// I’m so, so sorry to hear this. Best of wishes, your support and your thoughtful questions will be missed. I am still going to tag you in the murals meta when I write it. I hope that you find what it is you seek out of deleting your blog ❤
This scene used to make me angry at Loki but now I’m just sad. Sad that Frigga felt personally slighted when Loki disowned himself of Odin (who disowned him first). Sad that she felt she had to emotionally coerce him into picking both parents or neither. Sad that Loki had to stand his ground even when he knew it would hurt his mother.
I don’t understand how the narrative always posits that Thor is the only one who tries to reconcile. Loki DOES try to reconcile, but in LOKI’S way, as LOKI is able. Just because he can’t be the kind of good that Thor demands he be, doesn’t mean his efforts don’t count.
Even given the script he was given, you can see Tom trying so hard to show Loki straining to reach Thor but unable to succumb just yet fully to Thor’s idea of working together. Everything he posits here is logical and wise, but Thor won’t listen to it because Loki didn’t foolishly give up his bargaining position with the Grandmaster to be physically there. That, and somehow, it’s “Loki’s fault” that the Nine Realms fell into disarray and Odin became weak and died, when we know from TDW that odin was already on the brink of death both physically and spiritually once Frigga had been killed. People in the theater when I watched this AUDIBLY said “Oh, come ON” when Thor turned to Loki and blamed him.
All unclear thinking which can be partially explained by the fact that they’re both mourning Odin–especially Thor, who was closer to Odin–but because of the odd pacing of the film, the poignancy of Odin’s death was lost the moment the scene was over. So we’re left kind of puzzling over why Thor is being so petulant and pigheaded, when he has gone through four movies of growth now, and learned better.
Agh man I just. So much in this movie was JUST SLIGHTLY off and somehow it all added up to the movie being a weird parody of itself which the indie pop dada tone of the script doesn’t fully explain or justify.
Also this scene shows very well one of the main problem in their relashionship. Loki trying to reach Thor with his own ideas, thoughts, feelings. And Thor denies it instantly without thinking, cause it doesn’t match with his own perspective on things.
Basically Loki wants a brother who understands him, and Thor wants this perfect brother, his own half, who goes wherever he goes, thinks whatever he thinks, always by his side.
That’s I think also one of the reasons why Loki learned to manipulate so well and why he prefers this type of communication. Cause it always worked better.
#Hammer Drop
It also ties in the “I thought we would fight side by side forever” speech. Because it could be seen as heartwarming, but it also could be seen as Thor having no clue and no desire to learn what Loki thought or wanted and simply dragging him along into his fantasy life. Because the Loki of Thor 1 doesn’t look like he even likes physical fighting, but of course Thor would fail to notice such a basic detail about his own brother.
He appears beyond the Bridge, what splinters remain of it, drawn vividly back to his first senseless battle with his brother, his empty threats of doing Jane Foster harm, when his hair was still the length of a boy’s and his heart only freshly cloven in two.
But he comes to Asgard’s ruins, eyes wet with windburn and sorrow, with longing for the beautiful woman atop his horse, from behind. He slips through the viscous slimy vaguely womb-like membrane between realms, stepping from on board the refugee ship destined for slaughter, with his new and secretmost quest imparted, into the recent past, to protect what parts of the universe are soon to literally disintegrate.
“My love,” he calls, voice trembling only slightly, and steps toward the royal party. “Please, have patience, just a little longer. Dismount and join me.”
He bows–the prince and once-king–to his bride, deeply, raven curls tumbling across his shoulder.
“I beg of you. This is of grave importance. Beyond that which any of our ancient prophecies have foretold.”
the hair on the back of her neck stands on end before she hears his voice. it’s weak, soft, not at all the loki that had left asgard. she’s already off the horse before the two guards can think to ascertain that it is truly loki – sigyn knows. she half kneels, half collapses to his level and sweeps him in a crushing embrace before he can be taken away from her again or worse, he fades between her fingers. she prays this is flesh and blood, and no illusion. her heart will not take it. there are tears streaking long across her cheeks until her mouth tastes of salt.
“you’re not making sense, my love.” she murmurs fiercely, cradling her husband’s face between slender fingers, memorizing and committing everything she can in this moment to her memory. he has changed, that much is certain, but sigyn cannot be entirely sure of how much. “ancient prophecies – i do not understand. where have you been? what’s happened to you, loki?” she half begs, because it hurts to know he’s been harmed and sigyn has been powerless to protect him, as is her duty. her healing magic warms her fingertips, swirling with a soft energy up her arms to encase the pair of them. to ease his distress, so she hopes.
“tell me what i must do to help you.”
“ … . I don’t know,” Loki gasps, and finds himself at the brink of tears, all his calculations and machinations and schemes lost as though tossed over the Rainbow Bridge, over the waterfall into the abyss of space. “What I am called upon to do does not yet make full sense to me, and yet I am told by a most ad-hoc ally that it is the only way, in over fourteen million possible outcomes.”
Mischief’s cold hands close over Constancy’s; she is warm and soft and he adores and pities her for being saddled with his propensity to attract chaos.
“Find Heimdall. The same Heimdall that I exiled. Take all that remains of Asgard, ALL of it, every man, woman and child, and begin evacuation to earth, via the Bifrost. The man … who took me from you, the madman who made my mind burn for vengeance, and for a false safety I never obtained, he is coming back, and he wants something in the Vault. I must take it to an ally, an ally on earth, so that she can destroy it.”
He seizes her hands from his face, and brings them to his chest.
“ Sigyn… . ! If you see me again, and I appear to know nothing of this, do not tell me. I am displaced in time. I am from the future … but not a point in the future that renders all hope irretrievable.”
And he is in Chitauri space, having slivers of his body, wherever nerve endings collect most potently, cut away by long thin surgical needles, Ebony Maw droning endless litanies of disillusionment and woe in his ears, reminding him that he is alone, reminding him that any love he’s known has been contingent at best, reminding him that no one has come looking for him and no one ever will …
STOP.
“Tony.”
He speaks the name with a mother’s gentleness. He steals across the room, and perches on the edge of the bed, in the room that reeks of sweat; trauma is not beautiful, it is wearing a corpse with maggots inside you every day.
He catches his face: gently, gently.
“You are not there. You are not there. You are with me, and safe.”
He keeps one hand on Tony’s face, the other arm opening for him to collapse against, and hide, if he wishes.
“My darling, you don’t exist solely as a device, or tool. You are not a convenience item. Breathe, and weep, and rest. It is alright.”
At the first touch, Tony flinches, a quiet whimper escaping him as terrified, grief filled eyes blink unseeingly in the dimly lit dark of the room. It is the persistent gentleness that finally draws his focus back to the present, his gaze sharpening as it settles on the Trickster god.
“Loki,” he breathes, the god’s name falling from his lips with all the relieved hope and reverence of a prayer before he’s all but throwing himself at the other in a desperate need for the comfort he offers.
He sobs brokenly as he curls into the god’s chest, hiding himself from the world and his nightmares, finallyallowing himself to actually grieve, knowing and trusting that he’s completely safe in Loki’s presence.
He’s not even sure how much time passes before he quiets once more, exhaustion settling in in the aftermath, though he refuses to let go, instead trying to hold on even tighter.
“Stay?” he begs weakly against his chest, unable to bring himself to look up to meet the god’s gaze, as if afraid of his plea being rejected. “Please? Just… stay with me? I don’t want to be alone…”
“You needn’t ask,” Loki half-reassures, and half-chides. “One moment, love. Let me get into the bed.”
He disentangles himself gently, keeping a hand in Tony’s, maintaining a lifeline of contact with the physical, the present and the safe. He remembers how crucial it was to grasp hold of something, anything, to convince himself that there would be an end to the agony and the isolation.
He makes full use of his long limber frame, to curl like a nautilus shell around his lover, and provide him a living nest in which to burrow.
“What you must do, is breathe. That is all … breathe, and listen to my voice. There is nothing else. Nothing, but your breath, and my voice.”
His words are hypnotic, woven with the quelling power of Seidhr, a web of tranquility spun over Tony’s frantically firing synapses. Loki waits for Tony’s breathing to deepen, before he ventures, very softly,
“When you wish to tell me what you saw, in your dreams … I will listen.”
“Brother, if you had it your way, all nights would be defined as ‘fine nights,’ so that you had an excuse for mead, but!”
Loki follows his sibling to the overturned tree overlooking the ocean, and perches there. He conjures his own mug–decked with gold serpent trim, of course–and extends it wryly.
“Alright, furbish me with that rank stuff. The things I do for you.”
The stars above form constellations unknown on Asgard; still, the brothers are home.
“As the Midgardian’s would say, guilty as charged.” Thor beamed, because Loki was absolutely correct. Any night was a good excuse for mead, not that one NEEDED an excuse to induldge in such a delightful drink, right?
He seats himself beside Loki upon the overturned tree, giving a wry smile as he begins to fill his brother’s tastefully decorated cup with that of the wine, humming a jaunty, nonsensical tune as he does so.
“For me? Surely you would drink without my coaxing.” He comments. “Though perhaps, not as often.” Allowing the mug to fill itself near to the brim before he tips back the wine jug, setting it down and raising his own, the mead bubbling.
“A toast, brother, to our future, and our continued strength.” He quips, clinking mugs with Loki before taking a hearty swig, feeling as content and at peace as the Thunder God possibly can.
“Perhaps, though not unto excess,” Loki amends.
He muses upon the rare instances of his intoxication. It’s difficult to say when the Liesmith has been properly drunk, in good part because he conceals it so well. A demeanor still quieter than usual, perhaps warmer as well, rosier cheeks and drowsier eyes, that’s the effect of a little too much wine on the God of Mischief. Other than that Loki could be mistaken for sober, for the fear of being an object of sport or ill will is too great.
He sips the piss-bitter mead and grimaces.
“I’ll never get a taste for this stuff. It is very much like cramped, foul smelling quarters that you still love because they are your home.”
She did not have to turn to know which of her children
–she would never abandon him as his kindred had, not when the memory of a mewling blue babe far too weak to survive in his icy climate, yet soft against her breast as she held him close, urged him to take the nutrients needed for LIFE, never would she abandon that child–
was approaching her.
The Allmodir turned softly, hair falling down over her shoulder in waves not unlike the life-giving grain she blessed with good growth each season. Her eyes were intelligent yet soft around the edges as she smiled softly, a warm life-rich gesture that spoke to just why she was the watcher of families and fertility. She was softness and provision cloaked with warmth, with an underlying hint of something just sharp enough to strike fear in the back of her foes’ minds.
“Something I can do for you, my SON?”
Loki balks before his mother
–not because she frightens him, how could she, when her thick plait of hair is strawberries and clean sunshine, when her arms are safety, when her hands no matter the cleanliness bear the slight stains of various dyes and potions and worlds opened unto him when everyone he knew was fair and robust and gregarious and out of his reach, worlds that became his own, a merry mischief that begat his own, Norn stones and chants and the ancient magpie’s cry that is now his own, no–
because he reveres her time alone to forecast the future and to meditate. Because he reveres her.
“If it is an inconvenient time, I can return later, mama,” he assures her, with a warmth spared only for the august queen before him. “The matter is not pressing, only a new spell I have developed, that I believe you would enjoy.”
The wolf approaches the grains that feed its kills, fondly.
icyxmischief 