Chapter Text
What makes a Loki a Loki?
“You’re so vain,” Sif complains, sprawled out on my bed, as I study myself in the mirror for the hundredth time.
I twist, and the golden fabric sheens with soft light. Cinched with a jade belt around the waist, the edges of the robe flutter delicately as I walk. The livery marks me as a Master Magician.
“Peacock!” she groans.
I flick my dark hair over my shoulder. “A stunning peacock, I dare say.”
Sif painstakingly rises to her feet as if resurrected by a necromancer. “The ceremony’s about to begin.”
She’s already dressed in silver ceremonial armor, accented with a cape of burgundy and woven lace. It accentuates her physicality, an effort of blood, sweat, and tears. Sif is a Warrior, one of our best.
Satisfied, I spin around to face her. “So how do I look?”
She stalks down the burnished stairs and kicks away the discarded piles of clothes in frustration. “You look great. You always do.” She throws open my door with a crash. “Now let’s go.”
I stick out my tongue at her from behind and give myself a final wink in the mirror.
“Loki!” she screeches from down the hall.
The edges of my lips turn down, but I pull them back up before I get wrinkles.
It’s showtime.
The throne room is majestic: Maroon banners hang from the golden ceiling, ushering in the stream of citizens. Twin statues protect the throne from behind, watching over the opulent seat and the man sitting atop it. Rows of onlookers wave red flags in the upper balconies, whistling and cheering as Thor, Prince of Asgard, enters the stage.
He thrusts his mighty hammer into the sky, and the crowd goes wild.
He looks like a real protagonist, decked out in silver and crimson. His winged helmet gleams under the sunlight as he glides down the center, grinning wide. He tosses Mjolnir into the air once more, catching the hammer with an entertaining flair, and the front-row guests swoon.
Sif snorts beside me at the foot of the throne. “I never thought I’d say it, but Thor might be an even bigger peacock than you.”
Charisma shines off of him like starlight, and it’s hard to look away.
Thor has always been popular among our people. How could they not love him?
Mother sighs, a step above me. “Both of you got it from your father.”
I gasp mockingly. “Mother!”
Her amber drop earrings glint against the gold. “I was in charge of etiquette and diplomacy, my dear. No more.” She smiles down at me. “Something must’ve gone wrong in your upbringings,” she jests, hands crossed elegantly over one another.
I look away, eyes wet.
It’s her way of saying that she’s proud of us.
Proud of me.
I glance at Father, sitting atop the gilded throne, eyes straight ahead. I wonder what he’s feeling now: Pride? Joy? Contentment?
I never quite know what goes on in his head.
As Thor kneels before the throne, he removes his helmet and flashes a cheeky wink to Mother. I hear her scoff and imagine her rolling her eyes.
And to think, they call me the troublemaker.
Father rises from his pedestal, his crimson cape slithering across the floor. He slams his scepter, causing it to reverberate through the crowd.
Silence falls.
“Thor Odinson.” His voice booms across the courtyard. “My heir, my firstborn.”
My big brother.
Thor’s always looked out for me, ever since I was a babe. He was always there: a blurry yellow blob and later, a solid shoulder to lean on.
“I have defended Asgard and the lives of the innocent across the Nine Realms…” Father intones, repeating a well-worn history of battle and conquest.
I know what you’re thinking: Isn’t Loki the traitorous brother who tries to steal the throne out of jealousy and greed?
Honestly, aren’t you tired of the easy villain? I want a real happy ending, thank you very much, and I know exactly what to avoid to make that a reality.
I’m a pretty self-aware insert if I do say so myself.
Sif shifts her weight to another foot, already fed up with the pomp but hiding it well. Mother, on the other hand, stands tall in her diamond-beaded gown, not a hair out of place.
And at last, Father recites the final oath: “Do you swear to cast aside all selfish ambition and to pledge yourself only to the good of the realm?”
Thor looks up at him, blue eyes shining. “I swear.”
And I know, in my heart of hearts, that he believes it. After all, I had a hand in his education.
We couldn’t let our future king grow up without reading important texts on ethics and philosophy, now could we?
“And on this day…”
I inhale, waiting for the sweet sweet moment of success.
“...I, Odin…”
If I could make Thor into a proper king, maybe I can prevent the atrocities of the future.
“...Allfather…”
If I can alter the plot, then maybe, just maybe, I can make them all proud.
“...proclaim you…”
I look up to Father, waiting for his next words.
But they never come.
His face contorts into rage and he hisses, “Frost giants!”
And my world shatters.