Loki stood in front of a shelf of books inside a library that he used to frequent when he lived in New York city. He couldn’t recall the last time he entered that particular library and wasn’t entirely certain why he was there now. He stared idly at the books on the shelf, his stance wavering a little as his legs grew tired from the long standing position he remained in for several minutes. Other than that, Loki appeared nearly motionless.
He felt the way he did when he first came to Midgard, like an outsider, like someone who didn’t belong here or anywhere in particular. It was only rarely Loki was greeted with this feeling of unwelcome, however, and it was a feeling he did best to dismiss. Midgard was his home, even if he had to live through aliases and keep an extremely low profile to stay away from trouble. It was uncommon for Loki to live in one place for very long. He felt like he had to keep drifting from home to home and had felt this way for so long that staying in one place for too long seemed odd and stirred feelings of anxiety for him. Yet the grief that drowned Loki for the past month and a half had replaced those other feelings, occupied Loki’s mind and influenced Loki’s thoughts. Otherwise he would feel increasingly uncomfortable in his present living situation.
Instead, Loki couldn’t really fathom a next step in his life. In some ways, Loki was afraid. He feared being faced with loss again. He told himself living the life of impermanence was the only way for him to avoid suffering. He feared getting attached to anyone and anything now. His frequent experiences in life provided Loki little to no hope for a brighter future.
It seemed to Loki that any happiness he could attain was only granted to him by the cosmos so it may be swiftly and harshly taken away from him. Loki shouldn’t expect a future of warmth and light, of happiness and freedom from his own ailing thoughts, worries, fears, and inhibitions. It seemed through his life experiences, all good things would be taken away from him, that perhaps such was undeserved, and the only things Loki could expect in the long run of his life was darkness, coldness, and a crushing weight of insecurity and fear.
He couldn’t think of anything that suggested otherwise. He considered everything in his millennia-long life, and with that potion he made some weeks ago, he was also forced to relive his whole life in the blink of an eye. The only way he could summarize his life was that it was one of tragedy, brief moments of joy sprinkled about, though those things only ever seemed to set Loki up for more tragedy.
In most cases, Loki would convert his woe to anger, his catastrophic moments in life converted into fuel for rage. He couldn’t deny it that destroying things felt good to him. Even when there was no particular reason for it, sometimes Loki would engage in violent tendencies. Yet, it seemed, he changed a lot since calling Midgard his home. He couldn’t be aware of the reasons why that was. Aside from the occasional curse from a magical greyfaced being that might inspire Loki to become vehement again, Loki seemed mostly calm and quiet in the many months he spent on Midgard. Essentially, Loki lost all desire to con others to believe he was things he was not, especially after discovering his entire life was a lie. He retired his title as the god of mischief and lies long ago.
And with the loss of his lover a month’s time ago, Loki’s mind reeled on all his losses, not just of that of his lover. He lost his children, all of them. Fenrir locked in a basement in Asgard, Jormungandr cursed to an entrapment under Midgard’s sea, Hel essentially chained to Niflheim, Sleipnir never really respected as more than his appearance, and Vali and Narfi to death. He lost several other lovers in the past, to various things, not just to death. He counted the disappearance of Ms. Romanov and his unborn daughter as a loss. He lost his mother and a sense of family. He lost his home in Asgard, and his home on Midgard. He knew he lost himself along the way as well.
So counting all his losses, Loki struggled to count reasons to continue. Loss was something Loki could deal with, perhaps. But being given some hope and happiness only for it to be taken away from him time and time again, Loki wasn’t certain if he had strength left in him to endure that kind of loss again.
It was for that reason Loki struggled to fathom the next phase in his life. He felt unprepared. More like, he felt there was nothing he could do to prepare for whatever life decided to do to him next. He wasn’t certain why he came to this particular library on this particular day, why he picked to stand in front of this particular shelf of books for an unparticularly long amount of time, frought with indecision of what to do next. He simply was and did.
Eventually, Loki lifted a hand, the first sign of life from him in several minutes. He rested his pale, thin hand on one of the book spines, gently pulling it from the shelf and cradled it in his other hand as he flipped through the pages. His actions were idle, he was barely paying attention to whatever book he picked up. He simply felt he should do something besides stand and stare awkwardly at a shelf of books.