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: (Default)

December 2013

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