Loki Laufeyson

‘...you were my heart's desire before you were known to me. I beheld your features with my soul ere I saw them with my eyes.’

The sun filtered through the high paned windows, painting Loki’s face in lights and shadows. He walked hastily through the halls of Asgard, eager to join his chambers as fast as he could, to put as much distance between him and the rest of them.

The corridors were too vast, the windows too bright, too tall. Loki was a God, yet he felt so small, like the castle could crush him in an instant.

He had never truly belonged, never truly been considered one of he Aesir, no matter that he lived with Thor and Odin and Frigga. They all regarded him as a shadow, constantly living off Thor’s light.

He reached his chambers and locked the door before flinging open the wide windows and stepping out on the balcony. He let the soft breeze that perpetually blew through Asgard play with his hair.

His father had decreed it was time for him to walk among Midgardians, to witness their lives firsthand and better understand the Gods’ duty toward mortals. Loki’s heart lurched. Why should he be burdened with such a task? What wisdom could possibly be gained from mingling with lesser beings? He had protested, sharp-tongued and relentless, but Odin’s will was unyielding. The decision had been made—Loki could accept it or let it fester into madness.

Turning around, he reached under the wide bed to retrieve a box carved from oak wood. He held the golden key in his hand. He always carried it with him so no one would ever stumble upon it and discover his best kept secret.

Inside the box lay countless letters unsent, all for the same person.

He held one, the latest, reverently picking ip up from the box and holding it delicately to the sunlight. He had written this one over and over again, never satisfied with how it turned out. It was too raw, to simple, too basic. Nothing that captured the depth of his feelings for his love.

"I see you before I sleep. I do not know if you are real, and if you are, I do not know if I will ever find you. But I would carve open time itself to meet the eyes I have drawn a thousand times."

Charcoal drawings had found their way to the bottom of the box as the letters piled up over them. The drawing were all of the same person. The person who came to him in the mirror. He beheld the delicate curve of a cheek, the bow of a lip. Details rendered with such aching devotion that they might have been touched rather than drawn

He had always fancied how his perfect lover would be. How accepting and loving and open minded. This image was engraved in his mind, given to him by the Norns, or by Freya herself.

---

Midgard was every bit as smelly and noisy as he imagined it to be.

An odor of mildew and gasoline and something that reeked of sickness made his retch upon his arrival.

The noises assaulted his ears. Car honks, shouts on the streets, people screaming inside small devices that he didn’t care to understand.

Midgard was a wretched place where everyone was sick and grey even if they didn’t see it themselves. But it was full to the brim with life. Unapologetic, mystifying life.

Loki narrowly avoided a car before his temper got the better of him and he sent it crashing against a pole. That’d teach that pesky midgardian.

He saw as the front door opened and the person came out of the car to survey the damage.

The world stopped. His heart stuttered. Bile rose in his throat as he took in the all too familiar face.

The air around him thickened, pressing around his throat like a lover’s grip. His gaze beheld, devoured, the curves, the hard planes and soft edges he had etched on canvas, in charcoal and ink so many times, but they were now in front of him. In flesh and blood and so very alive. So very human.

What was his love, his vision from the mirror, doing here, in Midgard.

This was a cruel betrayal from the universe. A twist of fate he hadn’t excepted. His love, his perfect lover existed. But his perfect lover was mortal. A human.

Worse still, he felt the pull, he was drawn. Until his feet moved on their own and he found himself standing next to the ruined car and its annoyed owner.

He realized this was not the still, silent beauty of his sketches. His love breathed, chest rising and falling. A warm, intoxicating smell was carried by the breeze.

His throat was dry. The words came unbidden, unsteady. "Are you hurt?”