eyes, as if to tell his brother to hurry up, but instead, he catches his eyes on the gag once more.
Oh, why must you be so wicked?
It is not bright and shiny like the needle and thread, nor does it look like something of exquisite design. But, that must be the beauty of it. Roses are so beautiful after all, and here their thorns are even more so. They are plain and brutal and half wilted and utterly perfect, bound tightly together into a little ball just the perfect size for Loki's mouth. Perhaps he is not to keep his tongue after all.
As ever when not in midst of battle, Thor is slow, and Loki is impatient. So he bites the fingers that hold his lips, and Thor gets the message.
Loki does not bother moving away his tongue for he knows he would not be able to keep it up for even just the hour. And besides, perhaps he can use this punishment as a lesson, something to train his tongue to still instead of spitting lies.
You deserve this, wicked serpentine son that you are, a voice whispers sweetly in his mind. Which is true, really.
The thorns are not like needles, not thin and delicate, they are more like sharp rocks impaling at all sides. His tongue does not feel whole anymore, just a mushed blend of fleshy muscle and garnished with blood.
Thor, as usual, is such a sympathiser. Face twisting and eyes watering when his brother spits up blood in his face. The younger Dwarf scowls and Loki's lips are pinched again, tighter, between blunt fingernails slick with oil from the forges of Nidavellir.
"My head is yours, but not my neck." He had said, because he did not want to die. But then, there are worse things than death.
The thorns do not pierce through his cheeks, and Loki is pleasantly surprised; they only scrape and tear and slash.
(Worse things like watching your father dictate your punishment.)
He sees them thread the silver through the needle, just the end because thickness of the twine seems to vary along it, thin and wide and it has sharp edges like a ribbon. Maybe, he thinks idly, if the Dwarves had presented this particular invention, they might have won.
And they might be holding his lips but they do not start there. No, the needle does what the thorns fail to do and prick the skin of his cheek next to his ear. It passes through slowly, slicing into wet flesh, the end taking a few seconds the reach the other side; Loki feels it graze his gums before coming out again.
He can feel himself shaking, and clenches his jaw, forcing it still, swallows back a soupy blend of tissue that threatens to dribble down his chin. It feels like they are deliberately taking their time. He is no fool, so he does not close his eyes, instead he looks past his brother, past the Dwarves, past even his father, and focuses his gaze on his mother, the most comforting sight in the room, though she is so tense he can see it even in this state.
(Worse things like seeing your mother observe your pain and able to only watch.)
It's all one baseline pain now. Knifing into him. Of the raw, cutting, stinging sensation, only punctuated by each new stitch and the metallic tang of blood And how he can't breathe. He can't—
He hopes they are at least doing it neatly.
When they've finally sealed his mouth, they keep going, and for a moment Loki wonders morbidly if they are just going to continue around his whole head. Maybe start on his eyelids, hide the green eyes which do not match his father's and have brought about sinful rumours wherever they go. But they do stop. And, ah yes, it is symmetrical. How very quaint.
They pull it taut and the needle pokes and strikes through the same point a few more times to tie a knot, tightened nice and securely for good measure.
There's so much blood and tongue in his mouth and thorns, and vomit rising in his throat and not enough air; perhaps drowning on one’s own bodily fluids is the way to go.
His chest still feels heavy and Thor and his damned hammer is still on him. And Thor is looking at him, gaze transfixed on the seam of ribbon-edged silver stitches in his lips, eyes peeled back in icy shock as though he didn't know, as if he didn't help.
(There are worse things.)
His brother stumbles off him, finally. Loki tries to sit up, but the Dwarves hold him roughly down.
As usual, Father's face is unreadable, the perfect face of neutral, impressive ground. And it makes Loki want to scream, and if he could, maybe he even would. Odin sits there, posture tight and straight, clutches Gungnir with a white knuckled grip, a frown permanently etched onto his forehead; and as usual, Loki can't even begin to tell what he's thinking.
Maybe he's been punished enough?
Probably not.
"Allfather," begins the eldest, Brokkr, Loki finally recalls. "We punish only lightly, for a prince of Asgard." And if Loki could snort without choking, he would.
"Therefore, we would like, with your permission of course, to bring the young Prince to Nidavellir." Continues the other, Eitri. And the young prince feels his blood grow numb and frenzied once more, a feeling he's becoming familiar with. Probably not, indeed. "Just to parade him, of course. No doubt the lesson in humility would only benefit him, Your Majesty."
My, who knew Dwarves had such smooth, sharp ways with words.
He is not sure how he expects his father to respond to this: angry (unlikely but it would be hopeful), eagerness (somehow also unlikely, which is nice)... Instead the look his father bears now is just resigned. Loki must truly be unredeemable.
"And no further harm will come to him? After all, I think this much is enough."
The Dwarves simply nod quickly. He wants to shriek.
Because he may not be of age yet but he is far from stupid, and he knows Father is far from it, too. They speak no oath, nor even words to bind them to this — and Allfather knows this. But, he cannot be seen siding with a criminal after all.
And what are his crimes? Deception, trickery, dishonour. Yet, the only thing that has been wounded is that of their pride.
And of course, his head.
You know, they say the building of one's childhood and character comes from but a select few series of incidents and minor traumas. Loki knows this to be true, though the meaning might apply more to Thor. The fate of his childhood, however, would fit quite nicely. Because his brain seizes suddenly, and he feels his seidr burst.
It flares in a manner that Loki has not seen since he was an infant with no discipline. It's destructive and explosive and bright. Loki has never been so bright. He almost screams with it — except he cannot, so he chokes on it sharply instead. Something inside him twists. Again. As it has so many times throughout his life. And how many twists will be enough before he snaps?
For a moment, he is blinded. Nerves raw with the power and the intensity of it. But his feet are pounding and he is running. Where? Who knows? Who cares? He cannot see; he runs through the white and lets his seidr guide him. There is no sound either, none but the rushing of the force of The Nine rushing through him, not even his heart (and perhaps it has ceased its function already).
He needs to leave. He needs to escape. Find a sanctuary. Somewhere safe. Somewhere it can all stop.
Please, can it all stop?
He breathes in and out deeply through his nostrils and keeps running. They could catch him easily if they tried, after all his magic is powerful but not that powerful. Perhaps the not knowing is part of his punishment. Perhaps he is simply running around the throne room like a headless animal — and what a sight that must be to behold!
When his vision returns to him, in patches of clear and colour so vivid they seem to burn, he is greeted with a very familiar sight. Of course.
Of course he is here. Where else would he be but the Bifrost? At the edge, maybe two steps from falling.
Loki takes a glance down, down, down into the deep abyss of the Void. It's tugging at his mind, a temptress. Beckoning him. And why not?
Heimdall will not open his gates for him to flee (for that would be treason) and even if he did, they'd find him anyway. Anywhere.
So why not?
They are going either kill him or torture him to it.
Father can, but will not stop it.
Mother will not try. She can't try.
And Thor cannot do anything outside of Father's command (not even watch on passively — for the Allfather had commanded his youngest son to be held down and Thor had aided. Ever the obedient son when it matters.)
Distantly, he hears the thudding of feet, careless dwarven footsteps and the purposeful gait of his beloved father.
He holds his breath.
A glimmer.
Maybe it's a trick of the light— if there is any. Fleeting and winking. Loki thinks they spy something with one of their senses. It's not bright or colourful or anything special. Except it is, because it's there.
Or perhaps it's not.
Most likely, they're just hallucinating. Dreaming. Already raving mad from the Void.
It doesn't matter anyway. It disappears in a blink. Loki drowns again. Submerged further into the inky nothingness.
There are other tales of the Void, contrary to popular belief. Be careful of what lurks there, do not get tangled up in those lures. But Loki has been here long enough to know that the only thing to be wary of is madness. And what's the harm in that, anyway? In a place of nothingness
If something snatches him it would be luck.
His mind will degrade and crumble away soon enough, it's only a matter of when.
And there is no when.
The stitches and threads that tie him together must be already at least halfway unravelled.
Sometimes, Loki forgets where they are. Looks around and finds they cannot look at all, strains their ears only to find they cannot strain or hear. Where are they? What is happening? But there is no is or was or when.
Loki is a strange word. Names are strange. Sometimes they'll catch themselves thinking it, refer to themselves as Loki and sounding it out in their head.
Loki.
Lo-ki.
Loh-kee.
What does Loki even mean anyway? They must have asked Mother that before, but they must no longer remember. It's a little funny.
Sometimes they do that. Talk to people. Well— they amend— not people. Or rather they are people but Loki's not actually speaking.
Most of the times, their conversations are with Mother. They talk about trivial little things, how apple flavoured things are clearly superior to orange flavoured things. She disagrees. Always has. Both of them agree, however, that plums are the best.
Whenever Loki sees Mother, she always looks the same. Not how she actually looks, or at least not how the last time they saw her. Younger. Face brighter. Skin smoother. More ready to smile.
They like her better this way.
And they're not stupid. They knows it's not real. They knows that they cannot touch her. They cannot even hear her. Not truly. But honestly, truth is just a matter of circumstance. It's all relative. And it's not like anyone can tell them otherwise here. And besides, it's not like they really care.
So it doesn't matter.
Perhaps the best thing about the Void is the lack of anything. And through that, the lack of any sort of reality.
Like sure, they could be falling endlessly in the Knowhere but why would they be? Not when they could just be sitting in Frigga's gardens. Sitting amongst the maze of rose bushes, or beneath the large Willow tree in the autumn. It's even better than when they were actually doing those things. At least this way Loki knows they will not be interrupted.
Sometimes Loki just likes to stare into the darkness. It's as addicting as it ever was, perhaps more so now that they're one with it. It sucks them back in. Greedy thing, they think. You already have me! What more do you want? But they indulge it fondly. Allows it to pull at them, like an anchor slowly weighing them even deeper. It's as though they are digging for a treasure, where every time Loki thinks they have reached it, the dirt gets deeper.
They're not sure why it bothers beckoning, since Loki going to keep falling anyways. The direction of it shouldn't particularly matter anyway. So when it tugs, Loki tugs back. Yanking it as though they can reel it in as it reels them.
That seems to be the only sensation here. This little taking of turns.
It's probably not even real, to be honest. Just their mind personifying the Void because they are just that alone.
Occasionally, Thor will show up, blundering in with all the idiocy Loki associates so well with him. And it's easy, so, so easy. Loki doesn't even have to close their eyes and they are jousting in the training fields. Or Thor is yelling at them for yet another trick. Or they are showing Thor something exciting they have found. And Thor is definitely never holding them down, pinning them with Mjolnir and apologising with tears in his eyes.
Nope.
In fact, it might have never even happened at all. Because what was and what is and what may be does not matter in the Void. It does not exist in the Void. Nothing matters. Nothing exists, not even reality.
All that matters is the deep, vast emptiness.
(Can emptiness even be vast?)
Perhaps that is not such an appropriate word to describe nothingness.
Sometimes the emptiness fluctuates. Sometimes it just feels like they're drifting, relaxed and limp, easily with the tide. Other times it feels oppressive, like they are drowning and the pressure is coming at them at all sides, suffocating them, binding them. And sometimes it feels like they are fading. Numbing and faint and flickering. As though their existence is a mound of dust, slowly being blown away. Or a cold fire which burns through them.
The silence is like a music. A lullabye, one where they might not wake up. A perpetual beat of rest in between two notes in a symphony. Or at least they force themself to think of it as a music, otherwise they wouldn't be able to handle it. Unbearable and draining them slowly, softly...
That seems to be another mistake they've made, they hadn't expected to be thinking this long. This long. How long? How fucking long? It wouldn't surprise them if it's been no more than a minute. Humiliating, maybe, but only so much humiliation as you can get alone. Besides, what is a minute here to an hour, to a day to a week to a month? (What is a year, a century, to a second?)
Time doesn't really exist here. One moment (if they can be counted as moments) may be a whole fortnight, and another a millennium.
What does it matter anyways? Such terms are only used to measure the passage of time, and nothing passes here.
There is nothing.
[Hello, it is I, the black perpetuum here to lull you to bed and—
No.
Listen.
To the snow,
And the shadows,
And all the memories of flesh can be forgotten here.
Smile birdy!]
There was once a Heron who always lied. They'd spun lullabies with whispered omissions and brittle silk, and they could not stop. But these were sweet lies, delicious and ripe as fruit. But, forbidden (because even the sweetest of things can be poison.)
But the Heron was caught in their lies. Tangled up in the webs of it, and trapped.
Yet still, they lied.
[It's so much more peaceful and calm and give yourself away you do not have to think anymore.
In the night...
There is not night.
Nightingale.
Not here in the darkness. Will you take my hand still?
Please,
Do not be still.
There is no still and no motion here.
The black box is endless and there are no walls to escape from.
Here,
Listen to the silence and take not comfort but let it will away your pain and your will and your sensation.
Give your soul away and let it drift off be free...
Untangle it from the chains that reality and existence have wrought upon it,
And come with me…]
They are having a brief (but unsurprisingly) unpleasant conversation with Father when the fabric shifts.
And they feel it do so.
They might laugh at the shock of it, if the silence of the laughter, the emptiness of the echoes, the lack of breaths to take, wasn't quite so terrifying.
Father pauses and glares again, because it looks as though they aren't paying attention again. But Loki is always paying attention.
The Tapestry unwinds, the threads splitting into fibres as though making way for something more tremendous. Except there isn't anything but a more obscure nothingness protruding through.
The old emptiness curls and folds and tries to stitch them in further, pulling the knots tighter. Tangling them in a string and weaving a net. It's like a hook, snagging itself on anything that might be left of the essence of that Loki Odinson and gently coaxing them along. Like a sweet smell of something just out of reach, and, involuntarily, they trail after it. Blind and searching.
Only like, though, because there is no sweet smell, no hook, and there is nothing to search through.
"Are you listening to me?" asks Father, fixing him in with that one good eye of his, "Are you listening to me?"
What do you think, you old fool?
It reaches out, wisps of smoke clouding their mind, grappling fingers stroking and combing through their head, plucking at what is left. As always, they tug back.It's different. Something changes.
It's like going from breathing in air to breathing in cotton. Leaving the water, washed up from the tide, and being wrapped in dry silk. Going from floating in a pond, still and stagnant, to gently tipping into a stream, currents bubbling.
There are no stars in the Void, or moons or planets, no light, no colour, no shadow. Just an infinite empty space. No sort of line or shape. An expanse of nothing so full you can only lose yourself in it (not it, there is no it here.)
But there's a trail, light, brief, fleeting, but there. Just in reach.
Loki feels their fingers as they grasp it.
And they've been falling all along,
(But this time they fall down.)
[In the end, letting go comes easy]