Visitations

8

Loki sat in his usual spot on the floor, his back pressed against the wall, surrounded by small mountains of books. It was as quiet as it always was. Pages turned. Stone walls. Misplaced furniture. Glass. The persistent hum of magic. Darkness permeated only by artificial light. He turned another page. That fast, he'd already forgotten what the last page had been about. And the one before. And the one before that. What book am I even reading? He turned it over in his hands and for as long as he stared at the cover, his mind made no connection. There were words but they wouldn't stay still. Words and letters jumbled. Runes bled into long lines that failed to convey anything more.

Somehow he found himself turning the pages again as if it were some habitual action he wasn't capable of stopping. And then he began to notice another sound that hadn't been there a moment before. Or had it? It was water. Maybe. Running water. Splashing as the stream was randomly interrupted. But it wasn't just water. It was humming. At first, it was humming, but slowly it formed a melodic tone. One he hadn't heard in a long time. Her voice would forever be recognizable, either in word or song, but she never seemed to sing the same song twice. So the lyrics would always seem foreign. This time, the song was just as jumbled as the book cover had been, but somehow he knew it.

"I know you like this song," Naomi called from beyond his line of sight. Loki couldn't help but smile, his eyes still following the dancing words on the page. "I hear you hum it sometimes," she taunted. Her head poked out from around the corner where her shower was hidden. Her wet hair was wrapped in a purple towel that matched the others in her bathroom. She gave him a menacing smile before disappearing again and continuing her song even louder than before.

She emerged a few moments later fully clothed in a dress he wasn't sure was hers. It was dark blue with bright orange and white flowers. Her hair was dry and it was halfway between what he'd come to know as normal and the messy state it had succumbed to during her incarceration. Naomi sauntered across her cell, barefoot as usual. She settled into her usual spot on the floor, after leveling him the telling look she always had. He caught her eyes over the top of his book. She laid down and went back to her doodling like nothing had changed at all.

"I've missed this," she said. "I'd give it all up to be here again."

Loki looked up and she was as she had been: a white tank top and torn shorts. Bruises included. He finally put the book aside and sat up, but by the time he'd centered his gaze on her, she'd moved again. She was lounging on his bed, which was now the centerpiece of her cell. It still looked like she was drawing something but the only thing in front of her was a pillow. "What's on your mind, pretty boy?"

"Mother thinks something is wrong."

"Wrong with me?" Loki shook his head. "Wrong with us?"

"No."

"Then what does it matter?"

He looked away. It shouldn't matter. But it did. His mind was a mess with matters that hadn't crossed his thoughts in a long time.

Yesterday hadn't been the expected commendations by a long shot, but learning that the Allfather wasn't doing well of late – it was almost a pleasant surprise. He couldn't help but remember his brief time upon the throne. He had earned it. But he also remembered the horrid look of disappointment that followed, as he fell from the Bifrost, only to be swallowed by the branches of Yggdrasil. If Odin had ever felt the remorse his mother spoke of, it was then. "I could have done it, father. For you. For all of us." But his fall through space had shredded his every need for anything remotely redeeming.

When Loki looked up again, she was gone. Her drawings remained, but her cell was empty. It looked like it had when they left, before it had been cleaned. Her minimal personal effects were scattered throughout, as well as the few gifts he'd provided her over the months. And the bloodstain of the guard he'd killed remained. Everything was as he remembered it, now with far more clarity than his troubles with the book before. But he was alone.