The Old Scars | Loki Hurt/Comfort

Shed Tears

*still Loki's memory of a past incident*

"Not you, Loki, my precious..." Mother sobs into my shoulder so quietly it is almost inaudible.

The sadness lying in her voice pierces my heart like a spear.

Mother straightens her posture a bit and I put my head down on her chest in the soft embrace she is giving me. I can't hold the tears back any longer, no, I really can't and I don't want to anymore. I am a desperate mess cowering in her arms on the floor of my bedroom, drops of salty water streaming down my face after being held back for too long. My body is shaking from all that I feel at the same time, and yet nothing but a quiet whimper leaves my mouth in fear Thor might hear me.

"Loki? Why are you crying, brother?" he was already repeating with a voice that was filled with more curiosity than sorrow.

"Thor, darling, can't you see your brother is sad?"

"Yes, but who hurt him?"

Of course, he didn't understand. Thor, the always praised prince, the boy who does so great at everything having to do with fighting, hunting, and all in between. And even when he can't master something on the first try, it is no problem at all. He is never called a disappointment, he is never ridiculed, he is never criticized.

What can he possibly understand about the way I'm feeling when for years, he and his friends have been finding it incredibly entertaining to make fun of me whenever they get the chance to?

The lauded prince and the misfit.

Certainly, tomorrow Sif and the others will already know about this incident.

"Crybaby" they'll call me.

"Make him leave, please," I whisper, making sure Thor can't possibly hear me.

I want to be alone with Mother.

"Thor, don't you want to accompany your father on his short visit to Vanaheim?"

"Yes!", he cheers with enthusiasm. "Behave well while I'm away, brother!", he then adds.

After that, he's gone. Out of the door and probably already thinking about something entirely different.

Immediately, I let out a louder whimper. Not a wail yet, for I am still too scared anyone's but Mother's ears might catch it.

"I know, my dear, I know. But you must understand that he doesn't mean it. He cares about you deeply and more than you can probably imagine."

"Then why does he always make fun of me? Why especially in front of his friends?"

"He really does that?"

In her voice lies genuine concern.

"Always," I weep, "They all hate me. Everyone hates me."

I press my face deep into the delicate fabrics Mother's dress is made of, quivering against the arms she has laid around me protectively. My own hurt badly by now, the fresh wounds burning. I feel so bad for staining those fine textiles with my unworthy blood.

"You're only telling yourself that, darling."

"But Mother, I speak the truth! They all-"

"Shh, Loki, I believe you," she pats my back softly, "but I'm sure in this case things are not as you perceive them."

I can't find a response to that in time.

Her voice soothing and calming, Mother utters the following words with even greater care.