New found love (LokixReader)

Chapter one: Childhood tears

I press my hand to my cheek, staring down at the gleaming floors, scorching tears streaming down my face.

"Get up, you worthless child," a deep voice snarls from above me, devoid of any remorse, malice dripping from every venomous word.

I slowly raise my gaze to meet my father's hostile expression, his hand still poised to strike, a silent threat should I dare to disobey.

"Father, please. I-I never meant any disrespect towards you or Mother. I only wish to go outside, just for a brief moment," I stammer, my voice trembling despite my efforts to maintain composure, the sobs and fear choking my words.

I flinch as my eyes flicker to his hand, desperately scanning for any sign that he might strike me again.

I implore my father for even the smallest morsel of freedom, all the while keeping my hand firmly pressed against my throbbing cheek, barely noticing the scarlet mark that is surely forming there.

My mother lets out a merciless laugh, a sound born of a rage so intense it borders on terrifying.

"Why would we ever permit a creature like you to tarnish our esteemed kingdom?" she sneers, her face rigid, her features twisted into a scowl of disgust.

"M-mother, please," I choke back a sob, knowing all too well that showing weakness will only fuel their fire. Weakness is intolerable, and though I am still young, I have endured enough punishment to understand that their cruelty knows no bounds. They are remarkably creative in enforcing penalties that shatter the mind and spirit.

A palpable look of revulsion creeps across her face, as though my very existence is an affront to her, a constant source of torment.

"I strongly advise that you remove yourself from my sight, child."

"Yes, Fa- Sir," I quickly correct myself, scrambling to my feet and hurrying out of the throne room, the one place where their cruelty feels inescapable.

As I rush down the hall, I steal a glance at a grand family portrait framed in glorious gold and adorned with lustrous pearls. The edges are dusted with crushed diamonds, giving it a heavenly radiance-a prized possession among many.

Within its radiant frame, my parents are immortalized in regal glory. My mother, with her stately bearing and a genuine smile, her blonde locks cascading in majestic waves down her shoulders, her hypnotic blue eyes captivating any observer-the peerless queen Vanaheim has ever known.

Beside her stands my father, his crown adorned with Vanaheim's finest gems, his sharp features rendered in stark contrast. His eyes glint with satisfaction, his smile suggestive of genuine joy. Yet his towering frame exudes power and authority, the backbone of the family, the formidable ruler of Vanaheim, the king.

At the center is a young boy, a prince, with tidy ash-blond hair, a sly grin, and striking blue eyes. He epitomizes charm and cunning. My brother Froekn, adored by the public and my parents alike.

But I am conspicuously absent from that portrait, despite being two years old when it was crafted, despite being Vanaheim's princess, despite being their daughter...

I study the bright-eyed child for a moment, then my parents' doting faces, fully aware that they would still choose Froekn over me, even now.

Froekn passed away when he was still relatively young, perhaps in his twenties. I'm not sure. He was considered grown but still so young. My parents refuse to discuss his passing-instead, they wield his name as a weapon against me, a constant reminder that I will never measure up to him... that I am unworthy of love.

He was dispatched to fight alongside the Asgardians as captain of Vanaheim's grandest army before Surtur decimated him and half the army, vowing revenge on Asgard. My parents were devastated, and since then, I have borne the brunt of their anger, frustration, and blame, a personal punching bag for them-both physically and emotionally.

Froekn's eyes, frozen in that portrait, seem to pierce through me, mocking me, taunting me from his eternal frame, making me feel as though my worth is nothing. In that instant, I begin to believe his silent accusations.

Tears continue to stream down my face, and I catch a glimpse of tormented eyes reflected in the polished frame. Eyes that have endured more pain and more abuse, eyes that seem older, as if they belong to someone who has witnessed far more than they should have. I stare into those eyes-my own eyes.

*

I sit up with a start, gasping, beads of sweat peppering my brow, tears threatening to spill over once more.

I struggle to regulate my breathing, reminding myself that it was just a dream-a flashback, really. But the pain lingers, along with the scars that have never fully healed.

The memory may have faded, but the torment endures.