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[ From the Loki WISH series: A post WISH4 moment from Loki ]
The last warrior falls – gatekeeper or guard or sentry sent from elsewhere in pursuit of those fleeing. The who they were doesn't matter. The why doesn't matter. None of it matters.
He snarls at the burn of his muscles, at the bodies of the creatures that had held her here, taken her here, tortured her here. His clothes are tattered in places where they got in lucky blows, but he stands – stands – stands victorious amongst the carnage.
Loki wavers on his feet, breathing hard, and steps over one of the fallen to steady himself against a nearby structure. Tattered, a little bit bloody – but most of that is theirs – he turns inward as he takes one step, and another, and another. Now – now what?
By the Norns, this wasn't the plan. He wasn't supposed to survive. How had he survived?
The first few minutes it had been the drive to see her safely away. He'd wanted her away from this place. Safe. Safe. Safe translated to in his brother's arms and gone from here.
And then? Then it was rage. Rage at what they'd done. His agent was still a burning flame, but different somehow, too. Something had been stolen in the time it had taken him to form a plan. He'd taken so long to get to her. Nearly too long.
He drops the blade he's been holding, hearing – but not hearing – as it clatters to the ground at his feet. His fingers ache, hating this new movement, these new demands he's making. There, under the debris and blood, is the burned edge of something familiar.
This is where they'd left him, where Thor had cursed him for changing the plan but cradled her close and called upon a way home.
Home.
Asgard.
They'd tend her, there. They'd keep her safe from any that might come. They'd see her well. They'd quickly see to it that she was no longer covered in blood.
Her blood.
Blood he'd spilled.
He shudders, leaning more of his weight into the structure at his back. A wall? A building? It doesn't matter.
He tips his head forward, cradling his head in his hands before dropping them in his lap again. The transference of ick from one part of his body to another as he steadies himself doesn't matter. What does matter? He's here. He's still breathing, and they are not. He'd vowed to retaliate and kept his promise.
And now? What now?
Now he needs to see her, needs to know that Thor was able to get her proper care – that they were able to save her from the damage he'd done. It's not just the dagger strike to her torso that he regrets. It's the cruel words, every cruel word he's hurled at her and never apologized for. He regrets the kisses he stole, the dreams he infiltrated and twisted to his own desires – all to have her even while the world, the universe, thought him dead. Leaving her standing in the snow in the sub-arctic, unable to tell the truth but unable to fully lie about what had transpired, honor bound to something – someone – she couldn't quite put faith in.
How many times had he left her to face the consequences of his presence? He regrets every doubt he's caused, every moment of uncertainty she's suffered since she walked towards his glass prison all those years ago whispering his name.
Lo-ki.
He needs to hear her say it again.
