A Broken Heart [A Loki Fanfiction] [COMPLETED]

Chapter 1

Loki looked at his skinny, wounded arm and sighed. His dagger was placed next to him, and one could easily see the crimson blood on its blade. It was not just anyone's blood –no– it was his blood.

This old habit he had broken free from when he was still a teenager had come back since the death of his mother. Frigga... he always loved her, and he knew she loved him, too. She showed him more love and sympathy than anyone in his family. His father, Odin, never showed any actual affection towards him. He always favoured his brother, Thor. Thor... Loki wasn't sure whether his brother loved him. Thor tended to show his "love" in strange ways, and Loki was always wondering if it was real love or just mercy. He didn't want people to have or show mercy for him –to feel sorry for him...

This bad habit –causing harm to himself– was... not even he was sure what it was or why he was doing it. Was he trying to conceal the emotional suffering under layers of physical pain –trying to fill the empty sadness with something more? Or was it a form of punishment? "You might want to take the stairs to the left." He said that to Kurse, didn't he? He showed him the way, leading him right to his mother. Then she was murdered by this creature... or his allies...? He didn't know –he was never told exactly how she died. He wasn't even allowed to attend her funeral –he was, instead, locked up in a cell, paying for the crimes someone else –Thanos– had forced upon him. So, while flames covered her dead body in this night of grief, he could do nothing but cry, scream and suffer, immured in this bloody cell, alone, left entirely alone. And he hurt himself that day –he tried to kill himself. But he didn't. It seems he didn't have the strength. He wasn't ready to die. Can't even do that right...

"All right," he whispered to himself –even though nothing felt all right– and pulled down his sleeve. He knew that thanks to the ability of his body to be self-cured, those wounds would heal in the span of a couple of days.

Loki stood up and picked his dagger. He took a wet cloth, cleaned its blade and then used his magic to make it disappear. He always carried a dagger with him. This was how he was –ready to stab anyone who would dare to stand his way. Anyone. Even Thor –or, actually, mostly Thor. He lay on his bed, looking at the ceiling, his long, raven hair lost amongst the fibres of the black quilt. His chamber was rather simple, especially for a Prince. Grey walls and black furniture, with silver details. Some old books were on his study and in front of it was a simple, metallic chair. More than one person –Thor being one of them– had described the room as a depressing space, but Loki liked it –maybe exactly because of that. 

He knew things could've been worse –Odin could have kept him locked up even after he contributed to Asgard's salvation, or maybe he could still have been under Thanos' control– but they could have also been better. He could have been raised in a functional family. He could have had friends. Memories –not good ones– from his teenage years came to his mind, reminding him of the injustice he had been obliged to endure for as long as he could remember.

"Cut this awful, black thing you call hair off your head; you look like a widow!" his father used to tell him.

Loki would get confused and respond, "But Thor's hair is long, too! And your hair as well! And almost everyone's-"

"Neither mine nor Thor's hair looks like a widow's veil."

"My hair doesn't look like a veil," Loki would say, rolling his eyes. "And also, I like it. It's not bothering anyone, so why should you complain about it all the time? Doesn't the fact that Thor got in a fight this morning bother you? Because I know you heard about that –and I haven't heard you complain about it."

"Thor is the crown prince, and-"

"And what –just because of that he's entitled to do whatever he wants while I have to put up with your grumbling?"

"Yes!"

Loki, clearly offended, and maybe even a bit broken-hearted, would feel his stomach drop.

"Great. Let Thor do whatever oafish thing he likes, because he's the BEST. Right. And I can't even choose a hairstyle, because I am, of course inferior-"

Those moments his mother would always interfere.

"Enough! Odin, please –and Loki, please calm down. You are just as good as Thor, my son –neither more nor less. And you look great with long hair, trust me."

And this was nothing. Nothing compared to other things Odin had said to him. He sighed and closed his eyes, those green-blue eyes that held so much unseen and unexpressed sorrow.

As a child, he couldn't understand why Odin treated him that way. But then he learned, and it suddenly all made sense. Loki was not Odin's biological son –oh, no, he was the son of one of Allfather's greatest enemies, Laufey, the king of Jotunheim, the planet of the frost giants.

"What am I?"

"You're my son".

"What more than that?"

Then Odin finally told him the truth.

"In the aftermath of the battle, I went into the temple, and I found a baby. Small for a giant's offspring. Abandoned, suffering, left to die... Laufey's son..."

When Loki asked him why he had taken him...

"I thought we could unite our kingdoms one day. Bring about an alliance, bring about a permanent peace... Through you".

So, he was nothing more than another stolen relic... That day, his whole world collapsed.

Loki suddenly wanted to cry, to scream –to set his feelings free– yet none of it would come out, as if he no longer knew how to cry. He sat up and conjured his dagger. The reflection of the green-blue eye on the blade almost scared him –was this empty look his own? He rolled up his sleeve, observing the cuts he had created no longer than a few minutes ago, as well as those of the previous couple of days that were still there.

He brought the knife to his arm again without even flinching when the cold blade touched his skin. The physical pain he already experienced was not enough –did not feel enough. Everything inside of him hurt, yet he somehow felt hollow at the same time. Did that even make sense –but, on the other hand, did he?

He ran the blade along his skin, his face being completely absent of emotions as if he was doing the most ordinary thing in the world, cutting his skin in a calm way but almost with the mindset of a maniac, as though he wouldn't care if he peeled all his skin off.

Then he lay down again, breathing heavily, and looked at his arm, which shed an alarming amount of blood. He closed his eyes, trying to calm down and thinking that he was mad, insane...

But the more time went by, the more exhausted he felt, and before he knew it, he fell into a deep sleep –dreamless, as empty as he himself was– having forgotten to pull his sleeve down.

A few hours went by, and Loki's blood on the wounds had dried, yet it was nowhere near being healed. The wounds were many and deep, and they would certainly need over a couple of days to disappear. And at some point, as Loki slept, Thor entered the room...

....

Hello.

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