Prisoner

Darkness

Warning: Self-harming mentions. 

Also, to anyone who is a Norwegian speaker, I'm sorry. I used Google Translator for this, and we know how bad it translates. I swear I'm going to learn soon!

I was only able to get dressed in yesterday's clothes and comb my messy hair before Mother entered my prison. She was smiling proudly, being completely aware that her plan has indeed succeeded. She probably noted the mess in my bed, but she didn't comment on it. She already knew about my feelings for Thor. She was the only one with whom I have talked about them when they have aroused first. Although, when she asked why my truth runes were still glowing, I just had to look at her. She shook her head, pity on her face, while she caressed my cheek and erased my runes. Since she was the one who created them with her seiðr, she was able to erase them even when they haven't finished their purpose.

Mother let the servants in to clean my prison while I was looking out of the window again. The servants left me some breakfast, but I wasn't in the mood to eat. I asked everybody to leave me alone, and luckily they did. Mother was still pitying me, and I didn't like it. I didn't need nor want anyone's pity. I didn't deserve it either. Surely not from someone as good-hearted as Mother.

I sat down in one of my reading armchairs. I looked down at my own hands, watching them tremble. Somehow, I didn't recognise them as mine. Physically, I felt them. But it seemed like they belonged to someone else. These hands which hours ago were worshipping the most beautiful god in the whole Nine Realms, and weeks ago were doing something terrible. I didn't know what exactly, but I was sure that it was horrible. The kind of thing one expected from a monster.

And wasn't it ironic? I finally did what was expected from me, a monster who was supposed to die as a baby, and I didn't feel good about it. I wasn't raised to be a monster, yet I am. There is no denying what I am. If the truth about my lineage were to come out, every Asgardian would hate me and condemn me even more than they surely do at this moment. Nobody, not even me, would complain about that. I, too, hate myself.

Moreover, what kind of monster tries to kill his own race? My chest tightened and it was hard to breathe. Not only was I a monster, but I was a monster who tried to kill an entire race of monsters as well. What did that make of me? I was worse than a regular Jotun. By the Norns, I was even worse than Laufey. Even when I lived nothing more than a few hours in Jötunheimr, they were my people. I was one of them.

My head hung low and I felt the urgent need to cry. I haven't cried in so long. Before I realised it, tears were falling down my cheeks landing on my black leather pants. I didn't make any sound as I let the tears run down. I hoped that my tears would wash away my pain, but there was no point in trying to erase it. My pain was so blinding that nothing was going to banish it. I wished then that Thor would have been more forceful with me, so I would be feeling such intense physical pain that I would forget about the other one. At least for a while. But he was tender with me, as he has always been.

Well, he was tender with me when we all thought that I was his younger brother. How can he be tender with me now that we both know the kind of worthless monster I am? How can he ever love me at least a tiny bit of what I love him when I am not worth loving? He surely was tender with me this morning because that is just the way he is with everybody. I am not worthy of his love, of his attention, of breathing the same air as him. Even when I know that he is not the almighty god everybody thinks he is, he is better than me. Anything is better than me.

I wasn't able to stand it anymore. The pain inside me was too much to bear. I stood up and went straight to the old mirror. I looked at my reflection: my cheeks were bright red, my green eyes were surrounded by red veins from all the crying, my eyelids were swollen and my black hair was a mess. I punched the mirror with enough force that it broke. Some tiny pieces of glass were inside my hand, some others were on the floor. I looked at the bigger pieces on the floor thinking that even if I were to hurt myself with them, I wouldn't get killed. I needed more than an open wound to be killed. The perks of being a god.