The order was simple, loud and clear: stay away from Loki.
He couldn't see me, he couldn't talk to me, he couldn't even know I existed, someone who —apart from Frigga— was the only one that cared for him. And for that I was a threat. Not to Loki, but to them, to «the entire universe», they had claimed. They feared I could unleash him and join him in the destruction of the world. When they put it like that, it didn't sound so bad.
I followed my orders to the letter... sort of. They said he couldn't see me, but they never mentioned anything about me seeing him. So every night I snuck to where he was imprisoned, lurking in the shadows that the tall pillars provided. Despite all, he looked serene and calmed. He entertained himself with the books his mother gave him, spending most of the day lost in those pages. There were days I could swear he felt my presence, he felt someone's eyes on him. He would all of a sudden stop his reading, stand up and walk along the windows with his arms interlaced behind his back, looking for his stalker. And all those times I had wanted to step out of the dark and introduce myself, let him know he wasn't alone in this, that there was one more person he could trust: me. But I never did it. I had never disobeyed my orders... until that day.
When I made my daily visit, Fandral had already told Loki the bad news. He managed it well until he was left alone. I watched it all. I watched the mess he made in his cell, how he tore his clothes off his body. I watched him fall apart.
He let his body hit the wall and lowly slid down to the floor. His hair was disheveled, he was clad in a dirty green t-shirt and black leather pants. His right leg was tucked under the left one and blood was coming out of his left foot. But it was when he screamed that I decided to come out of the darkness. There was pain, disillusion and sorrow in that cry. The only person who trusted him, who loved him, was now dead. And he had been denied to say his last goodbye.
His back crashed against the wall again, and he stayed still there, in silence, coping with his grief alone. I stepped out of the dark and sauntered silently towards his cell. I opened it, stepped inside and closed it again. I looked around the room, drinking in the picture. All of the furniture that Frigga had managed to sneak into his cell was now lying on the floor, broke. His clothes were discarded on the floor and torn. The white floor was now stained with his blood. It was sad. It was sad looking at the mess he had made, at the mess he was right now.
"Who are you?" his voice startled me, and I averted my gaze in his direction. His eyes were blood-shot and puffy. And there was anger and impotence dancing in the blue of his eyes.
"I'm someone who can help." I said and made my way towards him, kicking gently the objects aside on my way.
I knelt before him and sat back on my calves. I looked at him in the eye briefly before lowering my gaze to his injured foot. I took it gently in my hands and placed it carefully on my lap. I looked at it, trying to find out how deep the wound was. I grabbed the hem of my gown and tore it apart, the thin fabric giving in easily. I used the small scrap of clothing to clean the blood dripping from the slit and ripped more fabric off the gown to tie it around his foot, stopping the bleeding. I felt his gaze on me all the time, watching my every move. But he never uttered a word of complain. He just let me do.
I placed his foot back on the floor with the same gentleness as before and tucking a lock of hair behind my hair, I lifted my gaze. My eyes met his, some sort of gratitude flashing in them, but I also saw a glint of doubt. «Does she mean it?» he might have wondered. «Are these acts of kindness sincere?».
And I understood. I understood the doubt I saw in his eyes. He didn't trust anyone in this —or any realm—, and the one person he did trust no longer lived. But I did. I did mean to help him and those acts were sincere. This was me trying to show him he could trust me.
