I drabbled out a bit of a loki-centric fic. Still deciding if I might continue it or not but by golly that feels good to get out of my system! 644 words
There was a hollow ache in the pit of his stomach. It never seemed to go away. Memories of his childhood made the ache grow. It was a void, hungry and consuming. There was nothing in the cell to distract him now. He gazed at the space around him, green eyes narrowed. To some, it may have appeared calculating or mischievous, perhaps planning something again. he knew better than to plan now, though. What was there to plan for, anyway?
The silence seemed to seep into his very bones, to the marrow, filling his chest with nothing more than slightly stale air. His limbs felt heavy, slightly numb. He mused for a while on staying awake but...what was the point? He turned, curling onto his side in his bed and shut his eyes.
Cold....dark...his lungs felt like they were crushing in on themselves in need of air. There was no sense of time here, nothing but the bleak and distant light of stars. Nothing but the raw wound where his soul had been. He floated away from the Golden City he'd never truly been a part of. A tool, but never a son. He had thought he knew true darkness, true chill, standing in the shadow of his golden brother.
He'd been wrong.
Loki awoke with a sharp gasp, sweat beading on his brow. Gravity replaced the agony of his dream with a sharp and painful thud as he landed on the floor of his cell. He'd jolted and rolled right out of his bed. He slammed a fist into the ground, letting out a scream. He dropped his forehead to the ground, shaking in leftover fear, rage, and the omnipresent sense of abandonment, betrayal, loneliness.
He wasn't supposed to be here. Never here. Never back in this gilded prison. He was supposed to be a king... a god...Revered, beloved. He had only ever done what he had been taught. He'd only ever done what Thor himself would have done!
End the Jotuns! Bring peace! Protect the Earth!
He remembered his brother's hand, curling unexpected and warm around his neck.
"I thought you dead, brother." He hadn't been able to stop the question, but he had at least been able to make it bite, to make it a double edged sword.
"And did you mourn?" He had replied and hated himself for the insecurity of it all. He had wondered, lost in the raw space, if they had rejoiced. Perhaps they had a feast, as they usually did after every triumph. He remembered his fath--...Odin's resolve as his hand let go the spear. Thor had yelled, he knew not what.
He was a monster. A Jotun. perhaps that was why all his schemes, all his attempts to do right by his father and brother had only proven what he had been fighting so hard against. He had tried to be the golden son and failed. A Jotun could never live in the light.
He had been expecting praise! A feast, at the very least. To be loved, not because he tagged along with Thor, but because he was of his own merits. He crawled back up and curled once more into the bed.
His eyes were wide, dry so that he would not sleep, nor weep. He did not even think that he could, anymore. It was almost as if the void inside himself had taken that small comfort from him as well with it's all consuming hunger. The bone deep weariness might have ebbed then, might have slipped away with tears, if only for an hour or so. Loki was not given such a respite. He bit down on his bottom lip and-- feeling foolish--curled one hand around the crook of his neck. His hands were slender, and cold, not at all like Thor's.
It did not bring him any comfort.