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His hands are bathed in his brother’s blood, his brother, the liar, the reaper, burning death’s keeper, who killed for silence with sorrow in his soul, soaked to his bones in red.
“Loki,” he whispers, grimacing, reaching to him with his sullied hand.
“What have you done,” he asks the silent hulking figure, watching from behind. “What have you done, what have you done to brother mine.”
“Have you not been listening to a word I’ve said,” Laufey asks, his earnest plea another poison flung to stick and dig deep, deep into the marrow. “He is not your brother, and I am your father and you are the heir I name to my great endeavour.”
He has stared at Thor’s reach for too long; it resembles nothing more than a throng, each finger a new accusation, rising up and heated from death and rot.
He tilts his head to one side and stands, fluidly avoiding those death-filed hands.
“Yes,” he agrees. “But my complacency comes at a price.”
“Loki, no,” his brother groans.
“Quiet, Thor, your betters are discussing the future of the world.”
Laufey settles in satisfaction, hands laced and pleased over sullied passion, his end in reach of the stars.
“You have turned and faced me before this great patsy, your scape goat in all things horrid and rancid. For this I must thank you; your ice burns across landscapes, shifts them like glaciers in sudden recession and in this you are right; I am your son.
“But your poison is potent and your lies your portent and your death is mine to demand.
“For if I am your inherent, your heir now apparent, then only your blood will suffice to fuel my era, my future endeavor soaking and fertile in mud.”
He turns to their audience, the twisted creatures in their seats, haunted and broken with their own desire carved like precious maps in their skin. His teeth cleave open his jaw, showing the pink all around, a grimace or a smile unknown.
“And you, all you creatures, who call yourself people, who scuttle on the earth like sick rats, you have brought active, your own ruin passive, and I am your keeper now.
“Let the stars break from heaven, cleave into your havens and show who you all really are. Rejoice in your revel, this broken man is leveled and I am your happiness now.”
He whips back around, hands curled like claws as his toes grip the ground, firm and rooted in blood.
“And you father’ve made me, and now I will take thee, back into the hell that you’ve crawled out from.”
“Loki,” Thor whispers, slipping in his own spilt ichor as he battles to face all his fears. For Loki, his Loki, his precious brother so frail and kind, Loki turns now to him and smiles, his features softened, but there is nothing of comfort in his wile.
His hand raises up, palm to the midnight sky. It shines in reflection, a magical inflection, the syrum that beats through their world.
“Oh brother,” he says. “Your lies were too sweet for me, your rage your defeat for thee but your madness does not have to subsume. Do not fear, I will be your true brother, your footsteps, your agony, my forged anatomy, together we will burn it all down. ”
Thor shudders and gasps as the stars break past, the ceiling come crashing around. Laufey shudders beneath, horror in his reach as his mortal thralls scream in excess, running for an escape that has now been recessed, trapped in face of their lies.
“Do not fear what you have made me,” Loki says to the blind. “This is your legacy. All of you, return to your holes.
“This is my agency, the rule that created me, and aren’t they glorious to behold.
“Kneel to me, kneel to what I will bring you, the Liesmith’s people, your mirrors are smoke and cloud.
There is no fitter ending, no bitter sweet rending, you glorious creatures, mud in your features.
And I, I am your King.”