Fic: For You (PG-13, Thor/Avengers, Loki & Odin)
"It is said that while you sleep, you see all that occurs around you." - Laufey to Odin
Title: For You
Author: Yami no Kaiba
Fandom: Thor/Avengers
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Loki, Odin
Length: 1,021 words
Summary: He is a broken monster.
Disclaimers: I do not own the characters or the concepts of Marvel Comics.
*---*---*---*---*
His knees scrape against marble as Thor shoves him to the ground. It shouldn't be anything remarkable - he's felt so much worse just this day - but it still is, something physical to add to the burning humiliation that constricts his throat and chest, the anger and fury that tightens his heart and clenches low in his belly.
A minor injury, but then that's all he's been given with every breath, hasn't it? Thousands and thousands of years of belittling and lying and "Know your place brother," and oh, how he burns to stand tall and rip out each and every lying tongue and dismissive eye, until every Aesir that ever sneered at him gurgles their last breath and stares with empty sight at the monster they had thought to tame.
"Son." A heavy, weathered hand on his neck, emitting warmth.
It's cold, so cold. At first he hadn't known what to call it because he had never felt it before. It had taken him hours to figure out its name, and he thinks, oh how he thinks, that he'll never be warm again because he's falling down Yggdrisil, past its very roots and it's both beautiful and terrifying, because there are no branches to catch him, no atmosphere to cradle his form and allow his lungs to breathe, but the sight, oh the sight! Fire, Ice, and Mist - dancing an eternal dance above the Ginunngagap. He knows now, why Odin allowed himself to hang for days on end to see this.
Loki shivers, eyes clamped firmly to the sprawling black veins of the floor, nothing like the intricate and symmetrically perfect lines of a Jotun's marks but truly just as dark.
"Oh, Loki, how equally proud and sad you've made me."
"No, Loki," echoing over and over and he can't stop how it breaks his heart, how it makes it seize and stop in his chest. And that eye, that dreadful, haunting blue eye that sees so much and yet so little, that weathered proud face that is just as open as a book to him. "I don't know you," it says, "Monster," it whispers. He chokes it down because it's true, it must be. Odin is the King, Thor is the Prince, and he, Loki, is nothing more than a stolen relic, a war prize that time and time again speaks and acts when no one wishes it to, and must be yanked back on its chain.
Strong fingers pushing against metal to tilt his head up, to stare at that naked eye. "Betrayed and betrayer both. And yet still you protect Asgard with your life."
He stands at the edge of the rock they'd left him on, his saviours from the eternal pull of the Ginunngagap. The Chitauri they call themselves, and as he looks upon them from his cell of a tiny asteriod in the middle of one of their lesser fleets he knows without a doubt - they could rain fire and destruction from the skies and destroy every gold-touched edifice of Asgard in minutes, without a single honorable face to face combat. And they will; his fall and the trail it had left would allow them to find Asgard, in time.
But... If he helped things along, pushed them towards attacking a seemingly weaker target, when in truth they would be attacking a more versatile one... "Midgard," he whispers, eyes lingering on one of the more snake-like behemoths undulating its way about his little island and the Chitauri handler behind him slinks closer. "You'll want to strike at Midgard first, my friend," he whirls around with his most enticing smile. "And I know just how to get you there."
And oh, how easy it will be to trick them, because all he needed to do was be the surface truth that he was - the fallen King of a great empire, knocked down by the treasonous acts of traitorous friends and comrades seeking to supplant him with a lawfully banished prince.
A matching weathered hand on his opposite shoulder and the hands urge him up to his feet, pulling him forward into a swath of heavy fabrics and a strong chest. One hand slides down to hold him firmly about the waist, the other moving upwards to card through his messy hair, catching and releasing the muzzle's lock to drop the symbol of his monstrosity between them. "How tired you must be."
"Sentiment," he whispers, hands stilling as he looks at Thor's kneeling, bleeding form, tears falling from his eyes. He is a broken monster, he thinks, if sentiment even now stills his hand despite years upon years of Thor's callous words and unknowing duplicity. Tired and broken.
"All this death and mayhem, boy. For what?"
It hurts that he has more tears to cry. Damn sentiment to the darkest, coldest depths of Niflheimr, that it can have such a hold over him - it would be so much easier if he really was the monster everyone else and he himself believed him to be.
Burrowing closer to that familiar warmth, hiding his face and weakness in the folds of Odin's robes, he mumbles those damning, true words for a second time.
"For you. For all of us."
Odin will punish him, because to do otherwise will tarnish the golden son and cast doubt upon Odin’s own sentiments and right to rule. It will hurt and break him further until he can trick or deceive his way out of it. He will be forced to run and fall again, and Odin will be forced to send Thor after the escaped prisoner again, and it will all cycle over and over until the lie becomes the truth and Loki is ground under its heel into the unthinking, raging beast he was born to be and rains fire and magic upon Asgard and all the realms without tears or regret.
But that day is not today. Today he is in sentiment's unkind grasp, as it squeezes his heart and chest like only the most dangerous of truths can to a God of Lies.
"For myself."
Title: For You
Author: Yami no Kaiba
Fandom: Thor/Avengers
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Loki, Odin
Length: 1,021 words
Summary: He is a broken monster.
Disclaimers: I do not own the characters or the concepts of Marvel Comics.
*---*---*---*---*
His knees scrape against marble as Thor shoves him to the ground. It shouldn't be anything remarkable - he's felt so much worse just this day - but it still is, something physical to add to the burning humiliation that constricts his throat and chest, the anger and fury that tightens his heart and clenches low in his belly.
A minor injury, but then that's all he's been given with every breath, hasn't it? Thousands and thousands of years of belittling and lying and "Know your place brother," and oh, how he burns to stand tall and rip out each and every lying tongue and dismissive eye, until every Aesir that ever sneered at him gurgles their last breath and stares with empty sight at the monster they had thought to tame.
"Son." A heavy, weathered hand on his neck, emitting warmth.
It's cold, so cold. At first he hadn't known what to call it because he had never felt it before. It had taken him hours to figure out its name, and he thinks, oh how he thinks, that he'll never be warm again because he's falling down Yggdrisil, past its very roots and it's both beautiful and terrifying, because there are no branches to catch him, no atmosphere to cradle his form and allow his lungs to breathe, but the sight, oh the sight! Fire, Ice, and Mist - dancing an eternal dance above the Ginunngagap. He knows now, why Odin allowed himself to hang for days on end to see this.
Loki shivers, eyes clamped firmly to the sprawling black veins of the floor, nothing like the intricate and symmetrically perfect lines of a Jotun's marks but truly just as dark.
"Oh, Loki, how equally proud and sad you've made me."
"No, Loki," echoing over and over and he can't stop how it breaks his heart, how it makes it seize and stop in his chest. And that eye, that dreadful, haunting blue eye that sees so much and yet so little, that weathered proud face that is just as open as a book to him. "I don't know you," it says, "Monster," it whispers. He chokes it down because it's true, it must be. Odin is the King, Thor is the Prince, and he, Loki, is nothing more than a stolen relic, a war prize that time and time again speaks and acts when no one wishes it to, and must be yanked back on its chain.
Strong fingers pushing against metal to tilt his head up, to stare at that naked eye. "Betrayed and betrayer both. And yet still you protect Asgard with your life."
He stands at the edge of the rock they'd left him on, his saviours from the eternal pull of the Ginunngagap. The Chitauri they call themselves, and as he looks upon them from his cell of a tiny asteriod in the middle of one of their lesser fleets he knows without a doubt - they could rain fire and destruction from the skies and destroy every gold-touched edifice of Asgard in minutes, without a single honorable face to face combat. And they will; his fall and the trail it had left would allow them to find Asgard, in time.
But... If he helped things along, pushed them towards attacking a seemingly weaker target, when in truth they would be attacking a more versatile one... "Midgard," he whispers, eyes lingering on one of the more snake-like behemoths undulating its way about his little island and the Chitauri handler behind him slinks closer. "You'll want to strike at Midgard first, my friend," he whirls around with his most enticing smile. "And I know just how to get you there."
And oh, how easy it will be to trick them, because all he needed to do was be the surface truth that he was - the fallen King of a great empire, knocked down by the treasonous acts of traitorous friends and comrades seeking to supplant him with a lawfully banished prince.
A matching weathered hand on his opposite shoulder and the hands urge him up to his feet, pulling him forward into a swath of heavy fabrics and a strong chest. One hand slides down to hold him firmly about the waist, the other moving upwards to card through his messy hair, catching and releasing the muzzle's lock to drop the symbol of his monstrosity between them. "How tired you must be."
"Sentiment," he whispers, hands stilling as he looks at Thor's kneeling, bleeding form, tears falling from his eyes. He is a broken monster, he thinks, if sentiment even now stills his hand despite years upon years of Thor's callous words and unknowing duplicity. Tired and broken.
"All this death and mayhem, boy. For what?"
It hurts that he has more tears to cry. Damn sentiment to the darkest, coldest depths of Niflheimr, that it can have such a hold over him - it would be so much easier if he really was the monster everyone else and he himself believed him to be.
Burrowing closer to that familiar warmth, hiding his face and weakness in the folds of Odin's robes, he mumbles those damning, true words for a second time.
"For you. For all of us."
Odin will punish him, because to do otherwise will tarnish the golden son and cast doubt upon Odin’s own sentiments and right to rule. It will hurt and break him further until he can trick or deceive his way out of it. He will be forced to run and fall again, and Odin will be forced to send Thor after the escaped prisoner again, and it will all cycle over and over until the lie becomes the truth and Loki is ground under its heel into the unthinking, raging beast he was born to be and rains fire and magic upon Asgard and all the realms without tears or regret.
But that day is not today. Today he is in sentiment's unkind grasp, as it squeezes his heart and chest like only the most dangerous of truths can to a God of Lies.
"For myself."