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June 2011




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Jun. 12th, 2011


005: Take Me in; I Want Out; That's All I need.

 After he materializes in his chambers, Loki collapses in the high-backed chair beside his dresser, his mind dizzy from the travel and from the scene he has left behind. He grips the chair as he pulls himself upright, leaves a bloody handprint on the finely carved wood.

Loki shuts his eyes and inhales deeply in an effort to regain control. A mirror hangs on the wall over the dresser, and as Loki leans forward to stand, he catches a sliver of his reflection. He stops, but does not turn to face himself. Instead, he thinks about the Casket, and the look of outright horror on his brother’s face as Loki’s Asgardian skin broke apart like a dropped vase and revealed the monstrous features with which he was born.

Imagine if the others saw him that way. Their already palpable disdain would intensify tenfold. More than that. Any pretense of love or friendship would dissolve. At best, they would call for his abdication.

At worst, they would kill him.

Loki stares at his hands, remembering the day by the firepit not two weeks ago, just after they had returned from Jotunheim. Contemplating the mystery of his nature. Fearing it. And, now that he knew the truth, loathing it.

The blood is dry and crusted on his palms; it mars the whorls of his fingertips. The rusty smell of it makes his stomach churn. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he plunges his hands into the porcelain wash basin on his bureau, watches with fascinated disgust as the water darkens, becomes filthy.

The mirror is still visible from his position on the bed. He can’t help but see himself in it—the gaunt lines of his face, the quivering shoulders. His eyes are wet and reflecting the soft light of the wall sconces. His hair is matted with sweat, and traces of his own blood linger on his lips and jaw.

But all he sees in the mirror are blood-orange eyes and blue skin, his brother’s crushed body as he gasps for breath, and that mortal girl as she twisted with anger and fright in his grasp.

Loki picks up the wash basin and hurls it at the mirror. They both shatter, and the dirty, foul water splashes over the shards.

He lies down, drinks a potion meant to put him in a dreamless sleep. The concoction does its work.

As he drops off, Loki wonders if his brother survived.

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