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They were dying. They had to have been, for nothing else could possibly explain the state they found themselves in. If death were not rapidly approaching, what were the tremors in their hands, or the shivering of their body though the fire burned bright and sweat broke across their forehead in sticky beads? What was the invisible rope around their chest that tightened with each gasping breath they took, squeezing their lungs free of oxygen and forcing their heart to pound harder in a desperate attempt to break free? Yes, death was ready for young Loki tonight.
They wiped at their blurred eyes as though the blackened spots and the smudging of their vision might have suddenly felt merciful as their trembling fingers tried to regain optical clarity. The action failed. They repeated their movements, yet the blur only seemed to worsen, their surroundings bleeding into each other the way ink stains bleed through paper. They felt a sob rise in their throat and they swallowed it down as it scratched and clawed with a manic desire to be heard.
Stay quiet, and you might escape the yelling this time.
“Brother.” A voice – loud, harsh – was near. They could hear it, for it was loud enough to be made out even through the invisible water they were under. They felt as though they were drowning – sinking beneath the too-fast currents. They couldn’t find their way back to the surface, no matter how hard they fought.
“Brother.” There were hands on their shoulders, shaking them like a ragdoll, gripping hard enough to bruise. “What did you do?”
What did you do?
Another mistake? How surprising.
Shattered shards turned clearer as they broke through the layer of blurring, golden and jagged against the white floor. Those very shards were once a vase, Loki knew, and his mother had loved it dearly.
“I hadn't…hadn’t meant…” The words scraped at their throat like daggers, leaving it raw.
You foolish child. You struggle to form even a basic sentence.
“Loki.” The fingers tightened around their arms. They could feel the disappointment seeping through Thor’s hands and into their skin, burning their blood like an open flame.
You will never be good enough. You will never be like Thor.
The pain was almost grounding. It wiped away the ink of their vision until their surroundings were not drawings and brush strokes but real, physical objects. They may have been able to reach out and touch the now in-focus content of their mother’s room, were it not for their brother’s bruising grip. “You broke Mother’s favourite vase.”
They flinched. The sound of Thor’s voice was too rough, too soon, and they had still not escaped from their death-like state. Not entirely, at least. Too many sensations flooded them, like a cold ocean that pulled them beneath the rushing waters. They were not swimming yet. They could not see the sky.
“Father bought that for her.” The words were hissing, as though a snake had learned to speak only to reprimand Loki for their errors, and they forced themselves to meet the eyes of the one who uttered them. Eyes of gemstones shone before them, perfect and bright, like shining sapphires. The flawless eyes of Asgard’s golden price, with easy charm and warrior skill, and everything else that Loki did not possess. Try as they might, they knew they would never quite match up to the favoured prince.
You will never be good enough.
You will never be worthy.
“Speak, Brother!”
They could not prevent their wince. They swallowed the little air they were able to reach, trying to ignore the burn in their throat that felt like saltwater seeping into raw and open wounds. “I…please, I…”
The snake voice broke free with another hiss. “Stop shaking, Brother.” The fingers tightened once again, the sharp edges of the nails tearing at their flesh like pinpricks, drawing droplets of crimson. “You are a prince of Asgard, not a girl.”
A prince. They wanted to laugh. There was nothing princely about the child who could not do even the simplest things right, nor was there anything remotely regal about letting their tears fall free like rivers when things did not go according to plan. Not a prince, no. They were a trickster who did not deserve their mother’s hugs or gentle words of reassurance. They did not deserve comfort. Comfort was for the good.
“Fix the vase before Mother sees.” The hands released them, pushing them back with no care or hesitation. They felt heat rush to their face, their arms wrapping around their torso as though they would shield Loki from the shattered mess on the ground. “At least make your seidr useful.”
Their hands shook, as though earthquakes had been placed inside their nerves and finger bones with enough force to disrupt whole worlds, never mind the hands of a foolish child. They would not pull away. The water could take them, pull them so far below the surface that they could never come up for air again, but it would take them only after they'd fixed their mistake. They had to.
Thor pulled them up by the arm, forcefully enough to leave a red hand print against their pale skin. He turned them towards him, wiping the wetness from their eyes. “There is no need to cry, Brother. Calm yourself.”
The unuttered words were clearer to them than what had truly left their brother’s mouth. ‘Calm yourself, because princes do not have panic attacks.’ Princes are strong, with golden hair and eyes of the sky. Princes become rulers, and broken children are left to drown.
You will never be good enough.
You will never be a king.