foolyoutwice | (no subject)

The private chambers in this place are horrible. Oh, they're better than the unfathomable sensation of the wormhole, there's no argument about that. On the other hand, they're just good enough to be--depressing? Loki would almost rather sleep hard under the trees than in this bland impersonal domain of plastic and wood veneer, ugly overhead lighting, and dingy wall-to-wall carpeting.

There's also a piece of Art on the wall. Presumably it's Art. He's been staring at it ever since he woke up: a green footbridge arched over a green pond filled with water-flowers, all surrounded with more green. It's probably peaceful; it reminds him of the swirling lights of the void. Loki amuses himself for a few minutes with substituting other illusory images over it. A painting from Frigga's study. A moving illustration from a book he'd read a hundred times as a child. An image of those same swirling lights that he's been staring at for months, or however long it's been.

Well. He doesn't want to be caught lying around in bed. Thor had proposed (heartily) that they meet for breakfast. You must try this new Midgard drink, brother. They call it coffee! Presumably he'd discovered it in that dusty settlement where the Destroyer had found him. So Loki washes in the cramped bathing room, dresses (one pleasant surprise: fresh clothing, his colors and his styles, in the drawers), and strides down the hall to pound on Thor's door.

Hopefully he's waking him from a luxurious sleep.

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"You know it's bound to be a scintillating conversation when you have to step outside before it even starts."

That's fine, though. He lets Thor lead the way out--but he's almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. Let's get this over with.

(For one thing, he has a few favors to ask of Thor when he can.)

Thor laughs, acknowledging the point.

And also a certain history of scintillating brotherly conversations. It's almost jarring to have the Milliways lawn and forest and mountains unfold before them, instead of the familiar vistas of Asgard or Vanaheim.

And it brings sharply to his mind that strange, unsatisfying conversation with Loki's mirrored shadow in Harry Monmouth's body, only a few weeks ago. It's with a feeling of déjà vu that he drops Mjölnir to its strap and half-turns to Loki, offering an arm: shall they?

Oh, by all means. Let's go.

Well then. Off they go, into the wild blue yonder!

Or at least in a long parabola, like a particularly glittering mortar, towards the Milliways mountains. Thor picks a different stretch of mountaintop than last time, but the salient points remain the same: rocky, scenic, windswept, deserted except for some trees and wildlife, and surrounded by the kind of sweeping vistas that any Asgardian prince subconsciously expects for little family tiffs.

Yep. Loki glances around, and gives a wry little nod. This view has Family Conversation written all over it. "I think we're well away from any innocent bystanders. So." He spreads his hands and smiles a bland smile. "You want to talk?"

Asgardian princes probably also expect sweeping vistas and/or monumental gold-plated architecture for a tea party, but: yes. Family Conversation.

There's nowhere to start but bulling right through to the fundamental question: "Loki, why?"

Yes. Of course. That's where Thor would start, and it's such a stupid place to start--why what? Why everything? Go back a thousand years, Thor.

Loki paces away from him, too restless. "I was born to be a king. Isn't that what Father always told us? Here's a throne: you can't have it, but you should." A look over his shoulder at Thor. "I didn't plan your banishment. That was all Father." (All-Father.) "Well. Let's be accurate. That was all you."

Given the opportunity to show how unsuited he was to rule, Thor grasped it with both hands.

Thor stares at him.

(That last sally stings -- because, he knows, it's true.)

"If you minded Father's choice so, why did you not say?"

And the thing is: for Thor, it really is that simple.

And it's Loki's turn to stare. How can Thor even ask that?

"Who would have listened? Father? Ohhh, he made his mind up the day I was--brought home." Not the day I was born. "You? You didn't want to hear it. You could have known any day--any day in a hundred years--if you'd had an ear for anything other than the clash of weapons and the cheering crowds."