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“Where did you get that?”
You are sitting on his bed, turning the tarnished metal over in your hands. It has been a long time since his voice was that cutting. It doesn’t frighten you, but it confirms what you already suspected: that this diadem is part of the murky past that Loki refuses to talk about.
“I was looking for my phone.” You reply, glancing over at him. He is looming in the doorway, stance wide and alert as if he is about to draw his knives and charge onto a battlefield. Only the tension around his eyes betrays the panic churning beneath the blank expression on his perfect face. “I thought it might have slipped down the side of the bed, last night, when we were…”
You let the corners of your mouth turn up slightly, but don’t relax your grip on the strange object. Loki struggles with his conflicting responses of anger and remembered pleasure, before settling for feigned indifference. His shoulders relax, hands soften, and he smiles; one of his broad, careless smiles. His eyes, however, are still a touch too wide.
“A likely story.” He chuckles, stepping into the room and closing the door. The click of the lock makes your mouth go dry, but he skirts around the bed and towards the easy chair by the window. “Are you sure you weren’t looking for something else?” The attempt at lewd humour does not land, because he is hovering uncertainly, flicking his gaze back and forth between you and the darkness outside. Finally, as if annoyed by his own indecision, he throws himself onto the chair in a graceless sprawl.
You have known him long enough now to recognise this is difficult for him, but that confuses you. Lies and deception are the Trickster’s native tongue so why is he flustered by a dusty old headpiece that is clearly too small to be his. When you first found it, pushed into the far corner beneath his bed, you assumed it was from his childhood; the design is similar to the helmet he wore during the Battle of New York, but much smaller. His reaction tells you your guess is wrong. So, who does it belong to? And why was Loki hiding it? A direct question is likely to trigger more forced nonchalance and you are too tired to have that dance with him. So, you try a subtler approach.
“It’s broken. Couldn’t you fix it?” You stroke the shorn base of what would have been the second horn and look at him, questioning. Loki’s eyes are vague and distant; as if he is watching someone, or something, far away. He hears you though because he slowly shakes his head.
“No. No it was always like that. I don’t know how…” For a moment, his eyes go wide and glassy and he draws a sharp breath. If you didn’t know better, you would think he was trying not to cry.
Shaken by this odd, tremulous Loki, so unlike the arrogant Asgardian Prince you are used to spending time with, you feel a sudden desire to put the diadem back where you found it and never speak of it again. Loki however has regained his composure and is staring fixedly at it. So, instead of hiding it, you throw it in his direction. His instincts are perfect, as usual, and he plucks it from the air with ease. When his fingers tighten around the dingy metal, a softness creeps over his face that you usually associate with early mornings waking up in bed together. Your stomach clenches with what you fear might be jealousy.
Loki doesn’t notice. He is too busy looking at the diadem, turning it over and over in his hands, running his fingertips gently over the surface, as if it were a lover. Green light follows his touch and in seconds the gold is polished and shining. The second horn, you notice, is still broken. He is clearly enamoured, and you are beginning to feel rather small and insignificant compared to this mystery object. As if hearing your thoughts, Loki suddenly looks right at you. His eyes are bright and full of indefinable emotion. After a moment he shakes his head, as if to clear it, and gives you a wry smile.
“I am sorry, this must all seem very strange to you.”
“You could say that.”
“It belonged…” He breaks off and you can see him searching for the right words. “…to Sylvie.” He finishes. “Yes, this belonged to Sylvie.”
So, you were right: a lover. You squash childish jealousy and force yourself to breath and smile. You are both adults, and he has lived for more centuries than you have decades; of course there have been others, how could there not have been. Still, there is something about the soft way he speaks the name that tells you this is not some lusty conquest from long ago. Whoever they are, this Sylvie person mattered.
You wonder what the appropriate question is when your current lover brings up a lover from their past. Loki saves you the debate by reaching out a hand which you take and squeeze just a little too hard, to press your warmth more deeply into his skin. He laughs softly and gives you a sharp tug; opening his arms to welcome you onto his lap and tucking you against his chest.
The silence is heavy but not oppressive. Finally, Loki sighs deeply and presses his lips to the crown of your head. When he speaks, the words vibrate in his chest like a secret code.
“Sylvie was me. Or rather she was a version of me that I encountered during a rather complicated time-line incident. What happened then, is too… big to explain. Suffice it to say that it was one of the most difficult… and transformative experiences of my life.”
You can’t help but raise your eyebrows in surprise. Loki has always had a flair for the dramatic, but even for him this sounds a little over the top. You try to pull away, to look into his eyes and see if you can catch the lie, but he stops you. The arm that is wrapped around you tightens, silently asking that you stay in place. When you comply, he slowly slides his fingers up your neck, your cheek, to your temple then taps his fingertips lightly, as if asking a question. You don’t know what the question is, but you trust Loki with your life, so you nod anyway.
Cold rushes over your skin and your eyelids flutter, then suddenly you are seeing a dilapidated supermarket filled with red emergency lights and the sound of falling rain, followed by some kind of alien world with huge flaming meteors falling from the sky. Finally, there is a strange, abandoned landscape that could have been New York, if New York were in the middle of a nuclear winter. Standing in the centre of all this chaos, smiling knowingly at you, is a woman not much older than yourself. She has wavy, blonde hair and wears green and gold leathers, similar to Loki’s Asgardian attire. Pale skin, round cheeks, and eyes that are startlingly familiar. The gold horned diadem sits on her forehead.
Then she is gone, and you are back in Loki’s room, sitting on Loki’s lap, and feeling both queasy and confused. Loki holds you tightly as a full body shiver crawls across your skin. He presses chaste kisses along your shoulder, as if to warm you.
“I-I didn’t know you could do that.” You whisper roughly. You were under the apparently-misguided impression that Wanda was the only Avenger who could creep into your mind.
“I don’t.” Loki replies. “Or, I haven’t. Not for a very long time.”
You sense there is a whole other story there, some kind of sorrow you don’t feel able to breach right now, so you shift back to the things Loki is willing to talk about.
“So that was…”
“Sylvie. Yes.”
“And she is…”
“Me. Well a variant of me, Loki, I mean. She was one of many Lokis, the only female Loki, in fact, that existed in all of the timelines. That I know of. I mean, not that I met them all of course but…”
You press your fingers to his lips. “Loki, you’re rambling.”
“Of course. Yes. Sorry.”
Now it is your turn to laugh, as you press your head back against his firm chest. This conversation is proving too raw and unpredictable. It is hard enough to listen to Loki babble, you don’t need to see the uncertainty in his face too.
“Don’t be sorry.” You sigh and turn to press a kiss against his shoulder. He is wearing a shirt without a jacket, and you can feel the coolness of his skin through the fabric. It calms you a little, grounds you, and perhaps him too. After a moment you say, “Tell me about her.”
So, he does. He tells you about a woman who was smart, courageous, and cunning; capable of surviving endless apocalypses and witty enough to make the God of Mischief laugh. He tells you about her magic skills and how she was a master of enchantments, that he learned from the best. He explains that together they defeated some great power, and hints that it is only because of their triumph that he is alive today; but refuses to go into more detail than that. What surprises you most, is not the fantastical story, or that he remembers a woman long dead in such detail, but the warmth that suffuses his every word. You are sure that if you look at his eyes they will be glowing with it; but you don’t, because your fragile human ego can't take it. Finally, he tells you about how he lost her, years later, after they had fashioned a rather serviceable ever after for the two of them, together. You are pleased to learn that her death was peaceful, painless. You don’t imagine many Lokis get the same luxury.
When his story is finished, Loki falls silent and strokes his thumb absentmindedly along the edge of the broken horn. You watch his pale finger move back and forth across the warm, gold metal and shiver again. To your delight, he pulls you closer.
“Have I upset you, love?” He asks, his voice more vulnerable than it has been all evening.
You shake your head. “Of course not. This, Sylvie, was obviously very special to you. I… I’m glad you have something to remember her by.”
“Oh, I have something far more precious than this.” He replies and with a flick of his hand the diadem disappears. Then he turns you, till you are face to face, and wraps your hands gently in his own. His eyes are no longer tight or melancholy, they are earnest and bright, and you cannot look away.
“Sylvie is the reason,” he says “the only reason, I have this.” He shakes your joined hands gently. “Before I met her, I believed just one thing: that I was unwanted, unlovable, that I was meant to be alone. Abandonment was my only certainty, so I destroyed every meaningful relationship in my life before it could destroy me. And I was proud of that. I worked hard to make it so. Then, I met Sylvie; a Loki who was all of that same pride and cunning and loss… and so much more. She was the first person I ever felt love for. Real, unquestioning, unconditional love. And she was the first person I allowed to give the same to me in return.” Loki’s voice drops to a whisper, as if he is talking as much to himself as to you. “For so long, I believed myself unlovable, when in fact, all I needed was to love myself. Only then could I truly give and receive that pleasure. And she was me so… I did.”
Slowly, as if coming up for air, Loki raises his eyes to meet yours. “Some would call it narcissism, but … I believe it was more than that.”
“Healing.” You say immediately, feeling him tense awkwardly even as his eyes go glossy for a moment. Then the spell breaks and he chuckles, a low rumble in his chest.
“Perhaps. Whatever it was, Sylvie is the reason I am here with you.” He lifts your clasped hands to his chest. “And whole for you.”
You can’t stay still any longer, so you surge forward and kiss him with all the love, gratitude, and acceptance you can convey. As he wraps you in his arms and deepens the kiss, you close your eyes and see a blonde woman standing on the steps of the Golden Palace in Asgard. She raises her hand in greeting, or farewell you are not sure, then turns and steps through the tall doors. They close firmly behind her.