I cannot figure you out.
You, the reason I cannot escape this awful plane, the one who draws me back even when I try to flee beyond the grasp of Asgard and its threat of execution, and I hate you dearly for it.
I want to strip you bare of skin and watch as you bleed at my feet, to take that glowing falseness of a heart you call your own and twist, to crush that light and watch you fall to your knees before me. I want your death, your pain, the sweetness of revenge and yet...
Whenever I come to you, to slide a blade through your pathetic shield of mortal skin, I find myself pausing, caught by your dull humour and your attempts at wit, by your intelligence so beyond that of any other of your race. I find myself curious and somehow you take my hate and douse it with your warm smiles and your offers of friendship.
And you must know it wounds me, to be so encaptured by a mere mortal, to be so absorbed by the brown of your eyes and the taste of your lips. Perhaps that's why you allow it, because you know that for me the pain of what I feel for you is far greater than any pain your hate could inflict.
Perhaps you will be the death of me, your kindness a falsity that will lead me only further into the fires of my own destruction, but for now, while I cannot bring myself to strike a final blow, I can at least strip you bare in other ways.
For I know you intimately, so intimately, know all the secrets you've bestowed upon me between heavy bedsheets, loose tongued and exhausted by our... partnership.
I could tear you apart that way, take all your words and your darkness and burn you with it, drive you mad. For I am known for my skill with words, my skill for twisting them, and you are so close to falling over that steep precipice already...
But I find even that is beyond me, I hang you so far over the edge but find myself bringing you back, like a cat with a mouse. It tears at me that I am not certain which of us is the cat.
And that, perhaps, is why I cannot kill you, even when my hatred for you is often so intense. Because in those moments, when we are close, I cannot truly figure you out. You and your intricacies and issues, you intrigue me. You take my words and give your own sharp insults back even when you cannot hope to win.
You are a puzzle to be solved.
But puzzles can be solved, and when I solve yours I will cut out your clever tongue and feed it to you, I will use my words and my methods to break you. I will kill you slowly as you are killing me.
One day when you are distracted I will slide the knife home.