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Loki panted lightly, swaying on his feet and yearning to lean on the wall behind him, but not quite willing to cede all of his pride, yet. He surreptitiously swiped a drop of sweat off of his forehead before it could drip into his eyes. The heat was stifling, and the air was filled with choking dust kicked up by numerous matches. His tunic and trousers clung to his skin with a disgusting, damp mixture of sweat and grime. The minute he was free, he was heading straight for the washroom and possibly not leaving the bath until dinner.
It’s far too hot to be outside, he moaned mentally. All the same, he tried his best to keep his fatigued body standing at attention. He cupped his right hand in his left, trying to rub out the ache from gripping his sword so tightly. The only effect he achieved was mixing the sweat on his palms with the dirt in the air to create a brown slurry that managed to find every last little abrasion or break in the skin on his hand and set them to stinging. Huffing in abject displeasure, he weighed his choices for a moment before deciding his tunic was already filthy and wiping his hand on his shirt.
Despite his fatigue, trembling muscles, bone-deep aches and slowly forming bruises and the sweltering heat that made him want to climb out of his skin and run for somewhere out of the sun, Loki never took his eyes off of the fight. Thor was in the training ring, battling it out with a boy in their training group named Seimur. They both used swords, the bright blades casting light directly into Loki’s eyes every time they angled right (or wrong).
The mock tourney their weaponsmaster had arranged for the dozen boys currently under his tutelage had been going for hours. They’d started shortly after breakfast, and it was almost high noon. The heat had been unbearable to begin with—with the suns beating down on them high overhead, Loki felt like his skin was near to melting off of his bones. At last, however, they’d been narrowed down to the last two boys, the final match. It had long progressed from the part of the day where taunts were being thrown back and forth. Only grunts, pants, and the clang of metal on metal came from the ring as Thor and Seimur circled. As soon as one or the other was defeated, they’d all be free for the rest of the day. Relief was so close, Loki could all but smell it.
That was, perhaps, the pungent odor of a dozen pubescent young men packed into a small training courtyard in the blazing heat after exerting themselves for extended periods of time.
“HraaAAH,” Thor growl-yelled, slamming his sword into Seimur’s with a grating sound that made Loki’s bones shiver and his ears ring in protest.
Come on, brother, he pleaded, dashing away yet another trickle of sweat. Finish this. He shifted on his feet, scuffing the dirt with his boots and squinting through another beam of sunlight flashed into his face by the crossing of blades. His hands had clenched into fists without his notice, fingernails digging crescents into the dirt-sweat mess of his palms.
Thor went in for yet another mighty swing, but, unexpectedly, Seimur slid to the side just enough to send him stumbling past. He whirled with a roar of frustration, but Seimur was already on him, and in a flurry of bright blades Loki could hardly follow, Thor’s foot slipped and then he was on the ground, his sword halfway across the ring and Seimur’s at his throat.
“Yield,” he half panted, tossing his head slightly in an attempt to flip a lock of honey-golden hair out of his eyes. Thor didn’t say anything. He frowned. “Yield, your highness.”
Slamming his fist on the ground at his side, Thor growled. “I yield,” he bit out. Seimur withdrew, and Thor batted away the hand he extended to help him up, shoving himself up and storming out of the ring, back towards the palace. Clouds were starting to gather in the sky, and a part of Loki complained bitterly about Thor not having blocked the suns earlier. The rest of him knew that look on his brother’s face, and he bit his lip, casting a quick, longing look at the water table where Seimur was currently making a beeline, and then hurrying after Thor as fast as his wearied legs would carry him.
Loki caught up with Thor in time to see him overturn a table with a bear-like roar that cracked and turned into a more hawk reminiscent screech of fury at the end. He stood, shoulders hunched, fists balled until they turned white, sparks crackling around his arms as the sky continued to darken ominously outside.
“You did well,” Loki offered once he’d caught his breath, straightening from where he’d half bent against the archway with a hand pressed to the stitch in his side.
“I failed,” Thor snarled, still not turning around.
Circling the edge of the room like he was trying to approach a rabid wolf, Loki felt a small pang somewhere in his chest. If second place was a failure, then what was he? He pressed the feeling down, saying, “second place is nothing to be ashamed of. I was the third one out.” Another spike of shame poked up from his treacherous heart at the admission, and he stamped it back down firmly.
“But you’re Loki,” Thor complained, and Loki froze like he’d been hit with a stunning spell. The pang in his chest was much stronger that time, and it didn’t go away, even when he tried to breathe through it. His heart had turned into a hedgehog, spraying bristles of hurt in every direction, and it felt as though a bilgesnipe had stood on his torso, driving the quills in that much further.
He must have made a noise, because Thor turned to face him at last, his face as thunderous as the sky outside. Bafflement and then guilt flitted over his face. “I didn’t think about what I was saying,” he assured. “I only,” and he pressed his lips together, rage stealing over his features once more.
“Right,” Loki said. He wanted to run, to scream, to lash out with daggers and carve Thor into the mess of cuts and slashes he’d so thoughtfully inflicted on Loki’s insides with a few careless words. You didn’t think about it... then you did mean it, didn’t you, if that was what came out without consideration.
You’re just like everyone else.
You think I’m worthless, too.
Maybe you’re all right.
Looking at Thor, large and golden and so effortlessly perfect that coming in second was an abject failure, Loki felt nothing but grimy and small. The fatigue in his limbs hit him again, and he had to fight to keep them from trembling, to stay on his feet. Previously unknown aches made themselves known, and the cut he’d managed to get on his calf was stinging terribly where the tear in his trousers rubbed against it. He wanted to bathe and change his clothes and sleep. He wanted to hide.
“I truly am sorry, brother,” Thor said. Loki’s shoulders stiffened when he approached and he endured the hug Thor foisted on him, not making a move to return it and holding his breath until he finally let go. “You and Mother do always say I need to learn to think before I speak.”
Loki might have smiled, maybe. He didn’t want false comforts or reassurance. He wanted to bolt and find a dark place to cower like a startled mouse. “I know. But I’m filthy. I’m going to go wash. See you at dinner.”
“What about lunch?” Thor called after him. Loki didn’t acknowledge him, and to his relief, Thor let him go.
In his washroom, Loki drew a cool bath, stripped, and climbed in, sinking into the water until it covered his head completely and crying where the water would swallow his tears. Dirt bloomed off of him in waves, muddying the water until opening his eyes would have treated him to nothing but a miasma of murk.
When he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, he climbed out, drained the soiled water, and filled the bath again. He scrubbed himself clean and washed as much of the dust and sweat out of his snarled curls as he could manage, and then got out, dried himself, cleaned and dressed his wounds, wrapped himself in a dressing gown and climbed into bed, pulling the covers over his head and hiding there, not thinking or feeling anything at all.
At dinner that night, Thor seemed to have forgotten about all of it. He laughed with his friends and brushed off Father’s questions about their day, smacking Loki on the shoulder and joking with him like nothing had happened. To him, nothing probably had. At least, nothing worth mentioning. Loki kept on a polite smile and joked along. Inside, he felt numb.