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“What” he read “do you miss the most?”
The idea was preposterous.
A voice, as shrill as every annoying voice in the TVA, had uttered something about a “Mandatory self-examination across the board”, but he didn’t think they would really have him, of all people – if indeed he was people to them – subjected to this nonsense. Surely, they would not make him…
Well, technically, they could and were.
He went back to the question. This had Mobius written all over it. The sheer nerve of that puny little bureaucrat, that considered himself so perceptive, so incisive, that he thought he could play mind games with the God of Mischief, Master of Illusion!
Which he most certainly was.
Another sigh.
For all their precious time-guarding, well, they sure liked wasting it. What laid behind him? Nothing but fire and ruin. The very idea of missing one iota of Asgard (the golden city, he thought with derision, that now laid dead as dust, if the copious files the TVA so meticulously archived were to be believed) sounded ridiculous.
Such a Midgardian notion that was, missing something. Gods did not miss. Gods did not yearn. Gods were absolute.
They simply did not have in them the necessity to remember anything like the warm wind blowing in quiet summer evenings, or the ever so colourful trees and bushes that adorned the Royal Gardens in which he spent most of his youthful days practicing his mother’s charms and incantations while hiding from Thor’s boisterous “calls to arms” that usually had them getting in trouble.
Gods had no need for that. Sentiment.
What was there to miss, anyway? The bullying? The humiliation? The sheer feeling of inadequacy? Because there were moments in which he had felt so out of place he could still remember the sting of tears prickling him.
He looked down at his hands. How ironic that he had not been that far off then, after all, when he had felt misplaced and ashamed, even though he detested the recollection of feeling vulnerable. He wasn’t big on showing weakness that couldn’t be quickly twisted into being something else.
Not that any of that mattered anymore. He felt certain that he wouldn’t be able to come back even if he could.
Could he? Would he?
Something tightened in his chest.
Closing his eyes, somewhat exasperated, he tried to conjure up his strength, his sense of self, summon some of the reassurance he had so readily given every being that had crossed his path, of his rightful place in the Cosmos.
He found only emptiness.
Not knowing is not a bad thing, dear.
A cold unlike anything that he had felt before, colder than the cruel breeze of Jötunheim, ran through the lean muscles of his back. Alarmed, he gripped his knees and squared his jaw.
M-Mother?
Something buried deep inside him hurt and made breathing difficult. Still, he kept his eyes closed, desperately searching for… he couldn’t even say it.
Oh, Loki. My son. What have you gotten yourself into?
The thought of Frigga being held prisoner had, admittedly crossed his mind before, but it was rapidly dismissed this time.
No. This was an illusion. A crafty one, a good one. It was one of his own.
You’re unusually quiet. It’s unsettling.
Was he supposed to say something back? Was he really going to enact this ridiculous charade in his own head, out of some misplaced feeling of guilt? Regret? Loss?
I’m sorry, Mother.
Would it be a crime to indulge himself in thinking she would forgive him?
I know.
He sighed and relaxed his white fingers. His arms felt suddenly very heavy, and his head fell forward.
You are weary, my son. Tell me what’s bothering you. Talk to me.
He spoke slowly, not for the first time afraid of himself.
You are… not here.
Her reply came, somewhat cheekily for a Queen, Loki thought. That has not stopped you before.
That was true enough, he supposed, remembering the images that plagued him behind his eyelids since that day he had been shown his file.
And how would that be an impediment to listen to you? Didn’t I always listen?
He remembered being little, his head on her lap and her patient hands brushing through his raven locks as he, between hiccups, retold some cruel mishap or other. He could feel his tears dampening her dress, but he could tell, without looking at her, that she did not mind.
Loki huffed. He was bigger now but feeling as little as that boy, bent down and on the verge of being broken. For real this time.
I… don’t know what lies ahead. What is expected of me. How do I… fit in. If I fit in somewhere, in the great scheme of things.
Frigga’s voice did not come back to coax him to speak and, even though his throat felt very dry, he went on:
I’m sick of dead-ends, of being in chains, locked up, tied down, passed on for amusement. I tired of feeling this… this rage, Mother.
He thought he heard a tiny sigh but carried on, past caution or care:
There is a weigh I carry with me all the time that can’t shed, no matter how far I travel, how hard I try. It follows me, feeds off of me, in whatever world I end up in. And I’m tired of shouldering it. I’m so tired. I’ve never felt so... powerless and I’ve never, ever, in my darkest moments, felt so alone.
Silence surrounded him. He felt the familiar uneasiness that came with the knowledge of reaching a wall that couldn’t be breached. How could he? Everything was, after all, in his head.
He was bound to go round and round in circles.
Not knowing is not a bad thing, dear.
“It certainly feels like one” he thought dryly, cursing with all the spite he could muster the powers that had made whatever version of him feel so bereft.
You were always one to twist, but it doesn’t feel as good being twisted, does it?
Well, that was new. He tightened his lips together.
You are not beyond uncertainty, Loki. No one is. Nothing is. Fate is not set in stone, but mercurial and ultimately immaterial as time. We are all bound to it, but only a few have the power to be released by it.
Riddles sound an awful lot as lies,…
Confused, annoyed and impatient for answers, he began lashing out but was soon put to rest by the only one who truly knew best when it came to him.
… and you, of all beings, should know the truth they both hide. Dwell upon it, son. I have faith in you.
Unexpected tears pooled behind his eyelids once more and, for all his bravado, found himself unprepared for what came next:
I love you, dear. With all my heart. I know you’ll find a way.
His sharp intake of breath was so violent that it made him cough. He opened his eyes with childlike urgency, but neither brown, gentle eyes were there to greet him, nor her calm, wise voice came to ease the pain of her loss. At his feet he found only a desk and a sheet of paper wherein lied the question that had triggered it all.
As he leaned back in his chair and tried to steady his breathing, he considered the words that had come from so far within. The paper, the desk, this place, the whole Cosmos, seemed as insubstantial as air. Instead, the past, the present, the future laid before him in a rapid succession of possibilities. He thought of home, of Frigga and the soft and skillful hands that had welcomed, nurtured and taught him so patiently and lovingly over the long years of milennia. Of course he missed, he yearned, he loved. And he would go back... just as he would go beyond.
The TVA did not have a hold on him anymore. He was free – or would be very soon. The thought of a plan made him feel giddy, excited, and laughter, joyous, unchecked and certainly defiant erupted from his lips.