What follow is my lengthy character study on Loki Odinson, during the start of Thor, as well as a bit of lore.
He has dreamt, one day, of taking the one that matters most to the place he held so dearly, once.
Of course, to Asgard.
Asgard, and it’s golden halls, it’s radiance and beauty, and above all things, it’s perfection. The way the sunlight, bright, and unwavering, dapples along the golden cobbled streets, the way it catches on the glittering bridge of a thousand flecks of colour.
And how the trees, tall, some silver, some golden, some bronze; some fiery red and some earthy green; could stretch to the sky and back, daunting even some in Alfheim. How the oceans would span to seemingly no end, and would be rich blues, utterly beautiful and inviting. The air would smell sweetly of richness, design, and the familiarity; the familiarity of Gods.
Asgard, the homeland. The land of Gods.
To Asgard; to his once home; there was a degree of beauty even Loki could never deny. He could do all in his power to ignore, and yes, to put aside, but there was something of Asgard, he knew, that would always remain with him.
And, in these fever dreams, he and his lover would be treated as he rightfully should be. The King he deserved, once, to be. The tables would be clad lavishly with an abundance of delectable foods, the halls filled to their brims with Gods, and Men, and Women, and Elves, and Giants, and Dwarves alike. Not a race would be spared. Not in Loki’s dreams.
And no, no he would not be the King. That title laid with Thor, and in his dreams, he knew it.
Music; pan pipes and harps, lutes and violins, would sound out along the halls, their sound calming and sweet. Soft, and elegant. Relaxing. For once, in his dreams, he could forget that it, to Loki, no longer existed.
That, of course, was his own fault.
But in his dream, he would remember seeing his love smile. They would be dressed in true, Asgardian raiment’s, whether their blood was Asgardian or not, and, so would his own. He saw gold, and he saw red. He only ever dreamed of gold and of red and of chocolate brown when he thought of the one he would take to Asgard. His love.
And when the feast was over, and the moon; much larger than the way it appeared on Midgard; would take it’s silver, pallid glow on the land, they would find themselves alone.
Never will they have experienced such beauty.
And all the more, shall they love him.
Until the dream snaps closed, and Loki knows, instantly;
It can never happen.
And a part of him mourns what could be,
what would have been,
what should have been,
but what can never, ever, be.
The Nair is where the demons hide.
Darkness shrouds a cold wasteland, empty and devoid of all things happy. It sits, and waits, devouring a soul that passes it’s life within waking moments, and the jaws of the Nair, are unattainable and wretched. Of all things; the Nair, is the most terrible.
There is something terrifying about the Nair.
The cruelest of all beings reside there. The darker, more ethereal things, too much to understand within the first lights of the first worlds, the outcasts from realms that do not understand them, are left to fester. Gather their purest, rawest forms of sin; divulge into their disgusting profanities to their heart’s contentedness.
Not a single thought, not a passing moment, is spared, is feared to be spared, of the mirages the Nair possesses.
And the smoke…
Choking, and all gathering. Soul infusing. It works into the system of whatever being exists, or attempts to, on the surface of the Nair. A flat land, yes; exhibiting predominantly volcanic activity, quakes and tremors within the ground itself, and, in parts, mountains that stretch to the layer of black and grey coils of cloud far above; decorated hatefully with thin, gaunt trees, and of course; the sea.
The cold, cold sea…
Charcoal black, choppy, and yet… calm, the Sea of the Dead spans across many quarters of the Nair, breaking off into rivers and rapids. Flecked with a deep navy colour; though, mostly the clarty, stark black, there is something poisonous on such a thing. It is inviting. You find yourself wanting to enter it. To give yourself unto it’s graveness.
Though, you rarely do, in truth.
So, you see, you should fear the Nair, above all things. For t'is where the sinners are punished. There is something drawing about the Nair.
And one day,
in time,
you shall see.
1.) Describe your character’s relationship with their mother or their father, or both. Was it good? Bad? Were they spoiled rotten, ignored? Do they still get along now, or no?
Loki, it was fair to say, had a good relationship with both Odin, and Frigga. Treated like any other God, and any other Son of Odin, his past life was not faultless, but not bad. Quite the contrary. His mischievous ways made respect from others difficult to gain, but Frigga and Odin loved him as if he were their own. In Loki’s mind, he was.
Though Odin favored Thor over him, and he was cast to living in his brother’s shadow, Loki did love both of his parents, as well as Thor. He was, of course, a little more spoiled with gifts than Thor, but Thor was spoiled with time. It was clear whom Odin preferred; everyone knew. But Loki, though his inner demons told him otherwise, would not have complained.
Now, of course, they do not see each other. After discovering his true heritage, Loki is convinced that the ‘love’ and 'gifts’ were simply out of pity. He had spent his entire life being the brunt of pity, so it, after all, made sense. Though he still holds love for Frigga, he does not love Odin, for the lie that was his life. He knows that Odin must think him a bitter disappointment; but Loki has learned to ignore that factor.
He did once love both of his parents, until he found they were not who he knew at all.
They’d left him within the confines of his cell.
Of course, they’d altered how they left him. Of course they had.
They’d sewn them together. They’d done what they threatened they would do.
They’d sewn his lips together.
He was propped against the wall, in the very corner of the cell, and, was, for what seemed like hours; unmoving. Seconds passed like minutes, minutes, like hours, and before he knew it; he’d sat for days; but what was really just an hour.
One, long, painful thread, made mostly of leather, had been weaved through his lips, in a criss-cross design, clamping them shut through the skin and flesh. It hurt to do anything; the skin still tender and stinging, blood still bubbling from the holes and dripping down his chin; let alone move them. He could not speak, he could not scream, he could not even smile.
‘I will hear no more of your lies’, Thor sounded out, against Loki’s desperate will, as he watched his once-brother sew them shut.
Loki relied on his mouth. On his silver tongue. Without it, what was he? A liesmith, that could not lie?
He cursed himself for begging. Begging Thor not to do it. But he listened not.
T'was the punishment for being a liar.
Part of Loki will always be shrouded in mystery. Never to be shown. Never to be revealed to anyone, no matter how trusting he is of them.
That fateful moment, that passed by so… quickly, at the time. The pale, sickly blue, that flooded into his skin, penetrating his veins, and the utter cold… it was comforting. The cold of a Frost Giant’s skin was not retracting, it was comforting.
Everyone else seemed to retract quickly. Seemed to loathe it. To be stung by its harshness. To their very cores it would penetrate.
And yet… why, why, was it different for him?
Frost Giants were monsters. Enemies of all of Asgard. His enemies.
And he was one of them.
How? How could this have happened? How, how could… no, it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. He was a son of Odin. His blood shared with Thor, and with Frigga, and…
Not… Laufey…
Loki saw how they were slain. How his friends, and how they… they did not know… Thor…
He had always looked a little different to his parents.
How could Odin keep this from him? How could he do that, to a son, that he raised as his own, that he loved as his own…
But he did not. No wonder he favoured Thor, all these years. No wonder Thor was always the one to take the crown, the thrown, to take Asgard, when Odin fell. No wonder.
That night, when the demi-God; or, rather, the Frost Giant, was alone in his chambers, it… did no good, to well. Or to glare into his reflection.
Every inch of his skin, a deep, sickly, icy blue. Eyes red as fire. Markings on his body and forehead, in places. Markings of a Frost Giant. Birth rights to Jotunheim.
The very place he sought so strongly to destroy.
Would the others treat him differently? Like the monsters they slew when he himself walked the icy plains of his… of his home?
Would they seek to slay him too? A friend, of this long, now.. condemned? They had to. He saw how they disregarded the other Frost Giants. He was no better than a blue, icy, monster. And it was no wonder.
So it was no wonder the man turned to such cruelties. It was no wonder.
Every monster needs his reason to hate.