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Description

Sostengo lo que queda de esperanza entre mis manos, el único color en la obscuridad y la briza a través de la tela que susurra amor eterno, innegable e inmenso…
Sin importar cuan prolongada sea la espera , un día el viento te traerá aquí, a mi.
Las esperas eternas siempre destruyen, y yo se muy bien de destrucción, la conozco, la practico pues te he destruido ya tantas veces.
Fue esta la última vez? Tan devastadora?
-------
English:
Many many many thanks to for writing the masterpiece inspired on my work below. You are awesome bby!! I luv you.
'I never wanted the throne! I only ever wanted to be your equal!'

Was that what he said? was that what he truly believed?
It was years ago now, years of regret, lies and deceit later.

Years of unrequited love and a tongue too silver and proud to say what it truly wanted.

Years of pining for something he couldn't have, ears of losing, losing everything he did have.

Sanity was lost first, falling from him as the cape of emerald and gold had fallen off his shoulders, never to return, not for armor, not for glory, not for the love of a father who was never his or a mother he so callously let go of.

Desire was lost second. He didnt cherish anything anymore, not the song of a lark or the sweet of drink, the spice of food nor the desire to smile after a spell chanted or perfected. Desire to touch and feel, desire to end it all, he lost it next.

Love was lost after. Love for power, love for freedom, love for the mischief he was so fond of, love for the tricks that earned him his name, love for the brother he never called his own, love for the sons lost in the battle for the crown, love for the daughter that left him alone and love for himself - something he never really had.

His self fell next. Never had he in his life told himself it was okay to cry, now it was all he did. Never had he told himself that he could feel what he felt when he saw that hammer fall towards him, driven by rage and anger, the hurt of betrayal, the lies his trickster brother told. Never had he thought that the golden haired warrior would lash down upon him with the expression of rage he'd had when he discovered he'd been lied to.

Why, Loki, why?

He never asked that. He'd lunged when he saw him for the first time, lunged when the green eyed mage had tried to speak, lunged when he saw nothing other than his own pain and lunged ...

Lunged right into the scepter he'd held aloft.

Purely accidental, his will was the last thing he lost.

He hadn't meant for it to happen, hadn't meant for the sharp weapon to pierce him so. He'd never meant to see him looking stunned, shock etched on his features as he gave up. Just gave up because it hadn't been enough. No matter what he'd done, it hadn't been enough. and the god of Lies was always that. A master of subterfuge, the lord of lies.

The murderer of the last one who'd cared about him.

His life had been lost after.

There was nothing to live for now, nothing to do. No one to hear his apology, no one to see him straighten his ways. No one to see how he'd taken Asgard to heights Odin never could, gave them a Queen Frigga would be proud of. No one to see the tiny little prince that ran about, named Thor after a warrior so badly lost.

There was no one.

With a Kingdom full of people, he was lost.

He had no one, he had nothing.

Nothing but a red cape he put around himself when he was alone, nothing but the crimson to remind him of what he had done, who he had taken away. It was red, bright and promising, just like him. It was the love he never had.

He had a farce, silver and sharp that he put upon his head and a chair he could never fill. There was a shadow upon him that he could never escape and there was Hel that awaited him, for he would never be taken to Valhalla.

No matter what he didn't, he could never be allowed where the gold was cherished. He would rot, with a heart of black and a soul of ash. He would rot.

His eyes would seep blood in his pain, no other outlet sufficient, he would rot.

He had brought it upon himself, he would die.

Loki would die because he brought this upon himself. The killer of a god of gold, brother to a man he'd murdered.

He would die.

Unless he turned, raised his gaze from the self loathing that dropped it, and see the yellow haired figure standing behind, in a cape of emerald and miracle in his blue eyes.

Description

Sostengo lo que queda de esperanza entre mis manos, el único color en la obscuridad y la briza a través de la tela que susurra amor eterno, innegable e inmenso…
Sin importar cuan prolongada sea la espera , un día el viento te traerá aquí, a mi.
Las esperas eternas siempre destruyen, y yo se muy bien de destrucción, la conozco, la practico pues te he destruido ya tantas veces.
Fue esta la última vez? Tan devastadora?
-------
English:
Many many many thanks to for writing the masterpiece inspired on my work below. You are awesome bby!! I luv you.
'I never wanted the throne! I only ever wanted to be your equal!'

Was that what he said? was that what he truly believed?
It was years ago now, years of regret, lies and deceit later.

Years of unrequited love and a tongue too silver and proud to say what it truly wanted.

Years of pining for something he couldn't have, ears of losing, losing everything he did have.

Sanity was lost first, falling from him as the cape of emerald and gold had fallen off his shoulders, never to return, not for armor, not for glory, not for the love of a father who was never his or a mother he so callously let go of.

Desire was lost second. He didnt cherish anything anymore, not the song of a lark or the sweet of drink, the spice of food nor the desire to smile after a spell chanted or perfected. Desire to touch and feel, desire to end it all, he lost it next.

Love was lost after. Love for power, love for freedom, love for the mischief he was so fond of, love for the tricks that earned him his name, love for the brother he never called his own, love for the sons lost in the battle for the crown, love for the daughter that left him alone and love for himself - something he never really had.

His self fell next. Never had he in his life told himself it was okay to cry, now it was all he did. Never had he told himself that he could feel what he felt when he saw that hammer fall towards him, driven by rage and anger, the hurt of betrayal, the lies his trickster brother told. Never had he thought that the golden haired warrior would lash down upon him with the expression of rage he'd had when he discovered he'd been lied to.

Why, Loki, why?

He never asked that. He'd lunged when he saw him for the first time, lunged when the green eyed mage had tried to speak, lunged when he saw nothing other than his own pain and lunged ...

Lunged right into the scepter he'd held aloft.

Purely accidental, his will was the last thing he lost.

He hadn't meant for it to happen, hadn't meant for the sharp weapon to pierce him so. He'd never meant to see him looking stunned, shock etched on his features as he gave up. Just gave up because it hadn't been enough. No matter what he'd done, it hadn't been enough. and the god of Lies was always that. A master of subterfuge, the lord of lies.

The murderer of the last one who'd cared about him.

His life had been lost after.

There was nothing to live for now, nothing to do. No one to hear his apology, no one to see him straighten his ways. No one to see how he'd taken Asgard to heights Odin never could, gave them a Queen Frigga would be proud of. No one to see the tiny little prince that ran about, named Thor after a warrior so badly lost.

There was no one.

With a Kingdom full of people, he was lost.

He had no one, he had nothing.

Nothing but a red cape he put around himself when he was alone, nothing but the crimson to remind him of what he had done, who he had taken away. It was red, bright and promising, just like him. It was the love he never had.

He had a farce, silver and sharp that he put upon his head and a chair he could never fill. There was a shadow upon him that he could never escape and there was Hel that awaited him, for he would never be taken to Valhalla.

No matter what he didn't, he could never be allowed where the gold was cherished. He would rot, with a heart of black and a soul of ash. He would rot.

His eyes would seep blood in his pain, no other outlet sufficient, he would rot.

He had brought it upon himself, he would die.

Loki would die because he brought this upon himself. The killer of a god of gold, brother to a man he'd murdered.

He would die.

Unless he turned, raised his gaze from the self loathing that dropped it, and see the yellow haired figure standing behind, in a cape of emerald and miracle in his blue eyes.