somewhatclear | Fall (english ver.)

Title: Fall
Fandom: Thor
Pairing: gen, Loki!Centric
Rating: PG
Warning: post-movie (Thor), prequel (Avengers), suicide attempt, non-canon!Marvel, movie!Verse
Summary: When Loki chose to let go, he actually though he was going to die.

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Loki loosened slowly his grip on the spear, and suddenly he was falling.

He believed it wouldn't take him long to die. He was moving away quickly. In a few minutes Father -who wasn't his father- and his brother – who wasn't his brother- looked like two tiny spots on a larger blotch, the broken Bifrost.

He was falling, so quickly that stars and planets looked like shining wakes, like shooting stars, like the ones he and Thor used to count when they were younger, in the summer, at night. A happy memory.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to be happy, just before dying.

Loki wanted to die.

In order to make Father happy, he had killed his father.

In order to make his brother happy, he had become more reckless than him.

He believed that he would have hit something. He believed that hitting something would have killed him.

Pain. Punishment and relief. Certainty. His family wouldn't have grieved at him.

Family?

He was falling, and trying to not think about it. He was falling and time seemed to expand endlessly.

Since when was he falling? Hours, or days? Months, or years? Centuries, millenia, ages?

Time didn't make sense anymore, to him. He was stuck in space and time, and he was falling so quickly.

He was falling and thinking. His mind was tired of that stillness.

After all that time -centuries, millenia, ages?- he wanted to think. He couldn't help but think, scheme, plot.

He always got into trouble for that, back on Asgard. When he still believed he was the second son of the royal family. When he got bored, he had to plot some trick to shake Asgard's court that revelled in quiet.

Maybe his wits were something apart from himself, like a separated entity. That did make sense, thought Loki, while he was falling.

That would have explained so many things. He felt the guilt, but he didn't feel guilty himself; he dearly loved Thor, but loved upsetting him; he didn't want to die, but he had decided to.

Loki, and Loki's wits.

He was falling, and he was going to die.

Probably he wasn't. It was getting too long to really still believe it.

He couldn't help but think about it. What was going to happen? He wasn't dead, like he had thought he would have been bu then, but he couldn't go back on Asgard. Well, he couldn't do anything, in fact. Maybe he wasn't going to die, but he was still falling. If he had stopped falling, when would he have stopped? Where would he end up?

He hadn't want to think about it when he let go. Maybe he hadn't be able to. He couldn't remember. He remembered

(No, Loki)

that his brother -he wasn't his brother- was calling him. The feeling of lukewarm metal slipping from his fingers.

He wasn't going to die, and Loki was furious.

He was upset, because of all that falling to nowhere. He was upset because of those he always believed to be his people, so ungrateful. He was upset because his plans didn't turn out right, because Thor had to poke his damn nose in his business.

The anger made his fingers itch.

Suddenly his feet touched dusty Midgard's soil, and Loki was so surprised that his knees bent under his weight. He fell, and his hands touched the earth. He fell, and his forehead hit the ground, he tasted sand in his mouth and heated air filled his lungs.

Midgard. Earth. He could feel Yggdrasil sing in his magic, after the silence of the space between the worlds.

Yggdrasil singed life, and Loki's blood chanted for vindice.