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kore_logs2012-12-08 11:42 pm
laevisilaufeyson) wrote in kore_logs2012-12-08 11:42 pm
Entry tags:
and when I wake tomorrow I'll bet that you and I will walk together again
Who: Loki Laufeyson, Kobra Kid
Where: The lighthouse
What: Ill-advised peace offerings?
Counting out the passage of time through normal means and in normal ways again is... uncomfortable. Loki knows how many days he's spent here, haunting the lighthouse, but that stretch of time is meaningless without the falling of the guillotine's blade. So long he spent in the dark, existing only in the stretches of time between the falling of the drops and the inevitable retreat back into the shell of himself. That was living then, living through every moment of the agony, hating it, wanting to die, but it wasn't existing. It wasn't quite nonexistence either, merely a suspension of self, but without those moments, those long minutes in which his head had been empty of anything but the blinding, nauseating pain, to delineate quanta of time, something is lost.
Loki hates that it's so. Hates that without the punishment, without the inevitability of his revenge and his demise, twofold, without the promise of prophecy, he has nothing.
The more he thinks of it now, though, the more he wonders. Wonders if it wasn't all as nonsensical as he'd thought it was. If his taunts hadn't been correct. If they hadn't locked him away for eternity, not for the stretch of time until Ragnarök – which might never be; who knew? Perhaps in their fear and foolishness they'd doomed him to be nothing but spaces between until Odin aged and fell, and his son Thor, and his sons, all until the name Loki Laufeyson was little more than a margin note in a history book, forgotten, sustained by the box's magics for all of time.
Perhaps. Who really knows?
It isn't likely that Loki will any day soon, but he is content. Content to sit and listen to the sea rush in and out, on and on. Feel it in motion, ripples of energy soothing the edges of a tattered mind. To think about what it might be like to give up. Hide here.
What it might be like to try harder. To burn it all down and shout his rage to the heavens until someone, someone comes to pluck him from this place and wring all his long years out of him like an old washing-cloth. Death doesn't frighten him. He just can't decide whether or not he really wants it.
Yes. No.
It's a shame that it hadn't worked before, his blind rampage. Then there would be no issue. He still doesn't regret, and never will regret, having done it. Having tried. Having hurt people, frightened them. Having failed to hurt or frighten them. Having failed to kill some when he had the chance. None of it, none of the deaths, none of the destruction – how could he feel guilt when it's all meaningless? When it all began long before Loki was born? Why should he feel guilt for what he was made to be?
Perhaps he should try it again. Snap their fragile little necks this time. All of them. Hundreds. Thousands. Whatever the price he must pay for the eye to turn to him and his own world to end.
It's just anger talking, of course. Just the feeling of futility. Why would he want to destroy this microcosm opportunity has granted him, all these pawns to move about, rats to run through mazes? Why end it all when he can watch?
Just as long as he's left more or less alone, it should all be fine, for a little while at least.
Where: The lighthouse
What: Ill-advised peace offerings?
Counting out the passage of time through normal means and in normal ways again is... uncomfortable. Loki knows how many days he's spent here, haunting the lighthouse, but that stretch of time is meaningless without the falling of the guillotine's blade. So long he spent in the dark, existing only in the stretches of time between the falling of the drops and the inevitable retreat back into the shell of himself. That was living then, living through every moment of the agony, hating it, wanting to die, but it wasn't existing. It wasn't quite nonexistence either, merely a suspension of self, but without those moments, those long minutes in which his head had been empty of anything but the blinding, nauseating pain, to delineate quanta of time, something is lost.
Loki hates that it's so. Hates that without the punishment, without the inevitability of his revenge and his demise, twofold, without the promise of prophecy, he has nothing.
The more he thinks of it now, though, the more he wonders. Wonders if it wasn't all as nonsensical as he'd thought it was. If his taunts hadn't been correct. If they hadn't locked him away for eternity, not for the stretch of time until Ragnarök – which might never be; who knew? Perhaps in their fear and foolishness they'd doomed him to be nothing but spaces between until Odin aged and fell, and his son Thor, and his sons, all until the name Loki Laufeyson was little more than a margin note in a history book, forgotten, sustained by the box's magics for all of time.
Perhaps. Who really knows?
It isn't likely that Loki will any day soon, but he is content. Content to sit and listen to the sea rush in and out, on and on. Feel it in motion, ripples of energy soothing the edges of a tattered mind. To think about what it might be like to give up. Hide here.
What it might be like to try harder. To burn it all down and shout his rage to the heavens until someone, someone comes to pluck him from this place and wring all his long years out of him like an old washing-cloth. Death doesn't frighten him. He just can't decide whether or not he really wants it.
Yes. No.
It's a shame that it hadn't worked before, his blind rampage. Then there would be no issue. He still doesn't regret, and never will regret, having done it. Having tried. Having hurt people, frightened them. Having failed to hurt or frighten them. Having failed to kill some when he had the chance. None of it, none of the deaths, none of the destruction – how could he feel guilt when it's all meaningless? When it all began long before Loki was born? Why should he feel guilt for what he was made to be?
Perhaps he should try it again. Snap their fragile little necks this time. All of them. Hundreds. Thousands. Whatever the price he must pay for the eye to turn to him and his own world to end.
It's just anger talking, of course. Just the feeling of futility. Why would he want to destroy this microcosm opportunity has granted him, all these pawns to move about, rats to run through mazes? Why end it all when he can watch?
Just as long as he's left more or less alone, it should all be fine, for a little while at least.