Genre: Romance, Hurt/Comfort
Loki is pregnant, coming back as an exile in chains from the final events from the Avengers movie. Nobody seems to know about his ongoing pregnancy, nor the father of the child. Loki doesn't know how to handle it, from bearing the child, to his constant thoughts that he will be killed, surely, for the crimes he had committed.
But what is he to do when he's welcomed back home with open arms? What if, although still at fault for the horrors he had done in childish vengeance, his old friends, his family, still missed him so incredibly? Would Loki have the growing courage to speak of the unborn child? And, above all else, would he manage to fix the broken bond and heart he once had with not only Thor, but with himself?
The nights turned to days, leaving the lithe form of the former trickster in a constant haze of question when one day ended and when one began. Sleep separated one from the other- usually- though occasionally the being’s boredom was quelled by the infrequent curious guard at the door, to whom Loki would find slight interest in speaking with (some were more interesting than others). For the most part, he had started to count the time he had been in the cell-
Well, maybe that wasn’t the right word to call it any longer. Loki had been moved from room to room so often. Little logic denoted the changes, every move from one room to the next seeming just a step up of some small little thing that made it more bearable. Where the first cell he was tossed in had nothing to call furniture, the second had a cot. The third then had a bed, and the fourth-the one he is currently in now-could almost be akin to that of a fairly humble room. There was a bed to sleep on, and a table with several books to read.
Considering he had yet to learn of his final fate, Loki could only assume that he was getting some form of reprieve. Feh. Sentiments. Knowing Thor it was probably because he still felt that Loki’s soul was savable.
Something that Loki hated (they brought too much pain), yet he found himself becoming a slave to them more and more each day, fueled far too much by the growing child within his body. It was a blessed curse upon him, he knew.
The child…his crimes…Thor…
In the present, Loki places a hand upon his belly, rubbing his thumb against it with an almost motherly gentleness. The child is still as small as before within him, not even a few months of age, considering how much magic it had cost to suppress the pregnancy. It would take much longer than what those humans are conditioned to. Nine months? Maybe twice that, though Loki knew little of Jotun pregnancies other than that males could also conceive young (one could figure out how he learned that little bit of information). Perhaps he could get his hands on a book or something, anything to give him a bit more insight on what was happening to his body.
Several more days pass.
Loki’s current living arrangements were akin to what his…old chambers looked, when he was living in Asgard as a prince instead of a war criminal. It was a bittersweet reunion to old sights familiar, eyes glowering each and every detail with a growing wetness in his eyes. Yes, it had almost been as if the room he had been staying in for almost three days WAS the very room he had grown in, had slept in with fickle childish desires no farther than playing a simple prank in the common room.
It took Loki a full day to realize that it really was his old chambers. Not a lookalike. Where he had assumed a trick lay behind everything presented to him, he found there was none. Though they kept his vision blinded upon every move from room to room, it was still a bit embarrassing that it took him so long to figure it out. Loki had assumed there would always be deception.
But his room was untouched and unchanged.
Nothing within its walls had been moved or altered. He had been gone for well over a year, and yet it looked as if it had been kept clean, not even a single one of the books on his bookshelf out of place. There was still an evident nick in the wood at the underside of the bed, on that one night when a young him and Thor were sent sprawling beneath the bed, completely sure that huge evil mean frost giants were going to get them (oh the painful irony). He could recall how his head had painfully thumped against the wood, hard enough that it left an evident mark. How Thor was sent into a flurry of concern when young Loki had started to bawl out of pain, or even how the older brother had held him and cooed him until the pain was nothing more than a dull throbbing.
Or even the time when he ‘accidentally’ stole a pair of old steel swords from the kingdom’s armory, so he and his older golden brother could wage fake fights around in the privacy of his large chambers, swinging around the dulled objects until Loki had toppled off-balance, letting the sword slip from his fingers to fly into the opposite wall. Nobody seemed to have bothered covering the slightly deep, obvious slash mark on the wall since.
What kind of mournful shame was it, to have the past shoved into his face like a roaring laughter. This is what you left behind Loki. This is what you left behind in your childish pursuit of revenge. Loki didn’t frequently care to dwell on the thoughts of his doings over the last year or so, but there, nearly a week past coming ‘home’ he was being absorbed back into it again. In some sad, almost sickening way, he could look about his room, and feel as if he had never once left.
What a horrible trick it was, surely. That had been Odin’s entire plan the whole time? Guilt trip the very man who had opened a hell-bringing war (however short) upon the weak human race? Oh yes, cause him to crack open before swooping in to further torment him.
Nobody had given the man any information on how his ‘trial’ (if he may have called it that) was spurring along upon the mouths and ears of the highest Asgardian ranks. Nothing. The best that Loki had learned was the mere information that he wasn’t going to be put to death, and such information was merely hersay from whispers, spoken from guard to guard that changed shifts watching at his door.
Then again, the aspect that he was sleeping in his own, old room again could have been a bit of a hint.
It was an honest surprise to the dark god.
Maybe they thought he had the ability to be saved.
Maybe they even thought that he still had the same heart as before, tucked somewhere in the shadowed corners of his dotted, stained soul.
Loki was, and still is sure that there is nothing left to him anymore.
Nothing at all in his mind, heart, or body. Nothing that hasn’t already been claimed by the gnawing darkness, not already been hurt and pulled apart by the constant torment of his thoughts. There was nothing left to save, no matter how much he himself would will it so. The past was written, and sins committed.
It was (is, will always be) as he had said it before, too late to change.
“I’m bored,” Loki says with distain, tapping at the door with a growing impatient finger. He gets little response, unless one bothers to count soft chuckling a response worthy of his time.
Loki has been in the same room-his room-for yet another week. Things, if he is plain to say, has gotten a lot….better. He gets very little in the sense of information, yet people in Asgard seem to be pulling him back into the normal way of life again. It is….as if nothing had happened.
It only makes him feel even worse. It was one thing to commit such agony, but in a painful sense of irony the lack of reprimand or punishment only made him feel worse about his crimes.
Loki’s friends came by a day ago. All of them.
Volstagg. Hogun. Fandral. Sif. All of them. Some had tears in their eyes, unshed, but not bothering to hide that they held them. Others looked upon Loki with begrudging acceptance, before pulling him into the hardiest of hugs (Loki recalls that it might have been Volstagg, but he had been too occupied with the sound of Sif’s voice to bother).
She, the female warrior long having made a reputation of her incredible aptitude for being tough, being one of the only females Loki had known to keep a grave wound aplenty, and still manage not so much as to wince in torment.
And she was in tears. They were not of sadness. Neither were they of joy. They were tears of unending anger, all pounding upon Loki’s mind and ears without mercy as she screeched on. How Loki had hurt everybody. How he had abandoned all of them, leaving his family (though as much as Loki insisted, he wasn’t anybody’s REAL family, Sif merely slapped him) all behind. They had mourned, had missed him, had searched long and far across the realms until with a begrudging and weak will, Odin had called off the fruitless search. The woman went on further on how his disappearance had hurt Frigga, how she had cried herself to fits night after night, wondering and frightened what had happened to her son.
Then Sif said, plainly, that Loki had hurt Thor the most. She didn’t give him any information further on the topic, as they all had been called out of the room before she managed to get another angry syllable out from her lips. But Loki knew, knew then, and still knows that he had hurt Thor.
In the few, brief times that Loki manages to see Thor, his older brother, he sees the hurt and pain hidden so swiftly behind his glorious blue eyes. He hadn’t, and still doesn’t need Sif to explain the pain. He sees it. Sometimes Loki still does, even when Thor isn’t in the room. That face, so normally happy and joyous to look at when Thor was filled with pride from doing something or another, is instead seemingly always hiding that deep, moral pain that Loki knew has to do with him. His crimes.
Thor has only come to see Loki three times (always to give him the exact same information; He is to be allowed out of confinement soon, though Loki has yet to see such merciful results), and each time seems to be more painful than the last.
The last time Thor came, it nearly brought tears to Loki’s eyes.
Sentiment. Guilt. Regret. It is driving him to hell, pushing Loki into a never-ending plunge of darkness and regret. Regret for what he had done, what he had allowed to happen.
“And I shall repeat, I’m BORED.” Loki knocks on the door of his chambers another time, his knuckles rapping on metal with more force than before. Yet again, nothing was his response other than an airy laughter. What is this? Some form of humorous excitement for them? Loki huffs a breath of air once, twice, halfway from a third before he decides to sit again on his bed. The covers are pushed to one side, leaving the milkiness of the sheets open for his eyes to shadow over. As inviting as it is, he doesn’t care to sleep more. He has gotten his fair share of sleeping.
He lies back onto the bed anyways, having nothing better to do than to simply look up onto the ceiling and count the number of shapes that he catches with his emerald orbs.
There is a cloud (too normal, boring even), then the god slowly keens upon the sight of a small furry animal that the humans had cooed so greatly over (he believes it was called a…Nyan? No, that was part of some joke he had heard. A cat; yes, that’s it, a cat). Pretty soon his hand is raised to the air and he’s tracing about the shapes with an idle finger against emptiness, watching lightly as they take shape in his mind.
Time goes by; he’s not quite sure for how long. The guards shift twice, at least, and the air within his room is suddenly interrupted by noise upon the third.
Loki look’s to the side to notice how the space of his doorway is suddenly occupied by a body. A tall, built body that stands with limp arms at his sides, and a face filled with a combination of joy and that same, familiar sadness.
Loki feels himself quickly shift to sit up, eyes instantly drawing towards the other god’s face as he nears him, step by step. Thor’s face smiles (it’s slightly forced of a look), and he merely looks down at Loki as the shorter brother sits upon the bed.
“….Father has made the choice,” He finally says, voice creeping into a soft whisper that Loki hasn’t heard him speak in for a long, long time. The last time he has heard such softness was upon the day that Thor had been stripped of his powers and banished to earth.
Loki hums slowly, as if trying to make out the hidden meaning within his brother’s words. “What kind? I hope that, given how much it’s taken, that I’m not to die?” Thor’s eyes almost immediately open wide upon the mention, looking as if he has to hold himself back from reaching out to grab Loki by the shoulders and shake him out of such a gruesome, untrue notion. Instead, Thor adjusts his body again, crossing his arms firmly over that bulky chest of his, covered with the metal of armor he always wears.
“N-no. He…he has elected to give you back most of the privileges that you once had before….leaving.” Thor was chosing his words carefully, not able to keep his eyes looking into Loki’s as he continued on with such meaningless, surprising words (all that was taking Loki by surprise, yet wasn’t at the same time). “…We missed you, brother. Missed you horribly.”
“I know,” Loki quickly interrupts, absolutely assured with himself that he wouldn’t be able to handle yet another speech about how badly his leaving hurt his friends and family. It would merely break the damn holding back his filling, guilty emotions. “Leave me not with sentiment, brother. You know I….I don’t believe in such. What has farther decided besides?” He is surprised that he bothers to still call Odin father. But Thor doesn’t react to that as Loki believes he would, and instead merely hums.
“…Nothing else, brother, I….”
“Then why are you still here?” Loki’s cutting tone was worse than he craves it to be, seemingly hitting more than its mark when Thor flinches. The trickster takes a moment to breath, before letting his voice continue with a great deal more softness to it. “Why….are you still bothering to help me? I am beyond help.” Loki knows it so in his heart. It has long since been blackened by his sins, like a single piece of charcoal long since done with its use to burn.
But Thor doesn’t respond at first. A minute passes. Two minutes. Loki blinks lightly and slowly turns his eyes over to return his gaze at Thor.
The blonde god was crying. His damn has broken, letting lose all the sadness that Loki has seen time and time again upon the man’s visits, short as they were.
Then Loki heard the words that absolutely broke his heart into a million shattered pieces.
“Whose child is it, brother?”