Thread: pure i m a g i n a t i o n [fics & stuff]

size-2When realization had dawned on him, Loki had felt his knees collapse beneath him. His legs had always been strong enough to bear his weight. They were reliable and they had stomped away many threats and come out the victor. But now the weight his legs had bore for a lifetime had become too much in that single instant and for the first time in years, the King had fallen. Loss was a concept he had learned from the very beginning. From losing his false kin to pride and birthrights, to seeing good men fall before him in a rebellion that would earn him the coveted throne. Loki had lost everything to gain what he had and yet, those past misgivings seemed inconsequential now. It was as if he had never truly known what loss was until this moment. He had never grieved as he grieved now. It was a choking feeling that clouded his sensibilities and left him smothered, gasping for air and groping blindly for the relief that would never come. Even a King could not stand between death and its prey. They had found him lying in a morgue. The search for his son had waged on for days and nights. He had never thought to seek him out in a morgue. The mere suggestion had thrown him into such a rage that even Sigyn didn't dare approach him lest she incur his wrath. He had put it off for as long as he could, waiting for some sign that Brady had been found in a tavern, drunk but otherwise well and alive . The scolding he would get when he arrived would be legendary. Loki often excused his son's less than savoury behaviour but this time he had gone too far and wasted valuable time. As the days passed, no news had arrived and Sigyn seemed to work up the courage at last to implore him to seek out the one possibility he didn't want to entertain. In the end, Loki had grown far too restless and agreed to go if only to silence the nasty whispers. The search had been thorough but grueling. The stench of the poor souls rotting away was unbearable but Loki had been adamant that every body be examined. They had found peasants and orphans, drunkards and seamen, but no princes. This was the dead house of the poor. His son could never be resting here among the wretched and forgotten. The mere thought turned his stomach. It was a terribly poignant moment when his gaze drifted to the farthest corner of the morgue, the one place he hadn't yet looked, coincidentally the one place he might have missed all together. But his keen eyes missed nothing and Loki's footsteps had echoed in the silence as he walked towards that lonely corner where a single body lay upon the table, looking strangely peaceful in its eternal slumber. Heavy had been his heart as he neared the body and long before his eyes caught a glimpse of gold, Loki had known. He had known all along, but the stubbornness that had won him his throne and helped keep that very throne wouldn't allow him to even fathom the idea that his son could be dead. Not his son. He had wanted to turn around and leave before he discovered a truth he could never escape from but his legs had moved forward of their own accord. The hand he no longer controlled had reached out to remove the filthy sheet that covered the unmoving form and as it fell away, so had the King's sanity. The sound that left him was like that of a wounded animal howling out the last of its agony. He had fallen down before the unmoving figure of his son, seen that lifeless face and cursed the Gods for their cruelty. His eyes had witnessed many things and they would never mistake the face of the child Sigyn had bore him 19 years past. They had carried him, they said. Their proud King had fallen before their eyes and they had carried him back to his palace like a crippled thing. A burial was required, they told him. They wished to cover his son in the cold earth and have him waste away into nothing. They wished for him to be there while they did it. Loki had refused. His days had been filled with unrest. He had eaten nothing. He slept not for a moment. He did not leave the room where his son lay, dressed in the finest clothing Loki could find. In life, Brady had loved his fineries and been the envy of all at court. He would have wanted Loki to dress him in his best. The only time the King showed any signs of life at all were when he moved to examine the stab wounds left behind on his son's body. Someone had murdered his son and tossed him into the river as if he were garbage. Loki could not even muster the strength needed for vengeance. Grief had eaten away at his anger. He wanted nothing more than to see his son rise again and laugh at the world as though it were a secret jape only he seemed privy to. Brady had laughed often much to the annoyance of others, at times the King himself. But it had been a musical laugh, a truly beautiful sound that had rung through the halls when he was a child. To think he would never hear that sound again made him feel faint. To grieve was one thing, but to grieve alone was something else entirely. It was his tears and his tears alone that salted his son's brow as he wept over him. Not the commoners, not his daughters, not his sons, not even Sigyn who had nursed this corpse at her breast so many years ago. No one cried for his son. Who had stolen away their compassion? We have grieved for him for too many years now, Your Grace, was his eldest son's reply. His expression was stone, his eyes cold, He was lost to us long ago. Leave us, had been the only words Loki could manage. His hands had appeared two trembling doves, useless in flight as if the death of his son had clipped away their wings. These very hands had once held a squalling, pink-faced infant. He had been born with a fine tuft of fair hair and pale blue eyes that had mesmerized wet nurses and become the talk of the palace for many months, he remembered. Brady had always been beautiful beyond compare. He was Loki's only blond child. That hair had grown out into long, yellow waves that gave him a cherubic appeal. Mischievous from the very beginning, it was often those sunshine tresses and rosy cheeks that won him the favour of men and women alike. He was Loki's youngest, his golden boy, his Brady. And he had been taken from him. Would you have seen him dead? Loki asked Sigyn. The room had been heavy with the scent of death but he had refused to part with his son's body. He would let him lie there and watch him, for if he stayed with him, then who would dare take him then...? The silence was heavy between them, laced with years of disagreements and pain, but to her credit, Sigyn had stood by him through it all. And now, with the death of their youngest hanging over them like an ugly cloud, she was still here. No, she replied at last and Loki felt a momentary bout of relief at the pain he recognised in her voice. She too had cause to grieve. He was our son, she continued quietly, her gaze falling upon the figure laid out handsomely on the altar. She could never stare at it for long. Loki could only wonder why. There are many times I wished he had not been born, she said as if it were a confession she needed Loki to hear and understand. He heard it, but he could never understand. You must let him go, she urged softly whilst reaching for him, but Loki had shaken his head and pulled away. He pulled away from her, from his children, from the palace, from Kingship. He pulled away from it all and went to his son, bending over the body to gaze upon his face and hoping against hope that Brady would take him away if he followed. I cannot, he replied quietly as the tears ran down his cheeks, I will not. It was the discovery of his son's murderer that shattered all that Loki had left behind. Vali, his reliable son, the one who had helped secure his rights to the throne, had killed his brother in cold blood. How he had allowed such enmity to go unnoticed between his sons was an even greater anguish. The death of his son and the ruin of his family was his own doing, he realized. Vali's long, difficult confession had been as hard on his son as it had been on Loki. While he couldn't bear to look at him when knowing what he had done, the pain he heard in his voice was far worse than anything he could have possibly said. You favoured him above all and I never once hated you for it, but you robbed me of my rights, father. It should have been me, not him, who wore the armour. And I would kill my brother a thousand times over to protect our family. To protect you. Everything I have done has always been for you and you only cared for him, your precious Prince. The words were like knives and yet, Vali's pain cut deeper and Loki had buried his face in his hands as his eldest left him to his grief. Loki could not blame Vali. He could only blame himself. Had he truly been so blind to Brady's faults? He had seen what he wished to see through a father's eyes. He had given Brady all that he could and more, for Brady needed it. He was young and impetuous, and Loki had hoped that that reckless streak would end with age. Rather, it had ended all together with something far more final. Everyone in the Kingdom had lost hope in his youngest, all but Loki and what was he to do now? What was supposed to be a most wondrous celebration of marriage and union between his daughter and her suitor had become a mockery of his loss. As his children danced, they danced upon the grave of their brother. There would be no tears for the son he had failed at every turn. The music had become but a distant echo as Loki approached the altar. His legs felt useless and his steps as heavy as cinder-blocks but he had not stopped until he stood before his son. He studied the face closely and with the greatest effort, reached out to touch it. The flesh felt cold under his fingertips but Loki did not pull away. Instead, he gathered the body into his arms as carefully as though he were handling porcelain. And what he saw nearly took his breath away. He saw Brady as he had been in life. The child he held in his arms could have been sleeping and Loki had no desire to wake him. A fond smile stretched across his face and he leaned down to gently kiss the boy's lips and lightly grasp the small fingers in his own. He had to be very careful. Brady hated to be woken up. He carried his son out of the palace, laid him out on the grass and dug his grave with his bare hands. Loki had never known a more painful task and his eyes continued to drift over to the sleeping child, praying that he would awaken at any moment and chastise his father for disturbing him from his glorious sleep. But Brady lay still and Loki continued to dig. Covered in earth and gasping for breath, Loki looked to the skies and held his dirt-covered hands up. We have sinned, allfather, he said, his voice feeling hoarse from pent-up emotion that threatened to spill forth in a tidal wave that would cover the earth whole, Do not punish our son for our mistakes. Grant him peace. With that, Loki stepped out of the grave and reached for his son. Dragging him into the hollow proved too taxing for his weakening bones and Loki cried bitterly as he laid Brady to rest, risking one final glance at that face. Not a child at all, but a man. A man who had come undone before his very eyes and gone ignored. And yet, Loki still saw the child he had lulled to sleep when his nurse's singing simply wouldn't do. He saw the little boy he had doted on, the little who had grown into the bitter man he had failed. He placed his filthy hands upon his son's brow and drew in a ragged breath. I would have given you the world, he confessed in a voice that trembled and broke, Forgive me my sins, dear one. He had only the dirt left to cover his son's body and when at last the earth had swallowed him whole, Loki journeyed back to the palace. It was the journey to Vogar that proved longest and Loki knew nothing until the carriage stopped before a lesser palace, yet no less radiant than the son he had left behind. He took the long staircase step by step, paying no mind to the guards who allowed him passage wordlessly. The passing stares and surprised exclamations of those around him meant very little. He did not stop until he found who he had come for. The girl was a delicate beauty, dark haired and bright eyed with a childish spray of freckles across her face. She had always appeared a timid creature at her husband's side but now she looked positively frightened and he could not blame her. He would have looked a horror in his filthy clothes and disheveled hair. He was gaunt-faced and pale but he had words with the lady of Vogar. Your Grace, she gasped, immediately rushing to his side with wide, worried eyes. Loki gazed at her with a vacant, glassy stare but he shed no tears. He had spent himself of tears, it seemed. I have buried my son, he declared quietly. Later, he would recall catching Nelly as she fainted and carrying her to her bed just as he had carried his son to his grave. Only, Nelly had awakened and Loki had vowed that she would never fall again. Our sins are grievous and we will spend a lifetime repenting for all that we have robbed from you. The words that would have seemed so difficult a lifetime ago poured out of him in quick succession as though they were all he had left. In a sense, they were all he had, his last defense against all the wrong he had done. He could not save Brady, nor could he return Nelly the husband she had lost, but he would grant her what comfort he could. He took the Princess' hands between his own and kissed them gently, silently begging for a forgiveness he did not deserve. We hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive us some day, he breathed shakily. A single tear ran down his pale cheek and trembled at his jaw before dropping off onto the linens below. But as a father who loved his son beyond reason, I ask one thing of you... The labour had been long and hard. As King, Loki had no real place among the women who shuffled in and out of the birthing room and yet he paced tirelessly at all hours, cringing at the sound of Nelly's screams as she struggled to bring her child into the world. The longer the wait, the more worried Loki would become and the anxious faces of the midwives did nothing to calm his nerves. He refused all drink and fell onto his knees to pray. The Gods had taken one life from him and he would not bear the loss of another. For many months now he had kept the Princess of Vargo at his side and made sure that her every need was saw to. Making peace with his family proved far more difficult but Loki had not let that stop him. He was determined not to lose any more of his children to his pride. The heavens heeded his silent call with the most beautiful sound he could ever have hoped to hear. A loud cry rang out of the room and grew louder and louder and Loki sank against the nearest wall, releasing the breath he had unknowingly been holding. That was the unmistakable sound of a newborn crying. It was the sound of life, his grandchild's life. It was the midwives who beckoned him forward, telling him the Princess desired his presence. Loki stepped into the room a man reborn. He saw her propped up on what looked to be about a dozen pillows, her forehead glistening with sweat and yet, she had never looked quite so lovely as she did then. It was the glow of a mother who had stared death in the face and defied it. But Loki only had eyes for the squirming bundle nestled in her arms. From where he stood, it was a tiny, pink blob with no aim other than to seek out the warmth of the womb it had been forced to leave behind. It was a cold, new world for the infant but Loki promised himself that his grandchild would not come to loathe it as his son had. You have a grandson, Your Grace, Nelly rasped as he came closer. A grandson. The Gods had heard his prayers after all. Without warning, Nelly lifted the child and carefully placed him in Loki's waiting arms. He did not need her words to understand that she had been waiting to do that for a very long time and Loki had not the words to thank her for it. And so, he gazed down at his grandson in awe. He had been born with hair just like his late father and when Loki gently brushed his thumb over an impossibly soft cheek, the baby opened his eyes to reveal irises as blue and clear as the ones he had fallen in love with so many years ago. It was as if he held Brady in his arms and Loki was loathe to let him go. He is beautiful, dear daughter, he whispered. She smiled a tired smile and reached out to tenderly graze her fingers along the infant's fine hair. I would have you name him, Your Grace. It was enough to have him tearing his gaze away from his enchanting grandson to favour Nelly with a look of surprise. Her smile was all the answer he needed and Loki pressed a kiss to the infant's brow, watching in delight as tiny fingers curled around his own. Bradaigh, I call you, the second of his name, Prince of Asgard, Duke of Vorga- Brady, she cut in and when Loki looked to her, there were tears in her eyes. Brady, he agreed, and the baby smiled. size