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The only inkling of colour in the Dark World, Loki mused, must be the Aether. The entirety of Svartalfheim was plunged in darkness, the pale light throwing every shape in sharp relief, draining the colour out of every living creature.
There was something about the Aether, Loki decided, the deep red colour, vermillion, not at all unlike Thor’s cape. He could see that colour now reflected in the eyes of Thor’s mortal lover, like his very essence was rubbing off on her somehow.
A hint of sentiment stirred unpleasantly in his chest. Maybe it was that envy, the one that he had firmly told himself he wouldn’t feel anymore. Thor wasn’t his brother, his kin. Loki ought not care about his misplaced affections.
Yet he did.
Frigga came to his thoughts unbidden. Would she gladden at his sentimentality? He would never know, for it was too late. She was dead and he to blame.
Pursing his lips, he focused on the rage burning in his chest, simmering like scalding hot water in a pot, and then at the Aether, the power that coursed through Jane’s veins. Should Loki possess it, reality itself would bend to his whims. He could feel its magic permeating the air, even handcuffed with barely any seiðr at his disposal. It felt akin to the Tesseract, to the sceptre he had wielded not long ago.
Taming those to the full extend had been impossible, but the Aether seemed different, more malleable. The plan Thor had shared with Loki could stand a few adjustments. A wolfish grin stretched his lips, even as his heart ached.
“Shall we begin?”