Fun Fact: The title is thought to be one of Loki’s names, it is also one of the dictionary translations of the word monster
There is nothing and fire scorching his skin and an emptiness that seeps inside. He falls and he falls and he is trapped in the void in everything at once. Voices nip at him, bite his edges and scream and cry and beg and claw his skin through armor that protects him from nothing.
His mind is gone and the voices seep in in in and tear him apart into the smallest of pieces and chew him and spit him out and he tries to reach for the bits of himself but he can’t find his fingers.
He lands sharply, in nothing, and a spike of pain like a spear through his chest. His eyes don’t work, for a moment he is terrified the spells that make him are starting to break down.
A touch ghosts across his cheek.
Vision snaps into place (so violently that he feels ill) and he is staring into glowing blue eyes, frozen in a way that burns.
Loki thinks he tries to respond, but there is hardly a breath in him and what is there only falls apart in a halfway broken exhale. The blue eyes grin big teeth like daggers. They lean in close.
“You have come so far, little toy, little piece of carved wood…” it grins wider at the flinch Loki can feel showing in his eyes. “No, not a toy at all, are you.” The touch trails down his jaw, lingers on the chords of his neck. “You are an instrument.”
There is a shiver that runs through Loki. It does not stop; it trembles inside him until he can feel the hum of it in every fiber.
“The song you started before you fell was lovely, but it was left unfinished. We will give you a new song to play, yes? My mistress and I. We shall write the chords and you will be beautiful.”
Fathoms of nothing are hidden in the blue eyes. Nothing. And Loki cannot look away, can only see one thing and it is The End. The End and it is everything and terrifying and in desperation Loki reaches. There is a cry lodged in his throat.
“They have stolen an item of mine, you see,” the voice lilts. “Just a small, little thing. A glove. If you fetch it for me I shall provide you with what you need.
“I can give it to you. I can take them and after I am through, when I grow tired of playing, crushing them apart like so many shards of glass, when they beg for my mistress’s mercy, then I will give them to you. Anything you do will seem as relief,” he steps in close. “They would love you then,” there is a softness that covers the blade of the voice.
“I can make them love you.”
The titan holds out his hand.
“Come with me,” the whisper, heavy and wet, skims his ear like fingers, “and we will make the universe scream.”
Then the hand reaches inside. And twists.
Loki remembers nothing.
Story 5: Becoming