cunningas: (punished)
As much as the thought the night before of how he should just return to his rock was what pulled Loki somewhat out of his downward spiral of despair, he still finds himself in that thrice-damned cavern under the earth. He slowly walks its perimeter, one hand trailing along the rough stone wall. It's completely dark in here, but he knows every inch of the cavern and so he does not misstep. There is no true entry or exit here, for the one door has long since been completely blocked in. He can still remember the sound of boulders tumbling, dropping, pounding into place as they locked him in. It had sounded like Thunder.

It is completely quiet down here in the cool dark except for the near-silent pad of his bare feet on stone, except for the trickle of water at one end of the cavern, the stream where she emptied a bowl thousands of times over. He pauses there, by the stream, and fancies he can still smell the faint waft of all the poison emptied into it. The water there will never be pure.

Like him.

He continues circling the cavern, not circling, but spiraling, ever inward until finally he stops before three rocks. These are also rough, like the wall, but moreso, jagged and sharp. He traces their lines...lines he will never forget, that are etched into his mind, into his body. It feels as though they are still, even now, slick with warm, wet blood. The coppery scent of it fills his nose.

Slowly, ever so, he drops down to the floor, leaning back against one of those cursed rocks, pulling his knees up to his chest, resting his head atop them.

It's nearly silent down here now, but for the trickle of water that almost sounds like the dripdropdripdripdrip of venom falling from fangs, but for the tortured screams he thinks he still hears echoing in the walls.

He's all alone down here, except for his memories.

And here he can let the insanity take him, here he could forget if he wished, here he could become that which he truly is and should be.

The simple force of change, of chaos. Chaos doesn't care who it hurts. Chaos doesn't love, not anyone. Chaos simply is and exists for its own benefit and no one else's.

He could become it. Should.

But he isn't.

Instead, he sits, cold and alone and silent in a place he despises. He could be anywhere else and be more comfortable but he stays here, listening to the ghosts in his mind because here, no one can find him.

Because here, he can still see Hermes anyway, the look in his eyes as Loki's sword tore through his body. Here, he can still see Anne as she holds him even when she should hate him. He wouldn't have blamed her if she had. Here, he can still see her as she happily smiles up at him, overjoyed because of a stupid trip to a stupid theme park. Here, he still sees the ghost of a son staring accusingly at him with his guts torn out and spilling over the floor. Here, he still sees a wolf's dark, untrusting glare.

Here, he's quite capable of torturing himself.
cunningas: (cry)
His world was over.

Might as well let Ragnarok occur now. Just get it over with. Where's Heimdall with a fucking sword when you need the fucker?

A part of him is yelling, kicking, screaming inside of his head for him to get the fuck over it and to grow the hell up and to stop being such a fucking whiner cry baby and other such things. That part of him is probably right. None of anything he's done in the past couple of days is like him. He knows what could stop it, but...there's a problem.





That's not to say he likes his state of mind right now, or anything about anything that's going on with him right now. There's really nothing for him now. Hermes is dead. Anne hates him again -- and that thought just about kills him there. The other love of his life, if he'd ever be man enough to admit it, is useless to him now as he would look at her and only want to see Anne and he knows it and he cares for her enough to not taint her image that way. There is no one else. Nothing else.

He's made a living out of keeping everyone in his life at arm's length or further and now those he's let be closest to him are those he's pushed farther away than any. Are those that he could never even look at again.

And still, he doesn't want to give it up. He doesn't want to go back to what he was. He's known love now. True, full, all-encompassing love. He knows at a certainty that to go back to what he was, to give in, to take the potion will be to give this up, to let the memory fade, to forget.

A maybe, just maybe, this anguish crushing his heart now is fitting. He deserves for what he's done. He deserves it for playing along with Eris in the first place. He-...

He should just go back to his rock.


Did he just think that? Okay, maybe that shouty part of him has a point. That's even too whiny and emo for him in this state. That's just. No. He refuses that one. Ain't gonna happen.

Yeah, the situation sucks a big one, yeah, he doesn't see a way out of things for once but that's totally not the solution. No. Rocks.

Well, okay, he knows what he can't do. Now what can he do?

There's always the option of getting more of that original potion to offer up to Anne somehow. To get her back. He needs her. But can he do that now? Can he love her as much as he does, as deeply as he does, and knowingly force her into something she doesn't want? Can he live with knowing he'd be making her falsely love him for the rest of eternity? Is he really that selfish?

Hm. Seems to be a yes on all counts.

Okay, so there's an idea.

Hermes? Oh, ouch. He-...he can't do anything about that. It's done. Over with. He had to do it. He doesn't regret it. Not at all. Really. Time to move on.

Bastard should've known it would happen eventually anyway. Hermes knew what sort of person Loki was, after all.

That's taken care of. Truly.

Sigyn? He just...has to keep doing what he was doing before. Just don't go see her. She'll be so busy baking she won't even notice.

So, no problems there.

So now, he needs to go fetch his true beloved. He needs to pull the scraps of his life together.

He needs to hold on to the last little thing that might help him hang on to what's left of his sanity.


cunningas: (Default)

December 2013

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