Chapter - 19

(Iceland. The present.)

The smoke of Loki's fag snaked up into the twilight, in a hypnotic column that twisted and turned and twirled and curlicued. He did swear once that he would get back here one day, but this is not how he had imagined it would be. Thor should have been here, for one. And Loki should be naked on a blanket under the sky, and not sitting on the edge of this cliff, for another. Anyway, life. It is what it is.

The fact was, he was tired, bodily and mentally exhausted. He had been on the run for… (he counted in his head) six months now. Out of meds for five. He had done better than he thought. Being dead-set on a purpose, it turned out, went a long way in keeping a stumbling mind in focus. He had self-medicated now and then, with stuff that took the edge off and you bought in shady alleys rather than chemists, but apart from that, he had endured on determination alone.

He never really expected he would find Laufey, this blurry figure that had acquired a mythical aura in his romantic imagination. For all he knew, he might have never existed. For all he knew, Loki had crawled out of a hole in the earth. Whenever he thought of a faceless womb that nurtured him, perhaps a breast that fed him, and then abandoned him, he felt the ground getting soft under his feet, threatening to suck him in. He tried to stay away from it. He had just needed to run, get away, cut himself off from all that had been so reluctantly given. He wouldn't take another second of Odin's pity, or his money, or his name, or anything that came with it. Like Frigga. Like Thor. Because the bastard had a point. None of it belonged to Loki, he had no right to take it. He had lived on borrowed compassion far too long. He hadn't done anything to deserve any of it. He was just as weak and sickly as Odin had said, and yes, he had gifts, but in Loki's hands even the best things became twisted and black, from fucking Shakespeare to his brother's love. And after running so far, and realising nobody was chasing after, he had lost all his impetus, and yes, he had come to Iceland to die. Funny thing was, he had saved himself some money for the trip back (thank goodness for low-cost airlines.) What did that mean?

So here he was, literally and metaphorically teetering on the edge. He had always hated cowardice, and that had been a deciding factor the first time he had tried to kill himself. As in "stop thinking about it so much and just fucking do it." (He did remember as well, after he got better later on, adjusted, that he had felt gratitude for being alive. Which should be telling him something, he guessed, but right now it wasn't coming through.)

Now, the last few days, as he approached the spot where he had decided to end it all, another thought had started nagging at him and wouldn't leave him alone. To wit, that Loki disappearing quietly and discreetly, and more than anything, quickly, might have been exactly what Odin was wishing for.

I should have picked another one. I should have chosen a stronger one. It would have been better for all of us.

Now people will know that, whatever is wrong with him, it doesn't run in the family.

Basically, his dad wished he had left him there to die.

Well, it might just be possible that Loki hated Odin even more than he hated himself. Or maybe not more, but certainly with a viciousness that refused to ease, and refused to let him just drift into oblivion and disappear, unheard of and unknown. How about that, apparently Loki was too full of hate to die.

So, the old bastard was ashamed of him, yeah? Because he was a nutcase. Because he was an embarrassment. Because he was girly and gay and weak. Because he was no son of his, and still bore his august name. Was that it?

Loki smirked. Oh, Odin thought he was ashamed now? Just you fucking wait, father. If there was any doubt left in that motherfucker's mind that he should have left Loki to die, by the time Loki was finished, there would be none. Loki's only fear is that the old goat would die of shame. Here's hoping he would wallow in it for quite a while yet.

Loki took the last drag and chucked the cigarette into the sea. He stood up, dusted his arse and legs, put his hands in his pockets, took in the view. Even leaned over the edge, carefully, to examine for the last time the deadly drop at his feet that would have been the easy, painless way out. Then he turned on his feet and walked away.

He had never liked things that came easy anyway.

*

(London. Five months later)

Maria Hill stopped the car at the kerb and nodded towards the building across the street. It had a red marquee and a kind of Moulin Rouge feel to it, with black and white posters on the outside walls and old-fashioned lettering. The sign on the door said "The Dark World Night Club" and then the flashy signs on either side of the marquee screamed "GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!" and "BOYS! BOYS! BOYS!"

Thor was frowning deeply, trying to work out what the fuck he was seeing. He turned to Hill.

"What are we doing here?"

"Loki is inside," she said.

Thor wasn't getting it. It came through clear as day in his scrunched up expression.

"He works here," explained Hill.

"Works here?" said Thor obtusely.

"Pole dancing. Stripping. Lap dancing."

Thor mouthed silently "What?" and for a while he couldn't do more.

Hill cleared her throat. Thor blanched out. There was more?

"What?" snapped Thor, afraid of the answer. "What else?"

"He takes clients in the alleyway."

"Cl-clients?"

Hill nodded.

"He is using his real name. And he is the main attraction," added Hill, who seemed to have decided that Thor needed all the facts.

Thor was struggling for breath, reeling, in shock. Which is when the other side of him usually struck and took over. He bursted out of the car.

"These guys are serious!" shouted Hill to his back. "Be careful!"