![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bookishwenchActually posted Jan. 30
Loki stared out of his cell’s observation window, watching a new batch of prisoners being marched to their cell. He kept his gaze disinterested but threatening, a clear warning to the newcomers to know their place in the scheme of power. It was, as always, a mask, and only the most observant person would be able to perceive the nearly invisible cracks in his demeanor. But then, she had always been impossible to fool. He drew in a breath and looked around him, already knowing what he would see.
Every object in the room was familiar, except for one. Granted, the light of the cell was ever so slightly too bright, a tiny flaw, and the cold whiteness of the room was perhaps a shade off, but it too would do. He tried not to notice the inhabitants of the other cells. They were strangely blurry, an effect that could be explained away by smudges on the glass of their enclosures. He felt the moment in his soul for a moment before he looked at the candle burning on the ornate gilt table nearby, the one thing out of place here.
“The books I sent you, do they not interest you?”
He shut his eyes at the sound of her voice, a pain stabbing through his heart worse than any dagger or sword. Somehow, it was perfect. He bit his lip, collected himself, and turned towards her.
“They do, as much as anything can in this place,” he said, trying to hide his feelings with a smile. It was what she would have done, did do, would have been about to do in a moment when those other words had come from his mouth like a slap.
But that wasn’t now. No, now she seemed mildly surprised by his admission, perhaps even pleased, though worry still sat enthroned in her eyes. He noticed the smallest details of her silver dress, composed of silk and metal, showing her as queen and warrior. The light reflected off her hair, lovelier than any crown she ever wore, and the jewels hanging from her ears glittered in the harsh prison light like homeward-leading stars. He could smell her perfume, the safe, comforting scent of flowers from her garden, the same one where he had spent so much of his childhood playing. He had tried many times to find that scent again, but it never smelled the same as it did clinging to the folds of his mother’s gown. Its spirit had left with hers.
“You know full well it was your actions that brought you here,” she said.
He drew another breath, steadying himself.
“It was,” he admitted.
Now Frigga really was surprised. She took a step closer to him, tipping her head in the way he remembered so well when she was trying to read his true intentions.
“Then why did you do it?” she asked.
“I suppose you know as well as I,” he said. “Anger, jealousy, the urge to rule, not to mention the Mad Titan taking up residence in my brain after torturing me for months. I would say I wasn’t myself, but there is no point in trying to deceive you. We both know what I am.”
“Yes,” Frigga said, “I know that you are my son, and regardless of what you have done, I know you for the child you were, the man you became, and the king you may still someday be. No life is without faults, and, darling, you have your full fill of them, but I know your heart, and you have light amongst the shadows. What puzzles me is why you so often try to smother it.”
He sniffed dismissively and walked over to the table where the candle still burned. It would be so simple to blow it out and end this, pretending it had been a foolish, maudlin suggestion that he had entertained solely out of boredom or mild curiosity. And then it would be over.
He found he didn’t want that.
“I suppose,” he said slowly, still not turning towards her again, “I find it easier to be hated than to be rejected. At least I have control over the first one, and being despised can be useful. Others tend to underestimate me because of it.”
“Why do you assume hatred or rejection are your only choices, darling?” she said, her voice sorrowful as he saw her hand rest on his arm, but he could not feel it.
“Because it has ever been thus?” he said. “Because I was never enough. No victory was ever complete enough, no magic ever powerful enough, no cleverness ever dazzling enough even for one moment to be—”
His voice drifted away.
“To be what, Loki?” she said, moving into his field of vision.
“To be worthy,” he finished.
“Of a hammer?” she said, wrinkling her nose at the idea as though Mjolnir was only a tradesman’s tool.
He let silence stretch between them, trying to decide whether to say the truth or allow the words to remain unspoken and therefore less real. No, it would still be real, only hidden, like a thousand other swallowed words he had never permitted himself to speak, and that was the point of all this, was it not?
“Of love,” he said, the words coming out more broken than he intended.
Frigga stood fully before him, the candle between them. Her hands nearly touched his own, and he drew back infinitesimally, not wanting to shatter the illusion.
“Foolish, foolish boy,” she said. “Is there anyone in this universe or any other who is worthy of love? You are chasing phantoms that cannot be caught, my son.”
“But I am not your son,” he whispered, the words so different this time from what he had spat at her before.
“Yes, you are,” she said with sudden ferocity, and startled, he looked up. “No one, not you or your father or the king of Jotunheim or the Norns themselves can ever dare to take that title from you. You are my son, by my choice, and your words cannot undo my heart. You do not need to earn your mother’s love, Loki. You have always had it, and you always will.”
He almost couldn’t bear to look at her, but he forced himself to return her steady and honest gaze, though he felt his throat tightening with emotion.
“And I love you as well, Mother,” he said. “Goodbye.”
She smiled, and he drew in a deep breath, steadying himself, before he bent forward and gently blew out the candle.
A split moment passed when everything remained the same before the hologram began to dissolve, leaving behind an empty stage set composed of white objects that had once been a near-perfect recreation of his cell on Asgard. The repressed sob he had been holding back broke free, and he crumpled forward, his arms wrapping tightly around himself as he wept.
Another set of arms gently covered his own, and he let the scent of Tony’s cologne penetrate the storm of grief. He found himself held, surrounded by warmth, and he slowly allowed himself to relax into the other’s reassuring embrace.
“You okay, babe?” Tony whispered from behind him.
“I believe so,” Loki said quietly.
“Did it help?”
He didn’t answer at first, wondering what the truth was. It hadn’t been real, though not through any fault of his lover’s ludicrously named computerized therapy device, and Loki had been doubtful of the whole project. Still, he couldn’t deny that the ability to see his mother once more, to undo the mistakes he had made at their final meeting and to play the scene out as he wished it would have been felt like an absolution.
“Yes,” he finally said. “Yes, I believe it did.”
“Told you,” Tony teased him softly, still stroking his arms comfortingly.
“I admit, you were right.”
“Wonders never cease,” Tony said, moving to stand in front of him, still holding his hands.
“I do feel tired, though,” Loki admitted. “Might we just lie down for a while together?”
A ribald reply seemed to dance on Tony’s lips for a moment, but Loki could see him reject the idea. It wasn’t the time.
“Absolutely,” Tony said. “Come on.”
A few minutes later, the pair were resting on one of the overstuffed white couches in the living room, holding one another tightly. It was well past midnight, and the lights of the penthouse illuminated a gentle snowfall dancing through the night air on the other side of the windows overlooking the city. A fire crackled in the hearth. Loki breathed deeply, and surrounded by peace, he allowed himself to sleep. His dreams were sweet.
Loki stared out of his cell’s observation window, watching a new batch of prisoners being marched to their cell. He kept his gaze disinterested but threatening, a clear warning to the newcomers to know their place in the scheme of power. It was, as always, a mask, and only the most observant person would be able to perceive the nearly invisible cracks in his demeanor. But then, she had always been impossible to fool. He drew in a breath and looked around him, already knowing what he would see.
Every object in the room was familiar, except for one. Granted, the light of the cell was ever so slightly too bright, a tiny flaw, and the cold whiteness of the room was perhaps a shade off, but it too would do. He tried not to notice the inhabitants of the other cells. They were strangely blurry, an effect that could be explained away by smudges on the glass of their enclosures. He felt the moment in his soul for a moment before he looked at the candle burning on the ornate gilt table nearby, the one thing out of place here.
“The books I sent you, do they not interest you?”
He shut his eyes at the sound of her voice, a pain stabbing through his heart worse than any dagger or sword. Somehow, it was perfect. He bit his lip, collected himself, and turned towards her.
“They do, as much as anything can in this place,” he said, trying to hide his feelings with a smile. It was what she would have done, did do, would have been about to do in a moment when those other words had come from his mouth like a slap.
But that wasn’t now. No, now she seemed mildly surprised by his admission, perhaps even pleased, though worry still sat enthroned in her eyes. He noticed the smallest details of her silver dress, composed of silk and metal, showing her as queen and warrior. The light reflected off her hair, lovelier than any crown she ever wore, and the jewels hanging from her ears glittered in the harsh prison light like homeward-leading stars. He could smell her perfume, the safe, comforting scent of flowers from her garden, the same one where he had spent so much of his childhood playing. He had tried many times to find that scent again, but it never smelled the same as it did clinging to the folds of his mother’s gown. Its spirit had left with hers.
“You know full well it was your actions that brought you here,” she said.
He drew another breath, steadying himself.
“It was,” he admitted.
Now Frigga really was surprised. She took a step closer to him, tipping her head in the way he remembered so well when she was trying to read his true intentions.
“Then why did you do it?” she asked.
“I suppose you know as well as I,” he said. “Anger, jealousy, the urge to rule, not to mention the Mad Titan taking up residence in my brain after torturing me for months. I would say I wasn’t myself, but there is no point in trying to deceive you. We both know what I am.”
“Yes,” Frigga said, “I know that you are my son, and regardless of what you have done, I know you for the child you were, the man you became, and the king you may still someday be. No life is without faults, and, darling, you have your full fill of them, but I know your heart, and you have light amongst the shadows. What puzzles me is why you so often try to smother it.”
He sniffed dismissively and walked over to the table where the candle still burned. It would be so simple to blow it out and end this, pretending it had been a foolish, maudlin suggestion that he had entertained solely out of boredom or mild curiosity. And then it would be over.
He found he didn’t want that.
“I suppose,” he said slowly, still not turning towards her again, “I find it easier to be hated than to be rejected. At least I have control over the first one, and being despised can be useful. Others tend to underestimate me because of it.”
“Why do you assume hatred or rejection are your only choices, darling?” she said, her voice sorrowful as he saw her hand rest on his arm, but he could not feel it.
“Because it has ever been thus?” he said. “Because I was never enough. No victory was ever complete enough, no magic ever powerful enough, no cleverness ever dazzling enough even for one moment to be—”
His voice drifted away.
“To be what, Loki?” she said, moving into his field of vision.
“To be worthy,” he finished.
“Of a hammer?” she said, wrinkling her nose at the idea as though Mjolnir was only a tradesman’s tool.
He let silence stretch between them, trying to decide whether to say the truth or allow the words to remain unspoken and therefore less real. No, it would still be real, only hidden, like a thousand other swallowed words he had never permitted himself to speak, and that was the point of all this, was it not?
“Of love,” he said, the words coming out more broken than he intended.
Frigga stood fully before him, the candle between them. Her hands nearly touched his own, and he drew back infinitesimally, not wanting to shatter the illusion.
“Foolish, foolish boy,” she said. “Is there anyone in this universe or any other who is worthy of love? You are chasing phantoms that cannot be caught, my son.”
“But I am not your son,” he whispered, the words so different this time from what he had spat at her before.
“Yes, you are,” she said with sudden ferocity, and startled, he looked up. “No one, not you or your father or the king of Jotunheim or the Norns themselves can ever dare to take that title from you. You are my son, by my choice, and your words cannot undo my heart. You do not need to earn your mother’s love, Loki. You have always had it, and you always will.”
He almost couldn’t bear to look at her, but he forced himself to return her steady and honest gaze, though he felt his throat tightening with emotion.
“And I love you as well, Mother,” he said. “Goodbye.”
She smiled, and he drew in a deep breath, steadying himself, before he bent forward and gently blew out the candle.
A split moment passed when everything remained the same before the hologram began to dissolve, leaving behind an empty stage set composed of white objects that had once been a near-perfect recreation of his cell on Asgard. The repressed sob he had been holding back broke free, and he crumpled forward, his arms wrapping tightly around himself as he wept.
Another set of arms gently covered his own, and he let the scent of Tony’s cologne penetrate the storm of grief. He found himself held, surrounded by warmth, and he slowly allowed himself to relax into the other’s reassuring embrace.
“You okay, babe?” Tony whispered from behind him.
“I believe so,” Loki said quietly.
“Did it help?”
He didn’t answer at first, wondering what the truth was. It hadn’t been real, though not through any fault of his lover’s ludicrously named computerized therapy device, and Loki had been doubtful of the whole project. Still, he couldn’t deny that the ability to see his mother once more, to undo the mistakes he had made at their final meeting and to play the scene out as he wished it would have been felt like an absolution.
“Yes,” he finally said. “Yes, I believe it did.”
“Told you,” Tony teased him softly, still stroking his arms comfortingly.
“I admit, you were right.”
“Wonders never cease,” Tony said, moving to stand in front of him, still holding his hands.
“I do feel tired, though,” Loki admitted. “Might we just lie down for a while together?”
A ribald reply seemed to dance on Tony’s lips for a moment, but Loki could see him reject the idea. It wasn’t the time.
“Absolutely,” Tony said. “Come on.”
A few minutes later, the pair were resting on one of the overstuffed white couches in the living room, holding one another tightly. It was well past midnight, and the lights of the penthouse illuminated a gentle snowfall dancing through the night air on the other side of the windows overlooking the city. A fire crackled in the hearth. Loki breathed deeply, and surrounded by peace, he allowed himself to sleep. His dreams were sweet.
