Sentiment (Only a Shadow)
Everything And Nothing
He lay there, bruised and bloody, everything about him cast into ruin. He could smell the fires from below, the unfamiliar stench of charred vehicles and what he assumed was probably flesh. Occasionally a small, stray chunk of rubble would twitch about on the floor; a vibration from one of the various explosions outside. Despite the rock’s hard exterior the debris looked oddly fragile, broken away from the rest, isolated and wounded. How ironic, he thought.
He didn’t dare move, didn’t entirely want to do so. Curiosity – that dreaded thing that had plagued him throughout his life, poking and urging him to see what his actions would cause – had abandoned him now. He didn’t need to stand and look outside to know what was transpiring below, his senses told him as much. His senses, and the aching weight that now pressed down onto his chest, as if Mjölnir itself were resting there. But no, his ever-so-chivalrous brother’s hammer did not lay there. In its place rested the weight of thoughts and feelings he’d long since set aside. Resentment and hatred, like poisons, had bled through in their absence, but now – with the sewn consequences of his reaping unleashed before him – he gave up, set them aside as he should have long ago, and remembered things that for so long had been only a shadow.
He remembered his childhood, when he was still Loki. Odinson. Prince of Asgard, the realm eternal. He remembered first seeing the city in its entirety. He had been young, barely of five or six years. At such young ages, the royal sons of Odin were not permitted to wander about the city, but Thor, two years his senior and always the bolder, had started his brave conquests at an early age and snuck out of the palace with his younger brother. Of course, the story varied depending on who you asked. Thor would tell you that he had simply convinced Loki to explore the city with him; after all, Thor knew he had been curious. On the other hand, Loki – who had been content to stay in and read – would swear that Thor had practically dragged him from his bed chambers, refusing to go without his brother; after all, they did everything together. Either way, their excursion remained the same, and Loki remembered how in awe he was of the glorious city, the buildings that seemed to glow and the music from the choir halls that seemed to echo across the city at night. He also remembered their father’s forced anger and his suppressed smile, their mother’s relieved face as the royal guards brought them back home. It hadn’t taken them too long to locate the boys, thanks to Heimdall.
As time passed and Loki grew, the city became less of a wonder and more of a commodity. Not anything of a dull nature, simply a place that one got used to over time. But now, after having been away for so long, he’d give almost anything to go back, to maybe feel the wonderment he felt as a child. Maybe having been away for so long would re-inspire that, bring back to his eyes and mind a place of glory instead of someplace he knew, a place he got tired of; home.
Loki forced himself not to scoff at the notion, because it hadn’t felt like home sometimes, had it? No. At times he felt as out of place as he did here on Midgard, where the air felt lighter yet strangely heavy, almost toxic (he supposed the smoke from the fires didn’t help matters). He remembered the childhood games, the games of chase and catch he and Thor would play where he’d use his maigc to his advantage, vanishing seconds before Thor could get hold of him. He’d laugh as he looked down on his brother, who’d fallen on his face. But all had been well, because Thor was laughing, too. Those were the days where he felt that they were brothers, that they were equals. But those days grew to be short-lived as Thor grew more and more reckless, and more sure of himself as the eldest son of Odin, grasping onto the title and unafraid to show it, even in the face of his younger brother (”Know your place, brother.”). He remembered how badly he’d wanted to Thor to just shut up with his boasting and his talk of battles he had allegedly won single-handedly, wishing for a moment his elder brother would just once acknowledge the assistance Loki had given, but forced his stung feelings aside because at least Thor himself knew. Or so he’d hoped, at least. He’d never asked. He remembered those he once called friends, if only because they were the closest things to friends he could lay claim to. In reality they were Thor’s friends, and they tolerated him at best. Everything had really been Thor’s, more than he knew during those days. Loki presumed that’s where envy began to rub raw at the pulsing muscle in his chest, leaving a painful bruise of a grudge and scab of insecurity.
Thor grew to be the victorious warrior, the daring heir of Asgard. Loki grew to be the master of magic, a renowned trouble-maker despite his outwardly reserved manner. He thought back on the oddity of their reputations, because surely Thor was more reckless than he, but he didn’t mind the title. God of Mischief did have a certain allure to it, after all. He wasn’t entirely sure about his current title, not now at least. God of Chaos. A shout of terror or pain from below nearly sent a chill down his spine. No, he wasn’t sure he liked what that titled entailed anymore.
He remembered spoiling Thor’s coronation day. It had all been in good fun, an elaborate jest at best, but his actions had driven Thor into that foolish invasion of Jotunheim, resulting in his banishment from Asgard, a repercussion that Loki had not foreseen nor wanted. He remembered being abjectly horrified at his father’s rage, though he forced himself to see the reason behind Odin’s seemingly extreme reaction. Thor’s conquest had endangered their people, bringing them closer to a renewed war with the Frost Giants, a people whose notoriety had inspired stories of monsters told to Asgardian children to keep them in check. And it was with that – with Thor gone and the events on Jotunheim rousing Loki to discover his true nature – that his prior envy grew into resentment. Loki hadn’t cared for Odin’s idea of using him as a pawn to unite the Asgardians and the Jotuns in final peace. He didn’t care for the idea of being used at all, but not only did he not care for his father’s scheme, he refused to believe it for the same reason he refused to believe Frigga when she claimed his father’s secrecy was for his own good, so he didn’t feel different. He’d refused to believe this because if Odin had really wanted to make him feel normal, he would have done something about the horror stories the men and women of Asgard’s court spread about Jotuns, his rightful people though he refused to accept the concept. He’d believed that even if Odin had successfully used Loki as some flesh incarnation of a peace treaty that the Asgardians would never fully see him as one of theirs, nor would the Jotuns. He began to believe there was truly no place where he belonged, and that wounded his previous insecurities more than he cared to admit. As the mortals say, mere salt in an already opened wound.
Loki had never stopped to feel entirely guilty for the prank-turned-catastrophe at Thor’s crowning, but as he did now, he realized his harmless fun had not only resulted in his brother’s initial exile, but his own downward spiral. Had he just let things go, he could have perhaps lived his life in ignorant bliss, never having to associate the name Laufeyson with his own and never having to endure the burning self-loathing that plagued him for nights after his father had fallen into the Odinsleep. What had made it worse was Thor’s absence. Thor, perhaps the only person he could truly call a friend despite their begrudged differences, the only person Loki’s secretive nature would allow to be his confidante. And so the resentment that had previously left only bruises and scabs over his heart began to fester, poisoning his heart and mind like an infection. In his loneliness grew the last days he called Thor his brother.
There were scarcely any good memories from then to now, but Loki supposed that bad experiences were easier to remember than the favorable ones, especially since the less-than-pleasant ones were all that fueled him of late. And to what avail? Another explosion from outside answered his thought. Loki didn’t flinch, but closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain in his back and ribs that was now making its presence known.
He’d truly thought he was doing right by the Asgardian people, keeping Thor stranded on Midgard, with its less-than-enthralling mortals and their debase ways of living (he even thought up the euphemism that he was doing him a favor since it was obvious he at least partly enjoyed himself, but for what reasons Loki could not see), but he supposed that he’d also thought he was doing right by trying to conquer what he thought was a weaker, war-torn realm. So when Thor managed his way back into Asgard and Odin disregarded the attempts Loki had made to repair the damage his ‘brother’ had done, he saw no reason to remain someplace he no longer considered home. The day he no longer considered himself a son of Odin – the day he simply became Loki – was the day he decided to die.
Couldn’t even do that right, his mind seethed at him. Loki was disgusted at the bitter, pathetic route his thoughts had ventured on, but couldn’t deny the truth in the words. There, within the void, he had known pain, pain that lasted days, pain so freezing it burned even him. Yet it was through those months, trapped in some unknown, painful hell in the cosmos that he presumed was just the experience of afterlife that his resentment had turned to hatred. Loki had never thought of hate as such a terrible thing, certainly not an endearing quality, but nothing to be disdainful of. Yet he hadn’t accounted for how it could take over a person, fuel them in the worst ways. The worst ways, he thought. How odd to admit it now. Wasn’t that how these things always played out, when it’s too late? Another violent tremor sent the bits of debris laying around him dancing across the tower’s floor. He fought a smirk at the horrified look on the Stark man’s face at the mess he and his friends had made of his home. Such a pity.
Pity. Thor. A flame of disgust licked at his mind at Thor’s detestable pity for him. Or was it hope? Was there much of a difference? No, there was no difference, no – at least – in its effect on him. Whichever it was, Loki detested it along with Thor. He detested Thor because as much as he could deny and reject him as his brother, there would always be a part of their bond remaining strong within him, no matter how damaged and tattered it became. He couldn’t kill Thor. No. Not couldn’t, he was more than capable of doing that. But wouldn’t. He wouldn’t kill Thor. He would never openly admit it, but as much as his loathing refused to permit him the capacity of forgiveness, his past refused to permit him the callousness needed to commit the act he pretended to attempt. He needed Thor, if only because he gave him something to hate, and without the hate Loki had nothing. Everything else had been burned away. Chalk it up to history to bring about the most unwanted thing he possessed.
Sentiment.
He didn’t dare move, didn’t entirely want to do so. Curiosity – that dreaded thing that had plagued him throughout his life, poking and urging him to see what his actions would cause – had abandoned him now. He didn’t need to stand and look outside to know what was transpiring below, his senses told him as much. His senses, and the aching weight that now pressed down onto his chest, as if Mjölnir itself were resting there. But no, his ever-so-chivalrous brother’s hammer did not lay there. In its place rested the weight of thoughts and feelings he’d long since set aside. Resentment and hatred, like poisons, had bled through in their absence, but now – with the sewn consequences of his reaping unleashed before him – he gave up, set them aside as he should have long ago, and remembered things that for so long had been only a shadow.
He remembered his childhood, when he was still Loki. Odinson. Prince of Asgard, the realm eternal. He remembered first seeing the city in its entirety. He had been young, barely of five or six years. At such young ages, the royal sons of Odin were not permitted to wander about the city, but Thor, two years his senior and always the bolder, had started his brave conquests at an early age and snuck out of the palace with his younger brother. Of course, the story varied depending on who you asked. Thor would tell you that he had simply convinced Loki to explore the city with him; after all, Thor knew he had been curious. On the other hand, Loki – who had been content to stay in and read – would swear that Thor had practically dragged him from his bed chambers, refusing to go without his brother; after all, they did everything together. Either way, their excursion remained the same, and Loki remembered how in awe he was of the glorious city, the buildings that seemed to glow and the music from the choir halls that seemed to echo across the city at night. He also remembered their father’s forced anger and his suppressed smile, their mother’s relieved face as the royal guards brought them back home. It hadn’t taken them too long to locate the boys, thanks to Heimdall.
As time passed and Loki grew, the city became less of a wonder and more of a commodity. Not anything of a dull nature, simply a place that one got used to over time. But now, after having been away for so long, he’d give almost anything to go back, to maybe feel the wonderment he felt as a child. Maybe having been away for so long would re-inspire that, bring back to his eyes and mind a place of glory instead of someplace he knew, a place he got tired of; home.
Loki forced himself not to scoff at the notion, because it hadn’t felt like home sometimes, had it? No. At times he felt as out of place as he did here on Midgard, where the air felt lighter yet strangely heavy, almost toxic (he supposed the smoke from the fires didn’t help matters). He remembered the childhood games, the games of chase and catch he and Thor would play where he’d use his maigc to his advantage, vanishing seconds before Thor could get hold of him. He’d laugh as he looked down on his brother, who’d fallen on his face. But all had been well, because Thor was laughing, too. Those were the days where he felt that they were brothers, that they were equals. But those days grew to be short-lived as Thor grew more and more reckless, and more sure of himself as the eldest son of Odin, grasping onto the title and unafraid to show it, even in the face of his younger brother (”Know your place, brother.”). He remembered how badly he’d wanted to Thor to just shut up with his boasting and his talk of battles he had allegedly won single-handedly, wishing for a moment his elder brother would just once acknowledge the assistance Loki had given, but forced his stung feelings aside because at least Thor himself knew. Or so he’d hoped, at least. He’d never asked. He remembered those he once called friends, if only because they were the closest things to friends he could lay claim to. In reality they were Thor’s friends, and they tolerated him at best. Everything had really been Thor’s, more than he knew during those days. Loki presumed that’s where envy began to rub raw at the pulsing muscle in his chest, leaving a painful bruise of a grudge and scab of insecurity.
Thor grew to be the victorious warrior, the daring heir of Asgard. Loki grew to be the master of magic, a renowned trouble-maker despite his outwardly reserved manner. He thought back on the oddity of their reputations, because surely Thor was more reckless than he, but he didn’t mind the title. God of Mischief did have a certain allure to it, after all. He wasn’t entirely sure about his current title, not now at least. God of Chaos. A shout of terror or pain from below nearly sent a chill down his spine. No, he wasn’t sure he liked what that titled entailed anymore.
He remembered spoiling Thor’s coronation day. It had all been in good fun, an elaborate jest at best, but his actions had driven Thor into that foolish invasion of Jotunheim, resulting in his banishment from Asgard, a repercussion that Loki had not foreseen nor wanted. He remembered being abjectly horrified at his father’s rage, though he forced himself to see the reason behind Odin’s seemingly extreme reaction. Thor’s conquest had endangered their people, bringing them closer to a renewed war with the Frost Giants, a people whose notoriety had inspired stories of monsters told to Asgardian children to keep them in check. And it was with that – with Thor gone and the events on Jotunheim rousing Loki to discover his true nature – that his prior envy grew into resentment. Loki hadn’t cared for Odin’s idea of using him as a pawn to unite the Asgardians and the Jotuns in final peace. He didn’t care for the idea of being used at all, but not only did he not care for his father’s scheme, he refused to believe it for the same reason he refused to believe Frigga when she claimed his father’s secrecy was for his own good, so he didn’t feel different. He’d refused to believe this because if Odin had really wanted to make him feel normal, he would have done something about the horror stories the men and women of Asgard’s court spread about Jotuns, his rightful people though he refused to accept the concept. He’d believed that even if Odin had successfully used Loki as some flesh incarnation of a peace treaty that the Asgardians would never fully see him as one of theirs, nor would the Jotuns. He began to believe there was truly no place where he belonged, and that wounded his previous insecurities more than he cared to admit. As the mortals say, mere salt in an already opened wound.
Loki had never stopped to feel entirely guilty for the prank-turned-catastrophe at Thor’s crowning, but as he did now, he realized his harmless fun had not only resulted in his brother’s initial exile, but his own downward spiral. Had he just let things go, he could have perhaps lived his life in ignorant bliss, never having to associate the name Laufeyson with his own and never having to endure the burning self-loathing that plagued him for nights after his father had fallen into the Odinsleep. What had made it worse was Thor’s absence. Thor, perhaps the only person he could truly call a friend despite their begrudged differences, the only person Loki’s secretive nature would allow to be his confidante. And so the resentment that had previously left only bruises and scabs over his heart began to fester, poisoning his heart and mind like an infection. In his loneliness grew the last days he called Thor his brother.
There were scarcely any good memories from then to now, but Loki supposed that bad experiences were easier to remember than the favorable ones, especially since the less-than-pleasant ones were all that fueled him of late. And to what avail? Another explosion from outside answered his thought. Loki didn’t flinch, but closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain in his back and ribs that was now making its presence known.
He’d truly thought he was doing right by the Asgardian people, keeping Thor stranded on Midgard, with its less-than-enthralling mortals and their debase ways of living (he even thought up the euphemism that he was doing him a favor since it was obvious he at least partly enjoyed himself, but for what reasons Loki could not see), but he supposed that he’d also thought he was doing right by trying to conquer what he thought was a weaker, war-torn realm. So when Thor managed his way back into Asgard and Odin disregarded the attempts Loki had made to repair the damage his ‘brother’ had done, he saw no reason to remain someplace he no longer considered home. The day he no longer considered himself a son of Odin – the day he simply became Loki – was the day he decided to die.
Couldn’t even do that right, his mind seethed at him. Loki was disgusted at the bitter, pathetic route his thoughts had ventured on, but couldn’t deny the truth in the words. There, within the void, he had known pain, pain that lasted days, pain so freezing it burned even him. Yet it was through those months, trapped in some unknown, painful hell in the cosmos that he presumed was just the experience of afterlife that his resentment had turned to hatred. Loki had never thought of hate as such a terrible thing, certainly not an endearing quality, but nothing to be disdainful of. Yet he hadn’t accounted for how it could take over a person, fuel them in the worst ways. The worst ways, he thought. How odd to admit it now. Wasn’t that how these things always played out, when it’s too late? Another violent tremor sent the bits of debris laying around him dancing across the tower’s floor. He fought a smirk at the horrified look on the Stark man’s face at the mess he and his friends had made of his home. Such a pity.
Pity. Thor. A flame of disgust licked at his mind at Thor’s detestable pity for him. Or was it hope? Was there much of a difference? No, there was no difference, no – at least – in its effect on him. Whichever it was, Loki detested it along with Thor. He detested Thor because as much as he could deny and reject him as his brother, there would always be a part of their bond remaining strong within him, no matter how damaged and tattered it became. He couldn’t kill Thor. No. Not couldn’t, he was more than capable of doing that. But wouldn’t. He wouldn’t kill Thor. He would never openly admit it, but as much as his loathing refused to permit him the capacity of forgiveness, his past refused to permit him the callousness needed to commit the act he pretended to attempt. He needed Thor, if only because he gave him something to hate, and without the hate Loki had nothing. Everything else had been burned away. Chalk it up to history to bring about the most unwanted thing he possessed.
Sentiment.
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