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His soulmark is always cold. At first, he hates it.
Later, he’ll find it ironic.
.
The story goes like this: there were nine realms, each with a different race, and each race was blessed with the gift of having the name of their one and true soulmate written on a different place of their body.
The names were a gift from the Creator, who thought that since his creations did not have the same godliness that he had ascended to, they could be compensated.
The Creator gave the races soulmate at the dawn of time, when the realms had just been split. And then the Creator left, as the Creator was apt to do, for an unspecified and long period of time. When the Creator came back, he saw the Asgardians: saw their perfection, their immortality, their godliness.
The Creator became angered, and launched a war upon the Asgardians, a war swiftly fought and swiftly lost. In his last breath, he swore revenge on the Asgardians by wiping the names forevermore from their collarbones, blasting the bone so deeply it left a curve in the hollow of one’s neck.
That was the story, alright. The story to explain the elaborate traditions, feasts and what any other realm would have taken as a sure sign as a complete lack of soul.
That was the story.
Loki had always thought the story was a lie, but then again, nobody had ever listened.
.
So Agardians didn’t have soulmates, or at least no names to indicate who said soulmate would be. Midgardians had a name on their wrist, black words that went white with death, which he knew from the occasional visit to the realm.
Loki had a name on his ankle.
When he was small, and stupid, he asked his mother about it.
As soon as she saw the name on his ankle, Loki panicked. He’d heard of what soulmates were supposed to be, an offhand mention in his lessons about otherworldly politics. He knew what it was supposed to mean that he had his brother’s name carved on his skin, worse so that there was no chance of reciprocation. Worse that it came from a child who they all thought knew absolutely nothing, who everyone had already started to avoid in favour of his brother’s golden smiles.
He panicked. One minute he was fumbling for a spell, and the next everything had gone pure white, and then his mother was staring at him blankly with a two day hole in her memory.
That had been his first spell.
.
No amount of magic hid the mark. For years, decades, centuries, he searched for a way to remove it, or at least to hide it. He scoured the texts, the lore of all nine realms, but all he could ever discover was that soul magic- the type supposedly carved into his ankle- was the most powerful magic of all. It could not be changed.
He tried anyway. He burnt the skin, but it came back. He tried a simple disguising spell- the magic fell from his lips and extinguished without a second thought.
He remembered once, how Thor had walked in on him, about to ask some stupid question when he saw Loki curled on the floor, drenched in his own blood, a knife clutched in his trembling hands. The world had been going blurry around the edges for quite some hours now, but Loki still remembers that his brother’s eyes were as blue as the day sky when he grabbed Loki (and god, it had burned, hot and fiery and painful but in a way that Loki didn’t want to stop), the sounds of who did this to you, brother, tell me and we will make him pay upon his lips.
Loki remembers that he had laughed through the blood and the feeling of suffocation, until he felt insane enough to think of say, brother, no, don’t you see, I did this to myself.
He hadn’t even been trying to get rid of the mark, then. He’d just wanted to burn it all.
But after that day, after the look on his brother’s face, he gives up. He wears knee high boots at all times and never goes to the public baths.
.
The only one who ever tries to find out is Sif, and Loki will forevermore hate her for it.
It’s not subtle, because Sif claims herself a warrior. One day he wakes up and all his boots are gone. Alongside his socks. The gauze he wraps around his ankle remains unremoved, so he does too.
He tilts his head. Touching his cabinet, he finds easy traces of magic there, unused leftovers, power wasted on a warrior. He knows who did this.
He stays in his room for a day. Then he tells the servants to fetch him some new boots.
For a long, long time, nothing happens. Never let it be said Loki did not bind his time (Loki binds his time best of all, lets hatred rot in him for centuries until it seeps into his bones, the very fabric of his being). Because of course it is Sif: his opposite, the girl playing at a boy and a boy who acts like a girl, both glancing at Thor sideways from the corners of their eyes, pathetic.
He waits a few decades before stealing her hair. The whole castle panics, but he, he stays still, watches as he always does.
No one notices, no one but Thor. That’s how Loki ends up with a broken nose and a smile glittering with chipped teeth and blood. Soulmates, he thinks, what do you say to that? And looks up into his brother’s eyes, glittering with rage. He thinks, I’ll take this over nothing, and that’s it, that’s the moment he knows he has to put a knife in it.
But that won’t happen for another few centuries or so. They stitch his lips shut (mockery and laughter abound near him, every Asgardian with a twinkle in their eye and a celebratory glass in hand, his brother laughing alongside them) and he thinks of ice and broken glass, of dead things, of how his soulmark is always cold. He thinks of revenge, and how it tastes like blood still sickly sweet in his mouth.
He thinks, just you wait.
.
He doesn't remember the mark burning into his skin, like the Migardian books say it does. He was too young.
But it's said that the Midgardians only feel the pain once, when they first touch their soulmates. It's supposed to be a sign, an indication.
Whenever his brother touches him, skin on skin, there's pain. The first time he can remember it happening, he nearly keeled over from it, bright and hot and burning up his sternum. It made him want to back away. It made him want to move closer. It was as hot as his soulmark is cold.
It was dangerous. So he made a plan. First he learnt to tolerate the pain, so he can at least stand if anyone were to find his weakness. If anyone ever notices the occasional graze of his fingers against his brother's, the hand he'd put to Thor's shoulder sometimes, skin on skin,- well, they never say anything.
Then he found a pair of gloves, and never stopped wearing those either.
No one looks at him differently. At first, he’s suspicious, until he realises it’s because they’re already wary of him, and his drink goes a bit bitter in his mouth.
The only person who pays much mind is Thor, and at the time Loki doesn’t even know it.
It’s only years later that he finds out, when Thor turns to him and asks, lips tilted downwards slightly as he nods towards Loki’s gloves,"Why do you always wear those, brother?" He says it perhaps because he's inebriated or perhaps because he is Thor, and no one in his life has ever told him no.
Loki tilts his head, and thinks, maybe someone should change that. Says something like; “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Thor looks bothered for about a half second, and Loki’s heart beats at a ridiculous pace. But then Sif tugs on his sleeve and says something worthless, useless, meaningless, and it’s gone.
He stares across the room and twists his fingers into knots.
.
He does research, and he doesn’t bother to hide it because no one cares. No one expects it: it’s Asgard, after all. If he wanted, he could get lost in the library and never come out.
Some nights, he does. Some nights he doesn’t. Some nights Thor comes looking after him, and after a good quarter of an hour of watching him search fruitlessly while Loki hides in the simplest of places, Loki will take mercy on him and walk out from the shadows as though he’d been in the same place all along (because if he stayed in one place Thor would find him, he knows it down to his very bones). And sometimes Thor will smile, bright and easy as if to say, this is how it should be , like Loki has always been at his side and always will be, and Loki will think of bright days and climbing trees and getting lost and how it’s Thor name on his ankle and something in his chest will twist, like a killing blow. Thor will say something like, Come have dinner, brother, and Loki will pause and then say, Alright.
Those nights become less frequent as time goes on. Loki is unbothered.
It gives him more time to bury himself in the pages. Because though it’s a rare Asgardian who reads, never let it be said Odin is not cautious of the power of words. The pages on soulmates are blacked out and censored, earmarked and riddled with red ink. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, in the forbidden section of the library.
In the end, there’s not much conclusive evidence. Soulmates are the greatest magic, no other magic can hide the bond. Soulmates are always written words on a part of the body.
But what soulmates actually are… there’s no real explanation. Oh, there’s plenty of attempts, sure, but that’s different. They say it’s the person you’re destined to marry. The person supposed to be your best friend. The person you will always find, no matter what life it is. The person you’re forever tied to by fate. The person who will always love you.
Loki feels a laugh die in his throat, and spends a good few minutes trying not to choke on air.
He moves on from that those lies as quickly as possible. He finds out where each race has their marks, which for some part is the most difficult part, the books on said subject having the most black ink, even entire pages ripped out from the spine.
He finds it only when he’s dead on his feet, his brain rattling from lack of sleep or drink or food, but he can’t stop because there’s this intense need pressing inside him. It’s the same one he gets when someone tells him he can’t or looks at Thor like he’s the only person in the room or treats Loki like he’s invisible. It’s the same one that’s there, always pressing into his heels, making hin push forward when everything tells him go back.
He finds it in a place no sane man would have ever thought to look. He finds it because he trips and the entire bookcase almost drops on him, but he stops it just in time, and as he’s readjusting it back to its proper place he spots an irregularity in the dusty marble floor. The floor is usually simple squares, but here, there’s a carving. It almost looks like a gem, an intaglio of some sort. He kneels down and presses on the edge, his eyes nearly falling shut, and he thinks about something, anything, ice and broken glass-
His fingers go unnaturally cold. A click sounds. The panel latches open underneath his fingers as he looks down. Underneath, there’s a blue book coated in seven different layers of dust. Loki swipes a finger on the cover, then wills the dust away.
Soulmates in the modern era, it reads, and Loki feels it in his bones, this is what he’s been looking for all along.
He flips through the pages. He finds where the marking goes in each realm. Niflheim, on the shoulder. Vanaheim, the hip. Alfheim, the palm of the hand. Asgard (crossed out and under the section ‘Theories and Lore’) - the collarbone. Midgard, the wrist.
The next section is the last one. It must be nearing morning by now.
Jotunheim, where one bears the name of their soulmate upon their ankle.
Everything after that blurs out of his mind. His blood goes cold. Colder than usual.
No.
Everything they’d been told about the Jotun- that they were monsters, cannibals that lived in an endless winter, evil, ugly, worthless -
That was him.
The laugh building in him felt more like a scream, scraping against his throat. It all made sense now.
It all made sense now.
The last thing he remembered was reaching out to shove the book back under the little platform, and being only slightly confused when it didn’t respond to his touch. He thought, what a fitting conclusion, ha, and the marble turned to air under his touch. He shoved the books back in and fell asleep right then and there, hand trapped under the shelf, freezing cold on the marble floor.
No one came looking for him.
.
“I know what I am.”
He stares down his supposed parents in the throne room, keeping his chin up and his gaze straight even as his fingers threaten to tremble.
Odin plays dumb, a ridiculous act for the god of wisdom. His face is blank as he says “And what would that be, my son?” with particular emphasis on son, as if that could convince Loki of anything.
“Jotun. You took me, after the war. A bargaining chip, was I not?”
Odin’s eyes go soft around the edges, and Loki stiffens his posture almost immediately. A response, a playback. He knows it’s a tick, a weakness. He knows it gives too much away. But he can’t stop doing it.
Odin tilts his head. “Oh, Loki. Why would you think that?” He says, almost curious, and Loki came with a response, a good one. Because he knew he would be curious, the man hung himself for wisdom, for knowledge, and in most regards, they’re one and the same.
“My soulmark.” He replies, and the words come out all too dry. “It’s on my ankle.”
Here, Odin’s eyes widen by just the tiniest fraction. This is the first time Loki has ever surprised him, he knows.
He expects smart words, clever words, denial. But Odin will never fail to surprise him. His mouth a grim line, what he asks is, “When?” And Loki immediately understands.
He did not come with a plan for that question. The real answer is too revealing, and besides, all his honestly has long been buried regardless. He couldn’t give a true response if he wanted to.
What he does is give his best smile, the one that will make just about anyone ignore his faults, if only for a few hours, and say, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Odin eyes him with suspicion. That is not unexpected. But Frigga, Frigga sitting next to him who Loki had almost forgotten about, Frigga looks like she knows something, a glint of forbidden knowledge in the corner of her eye.
His memory spells had always been a weak spot.
But his mother says nothing.
Odin evades subtlety and cuts to the heart of the problem. “Who is it, Loki?”
Loki barely stops himself from laughing. “Does it really matter, father? What matters is I know.” Not like he’ll ever have me, he thinks, and swallows the thought as he turns on his heel. The door slams behind him as he leaves.
.
For revenge, the times comes. He ruins his brother’s coronation. They visit Jotunheim, and confirm what Loki already knows. There is no surprise in his eyes when a Jotun grabs him by the wrist, when where there is supposed to be pain there is only cold. All he truly thinks is, well, good to know.
When he takes the throne, it’s not so much an act of revenge as an act of mercy. Because Asgard, flawed and stupid as it may be, is still in need of a ruler who can think with his head and not his heart.
Even if Loki is an idiot. But he’s only an idiot sometimes. Because sometimes he looks at Thor’s collarbone and wonders if, in another life, it would’ve been his name there.
But that, that will always pale in comparison to the taste of revenge, to being able to threaten and mock and hurt those who once spoke so ill of him. Nothing will ever compare to being able to finally, finally say his piece, and for once, the whole of the world having to listen. He’s come to the conclusion that nothing will ever fix what’s broken inside him, jagged pieces of glass and all, but this, this he can do. This, he can fix. Or at least he has the chance to try.
He takes the throne and he thinks, I’m sorry. Then he amends, ha, no. I’m never sorry. Because he would’ve been a good leader, given the chance.
Although maybe if he could have read the future, he would have paid better penance. He makes his fair share of mistakes.
.
He falls off of the Bifrost. He doesn’t regret it. It’s his greatest regret. He looks up to Asgard and thinks, farewell, and it all tastes like rotten candy in his mouth.
The story is he’s captured. The story is he’s tortured. The story is he comes out wrong, and twisted, his magic corrupted and twisted, his skin is gnarled with veins like wire, the look in his eyes not quite right.
But you should know by now: never believe the story.
What happens is: he doesn’t fall off the Bifrost. He jumps, headlong into the worst mistake of his life, and he regrets nothing . It hurts, sure. And for a long time there’s just this: pain, constant and blinding, never letting up for even a fraction of a second. For a long time there’s just nothing, nothing except his own shortness of breath and the thought that he will do anything to end this, anything to end it all.
What happens it: He doesn't just lose his throne, his world, the people he once might’ve called family. He doesn’t just lose his magic. He loses his mind.
What happens is: He falls off the Bifrost, and he falls through.
There are knives and there’s magic and there’s violence and blood and visions of the future, but in between that there’s also this.
In this one, Asgard doesn’t win the war. In this one he dies, and Thor comes across his grave without ever having known him. In this one Loki’s brother looks curious. In this one Loki’s brother revisits the grave but never quite figures out why.
In this one, Asgard doesn’t win the war. In this one Loki lives. He meets Thor at some sort of diplomatic agreement, and their eyes catch for half a second. It’s nothing, but Loki loses all of his breath and swears he never gets it back.
In this one, he is the prodigal son, the one everyone wants. In this one Thor glances at him from the corner of his eye and tells himself ‘no’ every time. In this one Loki never even gives his brother a second glance.
In this one, there’s them, climbing a tree in Idunn’s orchard, and Loki takes a bite out of an apple and before he can stop to think Thor reaches over and steals a bite for himself. In this one Loki grabs his hand and kisses him. In this one Thor never mentions it again, and Loki plays with the pieces of his broken heart until they become sharp enough to break glass. In this one Loki kills his brother with a bright, gleaming smile on his face, his lips red like apples.
In this one, they’re not gods. In this one they’re just humans. In this one Thor is Loki’s brother, and Loki has Thor’s name on his wrist, and he slices the skin off ruthlessly and never tells a soul.
In this one there’s shared breath in the stalls of some crappy locker room, where Loki is Thor’s dirty secret, and then Sif finds out and everyone asks, ‘Why did you do it Loki, you took advantage of your own brother, how could you,’ and Loki tries to tell them he didn’t but they never believe him, so eventually he changes the game, switches the story and tells them all nothing but, “Because I could. ”
In this one, they’re human, and Thor has Loki’s name on his wrist, too. In this one they’re not related. In this one there’s a war and they’re each on the wrong side and Loki has to blink away the rain as he shoves a bayonet through this stranger’s chest, and only when all his blood has been spilled does he realise that he killed his soulmate.
In this one Loki never even notices Thor at all.
In this one, Thor loves him back.
That’s the one that makes him jolt awake, because it’s so impossible he wants to laugh.
Somehow it hurts more than the torture does.
.
He goes to Midgard and he steals the Tesseract, brainwashes scientists, kills and manipulates and gains all the while doing it. It all makes sense in his mind. He has so many reasons he forgets them all, until it all whittles down to one, bone thin: because they wouldn’t want him to.
Thor confronts him, because of course Thor does, of course it’s Thor: how could it be anyone else, when all Loki’s life seems to be is running from the past only to find he’s running in circles. He wants to laugh when Thor tells him to stop, wants to laugh until there’s no breath left in his lungs and everything just breaks, but instead all he does is hold eye contact, and thinks you’ve never understood me. Because that’s the truth, in all its bleeding, painful certainty.
Thor says they could find common ground, but it’s been a long time since Loki was capable of that. (Sometimes he wonders what was in his heart before vengeance, and he will always tilt his head when he realises he can’t remember. He gets the vague idea it might’ve been love, but that’s a lie. It has to be. There was no one Loki ever loved, no one who he ever loved enough.)
The mark on his ankle burns as Thor tries to stare him down, telling him you're making a mistake with nothing but clear blue eyes and a twitch of his lip, because that’s how long Loki’s known him for, that’s how well Loki knows his brother, as well as he knows himself but better.
Thor will never know him like that.
Because if Thor knew Loki he would know it was never about whether his decision was right or wrong or good or bad or anything in between. He would know that to Loki, it didn't matter.
Thing is: Loki knows he’s making a mistake. But it’s his mistake to make.
Thor had never understood that.
.
They lock him up and send him to Asgard. He looks into his brother’s eyes as he turns the latch on the portal, and thinks maybe one day I’ll tell him. Because in Thor’s eyes, there’s regret.
And they’d always told Loki he was crazy, anyway.
He laughs, and they all look at him strange. He feels something cold and icy curl in his chest, thinks, as if.