The Sacrifice: Fallen | Loki | Book 2

Chapter 26: Sorrow

You already know what you are going to do.

If he could hit his temple any harder without breaking his own skull, Loki would've done it. This habit had latched onto him seemingly out of nowhere. Whatever, time had lost its meaning. He brought his spasmodically closed fist in front of his face, forced it open. 

Green sparks danced around his fingers, flickering. He'd never felt so unsure about himself. In that dire situation, Loki was close to nothing without his powers. Or was he?

The God of Mischief approached the statue, with anger in every step. Even in death, he still tormented him so. Loki hated Tom then more than he had ever hated him while he was alive. The fact that this was, once again, a product of Loki's own doings intensified his loathing infinitely. He exhaled forcefully and put both his hands on the bronze statue, closing his eyes. 

He managed to generate energy, it seized all of his focus and stamina he could muster in this state. It broke through his fingers, unable to break through the stone's resistance. The tiny hairs on Loki's body stood on end. Not many reversion spells came to his mind then, but he tried them all, obstinate and raving. The magic within this statue withstood all. 

Full of unlimited fury and anguish, Loki fired a blind blast of magic at the statue with a roar that  startled all animals within a mile's radius. The violent outburst sent him flying backwards, down to the ground. If he could spit venom, he would. 

What is created by man's hand can be destroyed by man's hand.

His head turned to the left - to the facade of the mansion, which had been demolished by the unearthly combat. Iron rods stuck out of the concrete where walls had been broken through. It might just do, he thought to himself. Loki pushed himself off the ground. In an instant, he was there and closed his hand around the rod, tearing it out of its fixing. 

His primitive weapon dragged across the ground, the only sound beside his unrhythmical breathing. No, something, a voice, pounded inside his head. Loki knew it all too well, and he was afraid. There was no going back if he failed now, if he gave in. 

Tom's statue stared back at him. Loki felt tears gathering in his eyes as he raised the rod. It wanted this, wanted him - its grueling cry fading into silence suddenly. He forced his eyes open, sighed with a feeling of almost relief; but Loki knew his demon too well. 

The wind breezed gently through his hair, warmer, numbing the chill dancing up and down his spine. Fog floated lightly at the sides of his vision, concealing all that could take his focus off the figure. Loki blinked repeatedly, his hands still clasping the rod, holding it up in a striking position. 

Caroline needed Tom, Loki needed him. If he died, taking the last drop of silver blood away, there was nothing Loki could do anymore. His conscious screamed at him, still too low under the enticing melody which originated seemingly all around him. Out of the woods, from behind, even from his own mind. A beguiling symphony, sharp and yet anodyne to the core. 

He couldn't feel himself anymore. Too strong, too compelling, this serenity. The demon had changed the game, for there was nothing Loki desired more than peace of mind. No more clattering chains, no more screaming, only the numbing of all his agonizing senses. Gifting him a solace only he'd almost forgotten. 

The iron rod collided with the stone. You always wanted this. The sound was deafening, but drowned by this infernally mesmerizing melody in his ears.

Whatever animals had not yet fled now took flight at the thundering clash. Loki inhaled sharply, almost smiled - what was this ecstasy? He struck again, and then again. Small crumbs gathered to their feet. The stronger he struck, the louder his demon sang. It was perverse.