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When Loki had been old enough to train in swordcraft, he’d already withdrawn from her touch, keeping her at a distance, as if admitting their connection would belittle him in the eyes of his brother’s friends.
“Am I not (still) your mother?” she asks, thinking back to when he’d unabashedly throw his little arms around her neck, and nuzzle into her warmth.
(You’re not, he says, and wipes away the illusion with a touch, knowing he’ll never touch her real hands again, and yet not understanding just how immediate that ‘never’ will be.)
Stepping back and letting him get hurt on the training grounds had been one of the hardest things, and yet it was necessary to his growth as a warrior, coming home bruised and bloody day after day; it was the way of things, to take on wounds of body and spirit.
She couldn’t help wishing that the most he’d brought home were a few scrapes and scratches, the kind of wounds she could soothe away with a touch and that never went too deep to begin with.
(In that courtroom, where his pride had smothered his vulnerability, she’d begged him not to make things worse, and he’d laughed it off, in the last moment he’d ever see her face to face.)
So often he’d convinced her that his injuries were mild and not worth her concern—even as she began to understand how physically Thor’s friends showed their contempt, and how staunchly Loki maintained his pride by refusing to seek help.
Such a difference from his childhood, when he’d come to her with any little secret, even ones he could barely pronounce, treating the information like a surprising treasure that he was bestowing upon the only one who could ever know.
(In the silence of his cell, he wonders how different his life might have been, if only he’d confided in her—how much he was hurting, how alienated he’d felt, long before he’d stumbled across the why of it all.)
When Loki would pick at his hands, she’d been aware of his inner turmoil, the suppressed emotions leaking out around the edges—and yet he’d long passed the point of coming to her for comfort, or even advice.
He’d always been a quiet baby; he’d learned to talk before she ever had to dry his tears, and it was surprising how deeply she missed the privilege of being allowed to perceive and respond to his pain.
(He wishes he could bury his face in her skirts again and cry until he falls asleep, and everything would be better in the morning, the nightmare washed away.)
It was natural that he’d start preferring time with his brother to time spent with her, and yet it cut deep into her heart when he’d stopped showing up to help her with her weaving.
Each time his little hands had passed the shuttle through another row, it had felt like he was weaving himself deeper into her heart.
(When he comes to, he barely notices the blood, but the jagged tears in his tunic break him the rest of the way, because she’ll never again be able to make him a new one.)