Loki (fiorvalr) wrote in noexits, @ 2021-05-03 15:08:00 |
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Loki was slow to open his eyes. An excited trepidation swelled through him. Which would it be? Surely it would be the obvious. The majestic halls of Valhalla, his father waiting for him on the throne, arms open for an embrace—celebrating his glory in battle—drinks to herald home the mischievous son. He could hearing the cheers, thousands upon thousands of warriors calling his name—“Loki! Loki! Loki! Prodigal son! Hero returned! Welcome to Valhalla! Welcome home!” And then they would feast. Drink until their gullets were full. He would stand side-by-side with those who’d once called him traitor and they would forgive each other. Because death in battle deserved forgiveness. And his death had been nothing but glorious. Honorable. And while the thought of those words describing him brought a snarky smirk to his trickster lips, he knew deep down that’s what he’d always hoped for. The opportunity to prove himself to his father. To his mother. To Thor. Prove to all of them that there was more to the God of Lies than tricks and fabrications of truth. To prove that he was one of them. Asgardian. But if it wasn’t Valhalla then let it be Fólkvangr. Let the fields stretch before him, glistening gold and green, an eternal summer. Let the sunrise warm his face and the sweet breeze, trailing with it the aroma of wildflowers, fill him with the peace of the afterlife. He’d walk for miles without growing weary. He’d survive for centuries without hunger. And he would be joined by others who died a noble death. Welcomed into the great house of Sessrumnir by the goddess Freyja herself. “Here he is! Let us welcome him! Loki! Son of Odin! Prince of Asgard! He was slain in battle and earned himself a seat at the table of the gods!” But whichever place he went to, he hoped to see his mother. Frigga. How he missed her. How he longed to tell her that he’d changed. That she was right to believe in him. That her faith had not been misplaced. He opened his eyes. The sky was wrong. It was dark. Clouded with pollution. A thick orange haze hung in the air. And was that—Did a car just fly overhead? Loki sat up. He was lying in the grass of what appeared to be a small field at the center of some kind of mediocre college campus. He frowned. His fingers tugged at the grass, testing to make sure it was real. Then he placed his hand on his neck. The bones weren’t broken. The cartilage wasn’t tender. It appeared to be healed, but he could still feel those thick fingers crunching his throat. He swallowed instinctually. There was no pain but the memory of it. Thor? He glanced around, but his brother wasn’t there. Neither was Heimdall or the Hulk. He was alone. He brought himself to a stand and shook his black hair over his shoulders. Neon lights pulsed in the distance beyond the scholarly buildings and for a split second he thought he heard the sound of slot machines. If this was Valhalla then Odin had a lot of explaining to do. |