…I had way too much fun responding to liesmith-loki’s ask regarding Loki’s death. XDXD
The fight was finally ended.
The injured had been carted off, life’s blood trickling out as hearts labored in an effort to keep beating—the screams for help had been silenced. The cries for mercy slipping away into the twilight of after-dusk, becoming something less than phantom-like as the world stilled and stopped.
As the smoke began to clear, a woman appeared—stepping out from the Void, black and green skirts flaring elegantly about her deceptively delicate ankles. The woman eventually came to a stop before Loki’s broken and battered body, and something intangible flickered across her face and quickly smoothed into alabaster: as unreadable as marble. And as harsh, as unknowable.
She knelt, ignoring the mud that stained the expensive material of her dress, and gave a muted smile that contained all of the mysteries of the Universe.
“Come, Father,” Hel murmured, eyes as dark as the realm she oversaw. Her pale fingers reached out and traced over Loki’s equally pale, thin lips, knowing there would be no breath to caress her skin. When next she spoke, Hel’s voice quieted further, as soft and as plush as midnight-dark velvet.
“It is time to come home.”
The man stood in the middle of a great white expanse, a blank Void that seemed to encompass nothing and everything, the truest and last Mystery left to Man.
A silvery cloak rested over his shoulders, silky and finely made—a creation no mortal could truly achieve. A heavy ring rested upon his finger, runes scratched into its too-black surface: the ring was too large, too cumbersome, for the man to seemingly wear, but he carried the weight well. And, finally, a gnarled, ancient wand lay against the calloused palm of one hand: thrumming in the young man’s grasp, purring as quietly as a contented cat would for its dearest Master.
Each artifact reeked of age and power and Death.
“Ah, hello,” the man greeted as the echoing footsteps eventually came to a halt before him, and the man-boy quirked a welcoming smile at the newly arrived trickster god.
Behind thick-framed glasses, the man’s emerald eyes were kind.
He gestured towards the waiting train, murmuring in an almost absent manner: “To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.”
The Avengers stepped away, gazes averted respectfully as Odin made his way through the blood, mud, and debris of the battlefield he had never hoped to see. But hopes and dreams were oftentimes set aside in war to make way for compromise and death: sacrifices were always, always necessary.
And no one was spared.
He knelt next to Loki’s too-still body, his single eye closing as grief crested and broke and flooded his heart.
“My son,” the All-Father spoke, voice hoarse with loss and regret as he gathered his youngest child to his chest. Odin’s arms tightened and his head bowed low, pressing his face to Loki’s midnight-dark hair. “My son.”