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"Please don’t.”
Nick Fury freezes.
“I still need that,” Loki announces.
His head throbs in pain and he feels dizzy, sweat profusely dripping from his brow. Every muscle in his body aches with the pain that has been his closest companion for an eternity, his spine protesting vehemently even the simple act of standing. His heart hammers in his chest, adrenaline pulsing through his veins, and yet he feels the same deep tiredness in his bones that he’s been feeling for… how long has it been? He knows not. Right now, it may as well have been forever.
What he wouldn’t give right now to just rest, finally be free from it all, but he must not. He can not.
“This doesn’t have to get any messier...” Fury warns. The superficial memories he has gained from Barton tells him that the man is the director of a Midgardian intelligence agency named S.H.I.E.L.D. An agency that just might prove to be a thorn—a prickle, more like—in his side.
That won’t do, now, will it?
“Of course it does,” Loki says, remembering the Other’s threat. Remembering all the... convincing that preceded it. Of course it does, Loki has endured far too much for anything else. Loki almost wishes it does not, but he is not allowed the small privilege of wishing for the contrary. He wants this; he is supposed to. “I’ve come too far for anything else.”
A pause, all breaths held.
“I am Loki, of Asgard,” he breaks the silence, “and I am burdened with glorious purpose.”
Of Asgard? Loki scoffs internally. Where was Asgard when he had found himself under the Mad Titan’s cruel grasp, all the times he’d cried for mercy till his voice abandoned him and his tears ran dry?
No, Asgard never cared for him; Asgard does not claim monsters such as him. He is Loki of nowhere and no one, and it is an immeasurable honour for a creature such as him to serve the Great Titan in his cosmic quest. Such he has been told.
He dares not question it. He has paid in blood to have himself convinced of it.
“Loki? Brother of Thor?” he hears a voice asking incredulously. Loki turns; it’s the scientist—the older man he’d seen with Thor during his three-day vacation on Midgard. Selvig, his own and Barton’s memories supply. He grits his teeth. Why is it always Thor?
Anger towards his not-brother burns beneath his sternum. Thor, always Thor. The Golden Prince of the Golden realm, the light to Loki’s shadow. No matter what he does, it is always him that matters. Loki loathes him, hates him with every inch of his being.
(Loki remembers begging voicelessly, begging for Heimdall’s supposedly all-seeing eyes to land on him just once, begging for Frigga, for Odin, for Thor —)
“We have no quarrel with your people,” the Director tries to reason.
“An ant has no quarrel with a boot,” Loki replies. Memories flash behind his eyes, memories of being that ant under the boot, left to nought but the mercy of the merciless. Resistance is futile; Loki has been taught that lesson well by now. The incessant throbbing in his head, the continuing agonized cries of his muscles, the ugly burns that mark his back in a gruesome red and black, serve well as reminders as well as testament.
“You plannin’ to step on us?”
“I come with glad tidings,” Loki corrects, “of a world made free.”
“Free from what?”
That is the question, isn’t it?
“Freedom,” he answers. “Freedom is life’s great lie. Once you accept that in your heart,” Loki turns and touches the sceptre’s tip to Selvig’s sternum, watching the man’s eyes go black and then fade into an electric blue; feels the mind-link form in the back of his head, “you will know peace.”
“Yeah, you say peace. I kind of think you mean the other thing.”
“Sir, Director Fury is stalling,” Barton tells him, shooting his former employer a glare. “This place is about to blow. He’ll drop a hundred feet of rock on us. He means to bury us.”
Yes, thank you, Barton, he snipes mentally, I never would have guessed that from the man’s inane questions, or from the fact that the building is literally trembling, of course.
“Like the pharaohs of old,” Fury adds, and Loki might have rolled his eyes had he the energy to. Really, is all this drama necessary?
Because all he wants to do, beneath the agony and the rage and the vicarious ambition, is finally rest. He’s tired, tired of all of it. Every breath feels like a chore, every passing minute a burden.
But he has a mission, a glorious purpose to fulfil. Rest is the one thing he cannot afford.
When has Loki ever gotten anything he’s wanted, anyway?
“He’s right, the portal is collapsing in on itself,” Selvig adds, and Loki whips his head around to look at him. “There’s maybe two minutes before this goes critical.”
Loki shoots Barton a look. The agent cocks his gun. Within a second, Fury is down.
It’s time to get moving.
One of his thralls picks up the suitcase and he strides forward toward the exit of the facility. He pathetically stumbles forward, once, as the nerves in his back are set alight from too much strain for much too long. It’s incredibly pitiful, and it hurts.
He feels a supporting hand on his back, almost feels disgusted by himself for relying on a mortal, before the grey suitcase is handed to him.
Even from the suitcase, he can feel the Tesseract’s unfathomable power radiating outwards. Loki can almost hear it, hear the cosmic cube’s song of infinite chaos and immeasurable eternities. It feels like… like it calls to him. Its presence is all-encompassing, and he’s suddenly overcome with the urge to open the case, see it in its boundless blue glory for himself, feel the understanding it promises.
So he does.
Loki opens the case in his hands to see the glowing blue cube he has been tasked to bring to the Titan. He can feel its power reach out to his seiðr, hear its almost… soothing hum. It’s almost hypnotizing. As if in a daze, his fingers reach out for it, and—
And he feels something slip perfectly into place. Feels something... unfathomable, and yet somehow almost... familiar in what reaches out to his tattered magic. No, this delves deeper: it reaches out to his existence, his essence, his soul.
He feels a hold over him break, feels this new, soothing power rip away the sickly yellow tendrils of the Sceptre’s thrall.
A moment ago, he had barely even known it had been there at all, twisting his thoughts and melding his memories and eviscerating his emotions, and now that it’s gone, he feels more like… himself. Feels like Loki, not of Asgard or of Jötunheim or of the Void; not the God of Mischief or Lies or an abandoned Jötunn runt; not a sorcerer or a shapeshifter or a wordsmith. Just Loki.
And in that moment, he feels like that is enough.
It’s... blue, this power that envelops him: the glowing, magnificent blue of giant stars dancing an eternal dance around the galaxy; the deep, intriguing blue of the ocean depths hiding unimaginable mysteries; the… beautiful blue of fractals of ice crystallizing atop a vast glacier. It’s soothing in a way nothing has ever felt before, boundlessly wise and yet wild but also calming and peaceful in all its immeasurable otherworldliness.
He’s seen it before, of course. He’s truly felt space; a truly infinite void stretching out forever and beyond, a vast expanse of nought but darkness peppered by countless glimmering stars at its very edges, unreachable. Expansive and unfathomable and cold; he’s lived it, lived the true infinity of space. And yet, where the void was numb and suffocating and terrifying, this feels different: the infinity roaring within the Tesseract is expansive and unfathomable and cold, yet it fascinates and exhilarates and soothes all at the same time. It’s freeing.
And he feels a connection to it, in his heart.
Is this…? No, it can’t be.
He’s read of it, of course. An extremely rare phenomenon, believed by many to be the stuff of nought but legends. The few books he has read on it have referred to it as soul-bonding. A match made by the Norns themselves, of two souls destined for each other in the pinnacle of love, bound together by the Fates. That is what the books all say.
It makes no sense; the Tesseract is a cosmic entity, a container for an infinity stone, and even if it’s somehow a sentient being, Loki… doesn’t do love, either way.
Never in his life has Loki even felt the desire to pursue another romantically or sexually. He’s never felt the need to; there have always been more important things to achieve, more interesting things to pursue. And neither has he ever gotten the appeal of it all; why would one be interested in such things as romance, when one can, say, attempt to befriend dragons in the vast and magnificent hills of southern Alfheim, or sift through books on spatial manipulation in Vanaheim’s royal libraries, or discover the unexplored pathways between barren realms?
These urges, which seem to come almost naturally, even inevitably, to others, have never even vaguely interested him. He’s craved for intimacy for far too long, yes, in the form of friendship, of finally belonging somewhere. But not… love. Not the way others seem to. He’s always chalked it up as just another tally on the countless ways he’s been different from other Asgardians, and never cared much for it. He now has to wonder if it’s a Jötunn thing too; whether his kind are simply incapable of it, of love.
Even imagining having a soulmate seems hilarious to him. And yet this is exactly that; he knows it. He can feel it. Feel the Tesseract’s sapphire energy entwine itself with the emerald green of Loki’s seiðr, feel its reassuring song call to him. It’s magic, pure cosmic energy, and yet it’s almost as if he can hear the Tesseract address him affectionately.
It just… doesn’t make sense to him. And yet, at the same time, it does.
It feels right.
An abrupt “—okay?? Sir?!” breaks him out of his hypnotic trance. He realizes with a jolt at that moment that he has been standing there at the exit of… of the Joint Dark Energy Facility, he recalls. Midgard. He arrived there mere moments ago, he remembers.
Barton and Sevig, both pairs of eyes still the electric blue of the Sceptre’s thrall, stand before him, concern on their faces. He feels the cold metal of the Sceptre still in one hand, the calm hum of the Tesseract in another, feels the foundation of the building trembling beneath his feet, ready to fall in perhaps not more than a minute. A reminder of the reality of his current situation strikes him like a raging wave.
Loki closes his eyes, letting his magic wander freely, enveloping the facility. There are thirty-two other people within it, he detects, most of whom would be unable to make it out in time. He can hear Fury’s groans from behind him; he’s still alive. Most of the agents Loki attacked earlier could also be saved, if they make it out in time. And the building will collapse in… about half a minute.
Loki knows exactly what to do about it.
His magic registers their positions well, and Loki calls to the Tesseract to do his bidding. The cosmic cube gladly obliges, and with an ecstatic roar of its power, Loki feels the Space Stone’s grey and blue portal envelop the humans as it envelops him, just as the first chunks of the crumbling chamber fall from above.
The humans all land right outside the perimeter of the crumbled ruins of the Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S research site, every single one of them safe despite their jarring mode of travel. It takes barely moments before the S.H.I.E.L.D helicopters arrive, ferrying those wounded to a place of healing. The Sceptre’s thrall on the two agents and the scientist has broken; all three of them have begun to come to their senses. Loki watches this from afar, hidden beneath the veil of invisibility.
Four of the agents have lost their lives to Loki’s knives and Sceptre; Loki ensured to bring their corpses along instead of leaving them in the rubble, so they could be mourned by those who held them dear. He can not take back his actions; ensuring their deaths are respected is the least he feels he can do for them.
Guilt at his actions settles in his chest as he watches, as the realization hits that he has taken another four lives in the twisted rage of his disorientation. He knows that most humans have forgotten the Norns, yet Loki voicelessly prays that their souls find peace in Valhalla. It’s all he can do for them.
As for the rest, Loki is reminded that he has a mission.
Not the mission the Mad Titan and his pet Chitauri psychic set him with, no. Not the one they spent eternities convincing him of by ripping apart his skin and bones and chaining his writhing mind, no. No, he is free of that.
He is free, he realizes, again, and the thought is just as jarring. The incessant agonizing throbbing in his head has ceased, he finds; finds that the unending protests of his nerves and his muscles have ended, that the deep, immovable tiredness that had made his home in his bones has now been evicted. Oh, he would very much like to take a break, thank you very much, but for the first time in perhaps ages, he feels that he can breathe freely. His lungs welcome oxygen instead of obligingly accepting it; his heart finds pumping blood into his arteries a solace and not a burden. It’s as if the weight of all of Yggdrasil has been lifted from his shoulders, and the freedom is almost overwhelming.
From his right hand, he can hear the Tesseract’s energy hum fondly, almost as if affectionately saying, you’re welcome. He almost feels the urge to chuckle at that. It’s the first time he has felt that in aeons; felt something almost akin to mirth.
The countless scars all linger, of course, he can feel that much, even if they do not quite hurt as they once did anymore. His mind yet feels tainted and scraped raw despite the Other’s link having been torn away, even with the Tesseract’s reassuring whispers echoing in the back of his mind. They serve well as reminders as well as testament. Testament hat he survived. That he is free. That he has a new mission now.
The Tesseract feels his swirling emotions and roars in its wholehearted support, its infinite song echoing Loki’s cold hatred and burning determination.
He is going to stop Thanos and cull him of his mad quest.
That is his new mission.
A distant, cold sun sets behind the Mad Titan’s metallic throne, encasing the asteroid he stands on in a feeble, dying white light. The other asteroids of the Nornsforesaken cluster very ironically named the Sanctuary surround it like a pack of rabid guard dogs. The massive half-obliterated chunk of rock and ice that could have once been a moon hangs ominously in space. Loki still does not know its name; does not know if it ever even had one.
Beyond are familiar pinpricks of light, constellations almost as intimately known to him as those he slept under countless times on Asgard, stars that had been his sole companions in a sea of nothingness when everything else had gone jarringly numb, his only solace when all else he’d known had been pain.
The Titan’s glowing blue eyes sneer at him. Loki looks straight into them unflinchingly, his chin held high and his own emerald eyes burning with cold, fiery determination.
The Tesseract thunders from within his dimensional pocket, Loki can feel its cold rage in his heart echo alongside his own. And like it has done ever since he has encountered it, it emboldens and it calms, it enthrals and it soothes, all at the same time. Infinity itself stands with Loki.
Loki has nothing to fear from Thanos. Not anymore.
“Almighty Thanos,” he says, tone brimming with condescension. “I bring you a gift.”
The Tesseract materializes atop his stretched palms with an emerald green glitter. Thanos raises an absent eyebrow at him expectantly, regarding him with an almost bored, if mildly frustrated expression. His countenance makes it amply clear what the Mad Titan expects of him: he expects Loki to kneel before him in a show of his boundless veneration and undying fidelity, offer him the Tesseract with trembling hands in a sacred duty fulfilled.
But that simply won't do.
“But, you see,” he adds, eyes shining with acerbic contempt, “it seems the Space Stone has rather taken its pick, and, surprise surprise, it’s not you.”
Thanos’s pitiful sneer deepens. “I would suggest you quit your pathetic buffoonery, boy, and kneel.”
That’s all it takes for the Tesseract to make its wishes known. That very moment, Thanos finds himself frozen atop his throne, unable to so much as twitch, stuck in that relative point in space on the Space Stone’s whim. On Loki’s whim.
The Tesseract has chosen Loki. Loki knows why.
Because power harkens to power; chaos calls to chaos. Because Loki has truly seen infinity, truly felt the endless expanse of space, and has lived to tell the tale. Because the Tesseract knows being used, being abused, being defiled, as intimately as he does. Because the Tesseract has seen all of it, and the infinity within understands.
The tables have turned. It is the Titan at Loki’s mercy now.
He wants to make the Titan’s death slow, merciless, unendingly painful. Give him a taste of Every. Single. Thing. He has suffered for months on end. Give him a taste of every single method Loki has been taught by his own fanatics, experiment with a few blood-curdling ideas of his own. Tear apart his intestines only to watch them painstakingly piece themselves together again only to tear them apart again a hundred times more brutally. Use his own Sceptre to twist his memories and turn them into his worst nightmares. Thanos deserves all of it, deserves to live every single moment of agony Loki has suffered and a thousand times more. Loki wants to do it to him.
But Loki won’t. Loki won’t even regard him with further words. A monster such as him is entirely beneath Loki’s regard.
Instead, Loki closes his eyes, feels the Space Stone’s power course through his veins, entwined intimately with his own magic. When he opens them again, they are glowing blue again, not the jarring electric blue of the Sceptre, no, but the glittering sapphire of the Space Stone, emanating sheer brilliant power. The Tesseract has claimed him as its beloved; he holds the very fabric of the universe at his behest.
Thanos’s eyes are wide now. Loki finds in them an emotion almost akin to fear.
Loki smirks.
He finds that it is a pitifully simple matter to compress a few atoms together into an infinitesimal point in space and lay genesis to a minuscule spacetime singularity within the Titan’s chest. Loki watches this tiny black hole devour Thanos from within, imploding his body and crushing his atoms till they are swallowed entirely by the singularity, no trace of the Titan remaining, not a single atom surviving gravity’s onslaught. He is simply wiped from existence entirely as even this singularity simply evaporates, extinguished into nought but radiation once it has had its fill.
Thanos is gone.
Thanos... is gone.
Loki ought to feel satisfied by it — feel accomplished, even elated. He doesn’t.
Instead, he lets out a long exhale he did not know he was holding, feels his eyes return to their usual green as the Tesseract’s almost addictive power subsides from his veins. The Tesseract in his hand flickers brilliantly in what seems to him like appreciation; Loki can feel its reassuring, almost... proud hum in his heart. It’s almost as if it’s saying that he did a good job.
Loki attempts a hesitant smile, at that.
The Tesseract gladly opens the familiar blue-black portal for him. Loki steps in, letting it engulf him. He does not look back.
The second Loki feels the ground underneath his feet again after stepping out of the portal, his knees give in. It is this moment it hits him that the nightmare is truly over, once and for all.
Loki lets out a shuddering breath and finds his trembling hands holding him from collapsing on the ground entirely. The first thing his mind registers is that he feels the gentle tug of a planet’s natural gravity under his feet once again; not the utter and complete weightlessness of the Void, or the pathetically simulated compensation of the Sanctuary, no. He has the ground solidly under his feet once again, he realizes for the first time since coming to Midgard, and it is this thought of all that nearly breaks him.
He takes in a shaky yet deep breath, his lungs welcoming the cool rush of fresh air. He feels a soft breeze pat his cheeks, flowing through his messy hair, his fists tightly clutching what seems like soft moss, his palms relishing its gentle, refreshing texture more than he can express in words. He hears the muted chirps of birds echoing through, feels the warmth of tender sunlight on his face, and closes his eyes in relief, basking in its glory like it is the first ray of sunshine since a devastating blizzard, for is that not exactly what it is?
He knows not how long he sits there with his eyes shut, acquainting himself again with the steady hold of gravity and the warmth and light of a sun and the tender touch of moss and of grass and the feeling of a cool breeze against his skin and the soft chirps of birds in his ears. Acquainting himself again with everything that is not utter weightless, jarring numbness or constant, unending agony. Tears fill his closed eyes.
He’s free. No more of the cold, empty numbness of the Void with nothing but distant dots of light to keep him company and his own thoughts to drive him insane. No more of the Other’s cruel, sadistic promises hanging over his head. Not even the cage that is Asgard, no matter how gilded and glittering that prison. He’s free. Truly.
When he manages to collect himself enough, he looks around and finds himself amidst a forest of sorts. The evening sunlight filters radiantly through the leaves of the sparse trees, and is reflected by a small, glittering creek that flows gently between the trees. He is sitting on a soft, bright green bed of moss and grass interspersed by vivid purple wildflowers. Small black and grey birds chirp and glide freely through high branches; this cannot be Alfheim, for it has dragons in place of avian species. These are not Asgard’s woods either, for he cannot feel the faint hum of its distinct magic reverberating through the ground; he knows it too intimately to not be sure of that, and there is no way the Tesseract would have brought him to Asgard anyway. Neither are the trees anywhere near the size of Vanaheim’s vegetation, which means he must still be on Midgard.
The Tesseract sits beside him, its comforting blue glow illuminating the tiny violet flowers that surround it. Loki picks it up once again, and it sends a reassuring wave of energy through his nerves. It occurs to Loki once again that the Tesseract has chosen him; he, who has strived relentlessly all his life for even a shred of Odin’s recognition and Asgard’s acceptance, is worthy of not Mjölnir, no, but one of the six primordial forces of the cosmos. It’s… on one hand, he instinctively knows why, but on the other, it’s… unbelievable.
The Tesseract, perhaps sensing his emotions, hums reassuringly, and Loki smiles. It’s a language of nought but pure energy spoken directly to his soul, yet Loki can almost translate it to words of affection.
“Yes, I love you too,” he chuckles, and the Tesseract’s brilliant blue flickers softly in reply.
It merrily joins its place in Loki’s dimensional pocket, and he pulls himself up on his feet. His pants, as well as the tails of his robes, have a bit of dirt and twigs of grass on them, which he fixes quickly with a cleaning spell. It wouldn’t do to look less than presentable, now, would it?
He spends quite some time walking around the forest, taking in the bright, refreshing greenery of the leaves and the faint fragrance of the local flora, revelling in simply the ability to appreciate his senses freely. He finds the vegetation somewhat similar to that in Asgard’s woods, but carefully ignores the knot of homesickness in his chest: Asgard was never home, not truly. He will not allow himself to miss it.
Most of the birds are small, grey avians Loki cannot recognize, but there are a few occasional ones with bright red and yellow feathers on their heads, merrily pecking at the bark of the trees, and Loki gazes at them lazily for a long time. The evening sun seems to barely budge in the sky over time, suggesting to Loki that he’s at quite a high latitude. Somewhere in Scandinavia, perhaps?
A pang of hunger churns loudly in his stomach and Loki finds himself startled by it; it’s not a feeling he has allowed himself to feel, recently. His body has been consuming his seiðr to function for far too long, and it’s visible in his visibly bony hands and gaunt cheeks. Oh, they fed him sometimes, certainly, if whatever filth that was could even be called food, but he realizes he has not had a proper meal in… how long has it been now? He is reasonably sure the year on Midgard is 2012, but realizes he does not even know what month it is, let alone the date. Assuming his guess of the location is correct, it’s summer — June, perhaps even May or April, judging by the climate.
Well, if he is on Midgard, he decides, he might as well explore for a little while; get himself some ice-cream, perhaps.
After all he’s been through, he deserves some ice-cream.
Fury and his “Avengers” find Loki in a sidewalk cafe in the middle of Florence, Italy, contentedly eating his fourth cone of chocolate-and-hazelnut gelato.
A man in a red and gold suit of armour that glitters in the evening streetlight lands loudly just outside said cafe with more pomp than strictly necessary, but Loki can appreciate a dramatic entrance, when done well.
The armour’s faceplate opens to reveal the confused, if also rather amused countenance of a somewhat handsome middle-aged man with a curious beard. “You sure this guy’s it?” he questions, staring at Loki intently from top to bottom. “Doesn’t look like the invading-alien-conqueror type to me.”
Ogling might be a more accurate word, actually.
Well, Loki will admit that he does look rather pretty in his dark green Midgardian shirt and golden scarf with his hair neatly tied into a low bun, but he isn’t sure he appreciates the attention. He feels rather more watched than he knows he is.
“Yeah, that’s him,” confirms Fury, stepping up by the armoured man’s side, gun cocked. “Bastard killed four of our agents within seconds and disappeared with the Tesseract.”
Beside Fury is another gentleman dressed in a frankly ridiculous red, white and blue... spandex (?) suit that is almost certainly symbolic of the nation labelled the United States of America, holding in one hand a… large metallic frisbee?
The Tesseract, however, hums in recognition towards him, which is certainly curious, as Loki does not sense any hostility. They share history, it seems, from all the time the Tesseract has spent in human hands, but this one is not necessarily an enemy, it would seem.
The armoured man’s chest-piece is rather interesting, and clearly an energy weapon; it is evident the suit is built for more than just flying. Mister United States is conspicuously a highly physically-enhanced human, and might actually pose a bit of a fight were Loki to duel him hand on hand (what the ostentatious frisbee is for, Loki can only guess). His magic detects the area surrounded by what seem to be several SHIELD agents, some in disguise, others not.
They’re here for a fight. Apparently.
If he’s honest, his magic finds only one of them — the short red-haired woman with an unassuming face and an aura dripping with blood — who seems to him in possession of any competence, aside from Barton, who is perched on a terrace behind him, bowstring stretched and arrow aiming at Loki’s throat.
To summarize: Loki is surrounded.
He takes another slow bite off the frozen dessert, relishing its taste on his tongue, maintaining uninterrupted eye contact with Fury. He has so far tried three flavours excepting this one: dark chocolate, caramel créme, and almonds, but has found this one his favourite as of yet. He does look forward to trying the strawberry one next, though.
Fury, who is not amused, glares at him, the gun pointed at Loki’s head not budging an inch.
“If you wish for some Gelato, you can get it inside,” Loki says, pointing to the inside of the cafe. His suggestion is met with silence. “I’m not sharing mine,” he clarifies, just so he’s clear on this, because sharing his icy dessert is non-negotiable at this point.
“Where. Is. The Tesseract,” questions Fury, at the same time as the armoured man asks, smirking, “And which one would you recommend, signore?”
“Ah, I’m afraid I’m rather new here, but I can assure you the chocolate’s quite delicious,” he replies, taking a bite, and ignoring the Director completely. “Care to join me, mister…?”
“Tony Stark,” he replies all too merrily, holding a hand out, as Fury shoots him a death glare. “You know, if an ice-cream date in Italy’s what you wanted, you could have just asked nicely. No need to go around stealing shiny blue cubes.”
It is said shiny blue cube that Loki is having his date in Italy with that has been so rudely interrupted by Fury and his ‘Avengers’, but he withholds that comment.
The Tesseract does not particularly appreciate Stark’s words either, if the mildly disapproving grumble radiating from within his dimensional pocket is any indication. Loki finds them somewhat amusing, though.
“I’m afraid I must respectfully decline your suggestion, Mr Stark.” He takes another bite. “Nothing personal.”
“Not into guys, Merlin?”
“Stark,” Fury warns. He is ignored. Mister United States shoots his armoured ally a dirty look. He is also ignored.
“Not into anybody, in fact,” Loki answers flatly.
Except for the Tesseract, of course, but infinity gems one has soul-bonded to do not count as romantic partners for obvious reasons. That doesn’t stop him from being dearly attached to it, of course.
“Huh,” Stark replies, satisfied with the answer if seemingly somewhat disappointed at losing his chances. “Neat.”
Loki tilts his head in curiosity, surprised at the man’s easy acceptance of Loki’s admission. Asgard would never take that for an answer, insisting that attraction was natural and inevitable, calling him distant or cold-hearted in whispers behind his back that he would ignore, never understanding how it was that everybody else was so obsessed with it. It seems these notions are somewhat different on Midgard?
“Stark,” Fury warns again, louder and visibly at the end of his patience with him.
Loki might actually yet get along with this Tony Stark, if Fury’s rapidly increasing consternation with him is any indication.
He isn’t exactly enjoying this moment, however, what with all those guns pointed at him and a rather annoying man whose eyepatch reminds him of the All-Father demanding answers he is in no hurry to give.
Loki sighs inwardly. Because Loki can simply not be allowed a few hours spent enjoying frozen Italian desserts and later visiting the Uffizi Palace and art gallery, and perhaps one of the several historical libraries of the city as well, now can he? Loki can simply not be allowed nice things, apparently; such is the universal law of the cosmos.
(The Tesseract is an exception he will forever be infinitely grateful for.)
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Loki gets up from his seat, “I’m afraid all these weapons pointed at me doesn’t exactly make for a relaxing vacation.”
“Oh no,” Fury protests, “you’re not going—”
“‘Twas lovely meeting you, Mr Stark.” Loki waves him goodbye, a wide, innocent smile on his face. “Ciao.”
He brings forth the Tesseract and portals away to everybody’s protests, disappearing just as Barton’s arrow finds itself striking an empty wooden chair instead of being stopped midway by the god’s telekinesis in what would have made for an interesting display for the humans.
Loki, for his part, is rather disappointed he did not get to eat the strawberry cheesecake gelato; it did look quite delicious, and Loki hasn’t indulged himself with desserts for an eternity.
Perhaps a croissant might make up for it, though?
“Why Europe, though?” Stark questions as he lands beside Loki on the bridge with a solid thump. “Everybody knows aliens are supposed to ravage America.”
Loki sighs resignedly, reluctantly diverting his gaze towards Stark. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Fury has the bridge surrounded by SHIELD agents, as well as the French police, from both sides. He can hear the distinct buzz of a helicopter from above him, and along with it is an interesting-looking jet that he suspects belongs to these 'Avengers' of Fury.
Is lazily leaning on the beautiful, ornately carved railings of the Pont Alexandre III bridge in Paris in the middle of the night, a cup of iced tea in hand, simply watching the calm waters of the river Seine glittering softly in the streetlights, and enjoying the gentle nighty breeze with the sole company of the Tesseract too much to ask?
Apparently so.
“Well, if you must know,” he replies blandly, “the other continents will have to wait their turn.”
“What, the U.S.A.’s too hot for you? Not enough attractions? Is it the taxes? The distinct stench of late-stage corporate capitalism? I figured you'd be all in for the buildings built to the sky and the smoggy air combination.”
Loki mentally makes it a point to only visit Canada and Mexico when the North American continent’s turn comes up.
Well, the Niagara falls are quite gorgeous, but he can just as easily see them in the colder country, and Toronto is certainly better than New York, if the way things had been going the last time he’d visited Midgard some three decades ago have kept on. And Mexico has better food, of course.
As for the buildings built to the sky and the smoggy air, well, he hates them, of course. The noise and the pollution, the grey labyrinth of metal, glass and concrete, versus… anything else? The choice is quite easy. And honestly, Loki rather admires Western Europe’s more classical aesthetic, reflected all too well in the look from where he stands. The elegant white stone railings make the golden glow of the lamps illuminate the night atmosphere most warmly, and reflect awe-strikingly in the water below and from the golden statues that surround the bridge from all four sides. There’s a very distinct aire of romanticism implied even in the pier columns beneath the bridge, to be honest, but Loki can appreciate the capital ‘R’ aesthetic, if not the emotion.
“Nothing is hot enough for me,” Loki states, deadpan. “And I meant exactly that it would have to wait its turn, because I’m all booked.”
“A calendar? Really? Come on, Lokester, no one actually sticks to schedules…”
“Tomorrow I plan to visit one of Australia’s inland beaches, along with the Great Barrier Reef,” Loki states. “Perhaps even fix some of the coral bleaching — it is quite a shame.”
“And how do desserts and snorkelling vacations factor into your grand plan of crushing us like ants?” Fury questions, eyes narrowing sceptically.
Loki is actually planning to explore the reefs as an Alfr mermaid, or perhaps a dolphin, instead of snorkelling, but they do not need to know that.
“Oh, yes. The invasion. That,” Loki acknowledges. “It’s cancelled.”
“Say what now?” Fury questions incredulously. His scowl only deepens.
“I cancelled it. I thought you’d be happier to hear that.” Loki shrugs. “No pleasing some people, I suppose.”
“Give up the Tesseract and come with us, sir,” says Mister United States, whose name or designation Loki is still unaware of, but suspects is likely to involve some unearned military designation such as ‘Colonel’ or ‘Captain’ or ‘General’, and the word ‘America’. “This doesn’t need to get more complicated.”
“I agree, we need not complicate matters,” Loki concedes, shrugging. “So if you could please leave us—”
“Not till you tell us wh—”
“I’m here on a vacation, Director,” Loki pointedly points out. “I will be answering your inquiries no earlier than next week.”
“Like hell you are here ‘on vacation’—”
“Come on! Does this guy look like an alien conqueror to you? Have you ever watched a single Hollywood movie?” Stark scowls at Fury, his expression the height of amused incredulity. "All he's done so far is portal around, eat a lot of desserts and wear too much green.”
“Stop taking his side, Mr Stark,” says Captain Spandex, shooting him a disapproving glare. “You’re not helping.”
"What, you don't like the green overcoat?" Loki asks Stark, merrily ignoring the American Dream’s comment. Loki had, of course, donned an extra green layer upon coming here, and likes to imagine he looks quite pretty in it.
"Oh no, I love it actually,” Stark replies. “I mean, I'd like you best without anything on, but hey, you do you. Aces are valid. Aros too."
Loki raises an eyebrow, filing away those words in his mind. They clearly mean something that has to do with a lack of attraction, judging by the context, and he would ensure to look them up later.
“Answers,” Fury demands loudly over Stark. “Now.”
Loki rolls his eyes and sighs. What’s with old men with eyepatches and being insufferable, self-important pricks?
The Tesseract pulses from within his dimensional pocket, suggesting that they just throw Fury into the nearest star and be done with it. It’s only half-serious, of course, but the cube’s suggestion makes him hold in a chuckle nonetheless.
“Well, if you must know, here’s a summary,” he acquiesces. Might as well get it over with. “I was actually sent here to retrieve the Tesseract by one of the last of an ancient race of purple beings called the Titans, one who wished to extinguish half of all life in the cosmos,” he begins, matter-of-factly.
The Avengers visibly tense.
“The Tesseract and I, however, decided we did not particularly like the idea, for reasons I’m sure you can understand.” Did not particularly like the idea. Hah, Loki muses darkly, the understatement of the millennium is what that is.
“And… what did you do?” Fury questions warily.
“We created a microscopic black hole in his chest,” Loki replies flatly, shrugging. “It juiced him down and ate him up like the nasty stale purple grape that he was.”
He is met with silence.
“...Well, if that’s done, return the Tesseract now. It’s SHIELD property,” Fury warns. “Or we will be forced to take it away from you.”
Loki suppresses an urge to laugh at the sheer ridiculity. Forced to take it away from him? What’s with old men with eyepatches having ridiculously inflated ideas of their own omnipotence and infallibility?
“Oh, I wouldn’t really recommend that,” Loki tells him simply, “unless, of course, you wish to end up inside the nuclear core of a distant red giant, or beyond the event horizon of a galactic black hole, or burnt away, forgotten, only to be brought up again as a generally dodgy plot point as a guardian of a similarly powerful but unattainable entity on a far away, inhospitable, and probably purple planet, among other such unpleasant things?”
“...That’s incredibly specific, but I’ll take your word for it.” Stark shrugs.
“And as for whose property the Tesseract is,” Loki informs them, “it was hidden by Asgard inside a sacred Norse temple in Norway a millennium ago for safekeeping. Which technically makes it…” he trails off.
The realization he has just had is not a pleasant one, no.
“...Odin’s, actually.”
Well, that’s certainly a problem.
“Hold that thought,” Loki tells them, handing Stark his half-empty cup of iced tea. “I’ll be right back.”
The moment Loki finds himself within Valaskjalf, Loki regrets coming.
Asgard’s resplendent golden throne room remains exactly the same from whence he had sat upon that glorified couch himself, with its ornately carved pillars, gilded chamber walls that amplify the smallest of squeaks into clear, resounding echoes; with its cold stone floor and its grand, all-encompassing murals and its high, tinted windows that flood the chamber with warm light. With its high, golden throne that Loki had once so foolishly coveted, thinking in his naïvete that perhaps it would come with Asgard’s respect and Odin’s regard.
At the centre of it all is Odin in the aforementioned pompous high seat, Gungnir held regally in one hand, his eyes narrowed yet expression neutral; seeming only a slight bit surprised at Loki’s sudden, dramatic entrance. Mother — Queen Frigga, for she was never his mother, not truly— stands clad in a yellow gown atop the stairs beside Odin’s throne, as always, her eyes wide and mouth agape, her expression conflicted.
If his heart lurches at the sight of her, he does not let it show.
“Loki,” the King of Asgard addresses him, voice stern and perfectly void of emotion.
“Yes, I do believe that is me,” Loki answers, a portion of him grateful for the omission of a title or full name, the other wondering whether its lack only solidified that he is —had always been— nobody to Odin or to Asgard.
From within his palms, the Tesseract flares up with surprising hostility at Odin’s voice, its usually calm cosmic hum now a furious roar of burning rage. It almost aches, Loki can feel, to tear open a rift in space-time beneath his not-father’s golden throne, leave him to the mercies of unrelenting gravity or its utter lack, of temperatures a million times greater than the fires of Surtr himself or a hundred times lower than the coldest glaciers of Jötunheim. It rages on his behalf, Loki realizes, and that only amplifies his desire to actually allow the Tesseract to do to Odin as it pleases.
And yet, amidst its rage, the simple existence of the Tesseract by his side reassures him — no, its vehement distrust of Odin makes all the more assuring, and although he does not know of the history between it and the Nill-Father, the shared dislike validates him and imbues him with confidence. It’s a solid, unwavering constant amongst Loki’s myriad of fluctuating emotions about this realm; a pillar of strength, of support, of care, of everything he had never been gifted in the lifetime he has now left behind.
“You have the Tesseract,” Odin states plainly, eyeing the cube in his hands with wariness. Loki can see his grip on Gungnir tightening.
“Getting straight to the point, are we, Father?” Loki questions, eyes narrowing in contempt. “It’s not every day your supposedly dead son comes back alive from the cold grasp of the Void.”
Odin stays silent, his lips curving into a thin line. Loki wonders if the irony of both descriptors being flawed makes it through to him.
He then looks to Frigga. She does seem like she wishes to say something, anything, but has not the gall to contradict the stance taken by her husband. Her priorities yet remain in order, as always, as is to be expected of the efficient and refined Queen of Asgard.
Loki does not find that silence deafening, does not find it painful. He does not.
“No welcome back? Of course not. Why am I not surprised?” he questions rhetorically, magicking away the Tesseract into its dimensional pocket, lest he actually give it the free rein it so desires and banish the ruler of the Nine Realms into the depths of a black hole. “Let me guess: is it because you never cared for me as anything other than a political pawn?”
“That is a lie, Loki,” Odin replies.
“Of course, how slanderous of me,” Loki tuts to himself. “Let me amend that: you never cared for me, period.”
“Loki—” Odin begins, tone distant and disapproving, clearly in an attempt to unquestionably declare the contrary and excuse himself of Loki’s ‘imagined’ experiences, calling them all manner of lies, manipulations, and whatnot; insisting that of course he always cared for Loki, that of course, Loki never had to practically beg for even scraps of his attention, let alone regard, or better yet, any sort of paternal love —
Luckily for Loki’s sanity and Odin’s still intact flesh, however, it is this moment Thor loudly bursts into the chamber, boisterously donned in full-armour, and, as usual, with Mjölnir in one hand, ready to hammer his foes’ skulls.
“Loki?” Thor exclaims, disbelief evident in his expression for nearly a whole second before giving way to his trademark rage. “Where is the Tesseract?” he questions, uncaring of the fact that he has just found his supposedly dead ‘brother’ alive again.
Typical, Loki thinks to himself bitterly, asking after the Tesseract before me. They do have their priorities in order, don’t they.
Loki chuckles darkly. “I missed you too, Brother.”
“Do I look to be in a gaming mood?” Thor questions harshly, his ire evident on his face. “I thought you dead, Brother!”
Yes, and you rage upon learning the contrary, Loki thinks with contempt, stifling the voice in the back of his mind that aches for his not-brother’s affection still, left pained and heartbroken on Thor’s words yet again while the rest of him simply chuckles darkly, drinking to its cynicism proven right once again.
“Well, this is quite embarrassing, but” — Loki points at himself in emphasis — ”Not really your brother.”
He turns to Odin, eyes narrowing in challenge. “You did tell him my true parentage, did you not?”
“We were raised together, we played together, we fought together. Do you remember none of that?” Thor says, in his typical over-the-top self-righteousness voice. Loki resists the urge to roll his eyes, or more importantly, stab him.
“I remember a shadow, living in the shade of your greatness,” Loki counters. “I remember you telling me to know my place, Thor, and guess what: I do. And it’s not. Beneath. You.”
“Loki—” Frigga attempts to intervene, but is silenced by Thor’s furious bellow.
“So your imagined slights erase a thousand years of brotherhood between us?! No, Loki, I cannot—”
“Brotherhood?” Loki mouths, silently, in mock confusion. Then, louder: “Brotherhood? ”
He laughs a pained yet feral laugh. “You dismiss centuries of disapproval, dismissal and outright neglect under the guise of brotherhood? You call centuries of never being enough, always wondering why I could never be accepted for myself by those who called me their family your idea of—”
“ENOUGH!” Odin roars.
“Oh, no, All-Father. I’ve had enough of my voice being drowned out. No more. I will speak today, lay out all your countless lies before you, and you will listen, because if you don’t—”
The Tesseract reappears from his dimensional pocket and flares up dangerously, bleeding through as a striking blue glow of its infinitely old cosmic magic from within Loki’s hands, and he feels its incredible power explode rapidly into his veins. Along with it comes the exhilarating sensation of feeling the strength of a hundred stars and the brilliance of a thousand supernovae, of feeling the intensity of ten thousand quasars and the immensity of a million galaxies. Of holding gravity and entropy and infinity within his palms. Of feeling one with the Tesseract and with the cosmos itself, in both its ongoing creation and destruction.
Loki locks eyes with Odin, letting him witness the sapphire of the Space Stone’s power glowing with fury and contempt from his eyes.
Odin visibly swallows.
“ —My ‘imagined slights’ will be the reason you find yourself stuck in the nearest main-sequence star, burning for an immortal eternity, perhaps finally shedding some light into the universe, for that is one thing you never could do from your perfect golden throne.”
Odin, interestingly enough, takes it as a sign to defer his attempt to interrupt him. Loki takes it as promising, and takes the vehement approval from the cube as a sign of encouragement.
“Now,” Loki says, his eyes returning to their usual emerald, turning cheerily to one side so he can pace, “Where do we begin?”
The part where I moulded myself into the perfect son anybody could have asked for, did every single thing right for a thousand years, made every single conceivable attempt to gain your regard, let alone some scrap of love that you never even had in the first place, because you never so much as looked at me unless it was to disapprove of me, tell me exactly how much of a disappointment I was; where I incessantly wondered on countless nights with tears in my eyes what it was that made me lesser than Thor, why I could never be what you wanted?
The part where I stumbled upon the answer to that question myself, and you revealed to me that I was nothing more than another stolen relic, another pawn in your political games, and one that no longer even served a purpose, and then conveniently decided to shut your eyes and leave me there alone as my whole world crumbled around me?
The part where I hung over an abyss, held only by the last remaining shreds of my naïve hopes of being enough for you, and you told me exactly how much you cared with nought more than two simple words?
Loki, at that moment, truly does not know.
“Perhaps we should start at the beginning, All-Father? When you decided to adopt your enemy’s abandoned spawn out of the kindness of your heart?” Loki begins, the contempt in his voice perhaps rivalled in thickness only by Odin’s skull itself. “And who exactly abandons a shameful runt in their realm’s most sacred place, right next to their most treasured relic?”
Odin keeps his trap shut, but his eyes go wide, which is as much admission of the truth Loki could hope to receive from the Nill-Father.
“No, one only places treasures in a temple, in the hopes that the enemy has the honour and decency not to desecrate it,” he continues, eyes narrowing in fury. “Hoping which, of course, turned out to be Laufey’s fatal mistake, for you have neither, Odin.”
What other part of Odin’s solemn admission in the vault that day is a lie, he wonders.
“And, of course, how could you hope to use me as your precious tafl-piece if the Jötnar truly did consider me of no worth to them?” he adds; giving him further proof that Loki has seen through Odin’s pathetic attempt to blackmail and indebt him for allowing him to live. “You have lost any regard I ever held for you, Odin, so do not think that I will continue to willfully blind myself to your countless lies. No, I see through all of them.”
“‘Twas truly a remarkable plan, you know: hold the Jotnar’s next rightful king hostage from infancy, keep him in the dark about his heritage whilst teaching him to abhor his own race as monsters, raise him with barely any regard, and utterly void of any love, on a steady diet of self-loathing and manipulation. Creating in the process a truly perfect puppet king for a puppet realm; it’s ingenious. Unparalleled.”
Unparalleled apathy, that’s what it is.
From within his dimensional pocket, the Tesseract flares in fury cold and deadly as a blizzard, its ferocity matched only by his own. Perhaps they should banish a powerless Odin to Jötunheim, leave him to the mercy of those he has taken everything from, it seems to suggest, and Loki is almost inclined to agree.
“And as for you, Mother,” he turns to her. Frigga raises her chin, staring back at Loki as strongly as he does her. He would perhaps even admire her confidence in her own infallibility, if he were not here to condemn her. “Tell me, did I make you proud?”
Loki watches all the composed confidence draining away from her expression with equal measures of satisfaction and pain.
“What, dare I ask, were you thinking when you handed me the throne?” Loki questions. “Oh yes, Loki has just found that his entire identity is built on a lie that we fed him for his entire life, and he’s understandably very upset, but let’s tell him it doesn’t matter and hand him the throne amidst an interstellar war with the race he truly belongs to and was yet raised to loathe as monstrous! All this while you could just as easily have taken the reins of ruling as regent yourself and spared me all the pain that followed thereafter!”
Frigga flinches.
Loki realizes at this moment that his knuckles are clenched white, that he has lost composure in his anger, that his voice is only a notch away from a scream.
He forces in a deep breath, calming his rage. Losing composure would gain him nothing.
“And it’s not as if you weren’t a perfectly willing partner in Odin's machinations, never once even attempting to divert from your dear husband’s side no matter what, always jumping to his staunchest defence,” Loki continues, now eerily calm, is voice barely above a whisper and yet echoing in the chamber. “Offering comfort only to dismiss any and all of my pains as inconsequential or imaginary, for there was no way your perfect husband or your golden son could ever slight me, right? Always a balm that served only to inflame further.”
Because after all was said and done, perhaps it was not Odin’s cruelties that hurt the most, no; it was his mother’s complacent silences.
“And last but not least, my dear brother.” Loki turns to him.
“Claiming to love me oh so dearly. Tell me, is constantly belittling and dismissing me every chance you get, or allowing, even encouraging those four leeches you call friends to mock me, their prince, all the time how you show love?”
Thor shakes his head in the beginnings of a denial. Or maybe another empty apology for whatever he may have possibly done. Perhaps he will argue that Loki’s experiences are entirely imaginary; that’s not exactly off the table of thought.
“Oh no. Admit it, Thor. You do not love Loki. You love your everpresent shadow, your meek little brother who cleans up your messes and takes all the blame. You love being the golden son of Asgard as I am vilified and scapegoated again and again and again.”
Thor, eyes wide, grits his teeth. “Loki, I do not—”
“No? Tell me then, would you claim to love this ?”
Loki feels the temperature of the chamber plummeting as he lets go of his pale skin, feels the wintry cobalt blue of his true skin crawl up his arms and his face, bringing with it the feeling of icy winds roaring atop freezing glaciers and the sparkle of wintry sunlight falling on white sheets of snow. Furious scarlet eyes meet stunned blue.
Thor simply stares, eyes wide and mouth agape, speechless.
“Thought not.”
There aren’t tears in Loki’s eyes. No, there aren’t.
For a small part of Loki yet aches for the Thor he once knew, one who would sit beside him awed and amazed as Loki wove story after story with his illusions, laugh along at his harmless pranks and on occasion even attempt to concoct several himself. The one who would never cease his fretting were Loki to get so much as a cold, who would keep him company by the bedside for the entire day even if it meant missing training. One whose little taunts would be merry instead of mocking, nought but friendly brotherly banter instead of careless, derogatory jabs that hurt no matter how many times Loki heard them. A small part of Loki aches for that Thor still.
A small part of Loki wonders when it all changed, when their relationship stepped afoot the path that would turn it into the shattered, bloody mess it is today. He wonders if it was inevitable, wonders if it is irremediable, wonders if their broken relationship will always be another irrefutable constant truth in his life.
Right now, he is furious, and very rightfully so; Loki hates Thor with all his ire, aches to hurt him just as Thor did again and again and again for centuries, and at this moment he barely manages to keep himself from flinging a knife at his gut, and yet.
Yet Loki wishes with all his heart that even this will come to pass.
Loki closes his eyes, feeling his azure receding, being replaced by the sweet porcelain lie. Takes a deep breath.
He turns back to Odin. “Now, since I do hope we’ve reached an understanding, let me come to the reason I am really here: the Tesseract.” He nudges his chin to gesture at the beautiful cube that he brings forth from his dimensional pocket into his hand. “I keep it.”
“You— Do you hear your own words, boy?” Odin responds, with clear disbelief. “I have tolerated your incessant bickering up till now, but this crosses every line! You do not know what you demand— ”
“You have heard of a soul-bond, haven’t you, All-Father?” Loki interrupts calmly.
“A… soul-bond?” Frigga repeats hesitantly, confused by the apparent non-sequitur. “It’s very rare, ancient magic, believed by most to be nought but a legend. It speaks of a match made by the Norns themselves…"
"Thus it is, All-Mother. Considering which, would you believe it wise to separate two bound by such a soul-bond?"
"It's a bond forged by the Fates themselves…" she says, shaking her head lightly. "No, we would not see it wise to disrespect the wishes of such a bond… nor risk the judgement of such a powerful one…”
Loki nods his head in acknowledgement of her words, then looks to Odin challengingly.
Odin seems to realise what Loki is alluding to. “In whatever manner you have bewitched the Tesseract— ”
“Oh dear, you believe me capable of bewitching an Infinity Gem to my whims, something I don’t believe any other being in the cosmos has succeeded in doing before?” Loki tuts. “Is this pride, or perchance fear I hear implied in your voice, Your Royal Majesty?”
"Quit your treachery, Loki,” Odin warns, narrowing his eyes. “A soul bond, if such a thing exists, is formed between two people as a paragon of love, and neither is the Tesseract sentient, nor have you ever been capable of finding love in your cold, dead heart."
From within his palms, the Tesseract roars furiously at the Nill-Father’s words, its blue glow pulsing dangerously with the ire of a thousand suns. Loki, chin held high, meets Odin’s wide gaze with sapphire eyes radiating the power of Infinity itself.
“I apologize if my choice of words has upset your romance-normative sensibilities,” he says. “Let me put it this way: the Tesseract has chosen me.”
His beloved cube pulses in complete agreement, sending a reassuring pulse of its power through his heart that strengthens him and emboldens him infinitely like nothing else has ever done before. Loki can feel its wild song in his heart, a song of roaring pulsars and raging supernovae, of cosmic order and boundless chaos, perfectly in tune with the rhythm of his seiðr and his soul.
“If you have any disputes, do kindly take it to the Tesseract itself, and let my non-intervention be sworn to the Norns themselves in such a case,” he challenges with a smirk, tilting his head in invitation. “I’m sure even cosmic infinities older than the universe itself cower before your might, All-Father.”
Odin grinds his teeth but remains otherwise silent, which Loki finds to be his wisest decision yet.
“Let me make it very clear: this is not a deal, Odin. I am not asking; this involves no negotiation. Your dutiful son is truly dead; the Loki that has risen out of his ashes is not the one that once was, and he refuses to play your game, refuses to cower under your golden leash. You would do well to remember that.”
His voice echoes through the chamber, emphasising the silence left in his declaration’s wake.
“Well, I do believe that settles matters. Fare thee well, All-Father, All-Mother, Prince Thor.” Loki bows theatrically, taking a measured step back. “And do keep better track of your relics of immeasurable power,” he suggests, “would be a shame if another were to resurface from forgotten depths with an ancient enemy in tow.”
And thus, Loki turns away, and as the comforting azure and obsidian thunder of the Tesseract's portal engulfs him, he begins a new chapter.