My name is Loki Laufeyson, and this is my personal log of my banishment to true Hell. And that does not mean I've gone over to my beautiful daughter's house for tea.
(This is a Blog created to assist the Author in eliminating their writer's blog. Feel free to ask questions and be rewarded with mini-fics or semi-in-character responses. It is not necessarily a roleplay blog, is not associated with a group, and will contain OOC posts using the tag 'ooc'.)
Out Of Character
Author Posts If You Must Know
There was something in the Tower that made it hard to sleep. Perhaps the hum of electricity, perhaps Jarvis’ ever-constant watch (reminded him quite of a semi-non-existent Heimdal). Maybe it was not being home.
Funny, since he didn’t have one. Not really.
Regardless, Loki slept little in the first few days of his imprisonment at Stark Tower. After that he simply gave up the ghost, choosing instead to fill the hours between dusk and dawn with something more productive. Drifting through the halls like a phantom, aware as the cameras swiveled and shifted in their pods, watching. Always watching. Funny, too, that he now has all the attention all the time. Isn’t it odd, he thought to himself, how only a few years ago (or much longer…how long had I fallen) I was the invisible man?
As he walked, he trailed his fingers along the walls. Beneath pictures of Tony’s projects, an image of Coulson, of the Hawk and the Spider. Steve shooting fire works. Thor winning some contest involving encased meat tubes. There is laughing and there is joy and there is love in this photos and so, so badly Loki wishes to rip them from the wall. Cast them out a window with a shout and then, perhaps, follow them the hundreds of feet to the ground. This is true hell. At least back in Asgard he could leave the room when these moments happen. Here, though…here within the tower, how can he escape? These moments are forever held in glass and ink, everywhere he turned.
He stops at one of the many walls of windows to stare out, stare down across the skyline of the city. It would be a long fall, but he had fallen further. It would ache but it would not scar, a fall from here. Loki simply closed his eyes. How immortal must he be, to survive falling through the vacuum of space. To survive being loving people who never cared. Who lied to him his entire life. To survive being left, as an infant, on the floor of a building to be killed by an enemy’s warriors. How immortal must Loki be.
How unlucky can one man be.
The sudden shake in his breath startles him, leaving his reflection in the glass wide-eyed. He shakes again with his next breath and raises a hand to his face, his cheek, thumbs the warm tear off. It dangles off the swell of his thumb and he stares at it. Another tremor.
The flat of his hand hits the glass and the tear is lost, tremors fighting his clenched teeth. “Stop this,” he shouts at his reflection. An ugly snarl glares back, eyes wide and green and wet and he hates it. Hates himself, hates where he is. Who he’s become. “Stop this now! It is this that brought us here!”
Us. There is no us. Only me.
“You’re up again.” Loki lifts his eyes away from his reflection. The serene blankness of his brother’s face hovers over his shoulder. Damn him. Damn Thor, it’s as if he has a sense for when to find Loki at his lowest. At his worst and most… “Are you crying?” So tender. Don’t you remember, Thor. I am not your ally.
“Be gone with you,” Loki hisses. A hand to warm settles on Loki’s shoulder and turns him. It meets no resistance. “I said be gone with you, have you still not learned to listen?” The hand moves and thumbs yet another drop from his cheek. Loki slaps the hand away and steps back. The glass inhibits his retreat. “Go away!”
“You’re crying,” Thor says thoughtfully, watching the reflection of the light off the dampness on his fingers. “Brother,” Loki can’t move when Thor looks up at him. It feels like his heart is attempting to rattle out of his chest through his ribs; like his lungs wont expand. He can’t breathe. Thor is but a colourful, viscous blob in his vision. The world is water. “Oh,” And Thor sounds pained. “Loki.”
Loki runs. He runs and runs and eventually hits something—a couch, perhaps. Maybe an ottoman. Whatever his obstacle is, he doesn’t win the battle. His feet fly out from beneath him and suddenly he is a heap on the floor, heaving for breath. Clutching the carpet while he sobs. He’s forgotten why he’s crying, now. At least, that’s what he tells himself. Instead he’s simply still, the only noise is of his sorrow.
No one comes for him.
Sorry for the delay, work has been a mess.
But a story is in the works, as is an Entry. So keep an eye out for the story tonight, the Entry within the next two days or so.