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Loki had never felt ... right.
For as long as he could remember, something in the way his skin stretched over his flesh had discomfited him.
And it wasn't even good - normal - skin. He was paler than most other Aesir; and it was one more thing to make him stand out, make him not fit in.
But even when disregarding others ... even when he looked at his skin with an empty mind, it seemed wrong.
And Loki wasn't sure if he was imagining it but it seemed like the more he grew, the worse it got.
Everytime he looked down at himself, at his pale body - a mere glimpse of his hands sufficing - a part of him rebelled at the sight, said 'wrong'. Said he shouldn't be this pale, that he should look different; that something was very, very wrong.
Sometimes he felt like his skin constricted him, like he was caught in it; imprisoned almost. It wrapped around him and fit him perfectly - and yet it didn't. It felt stiff, foreign. Not his.
Though shapeshifting helped, it was only a temporary reprieve. He changed into all manner of animals, and though it didn't feel as wrong, it didn't feel right either.
Nothing ever did.
At times, he couldn't seem to breathe. As if he was stuck inhaling, never able to get a full breath of air with something binding his chest. And so he could only breathe out, unsatisfied yet able to go on; tense but functioning. He tried again and again, wanting to get enough for once, to finally feel some relief. But it never worked. It always, always failed. Something was holding him back, and he was slowly suffocating, losing his mind piece by piece.
It left him tense; irritable. He rarely had much patience for things that didn't interest him, nor people he didn't hold dear.
Loki simply ... couldn't.
The first time he astral projected, he nearly broke down in tears. He suspected that the only reason he didn't was because his astral form didn't have the bodily functions.
In fact, that was the good - the incredible thing about his astral body: it wasn't a body.
He could see and hear just fine, even smell and taste some things, as he had found.
Yet there was no uncomfortable sensation, nothing strange nor unsettling. For the first time in a long, long while, Loki could simply be. He could read books and turn the pages with his seidr, work on spells, enjoy the sights of Asgard as he traversed it in his astral form.
It made him not want to return to his confining bounds ... his body.
But in the end, Loki had to. He had to care for it, perform his duties, show himself around his family. Though everytime he could, he would escape. Take his astral form and be free.
It mystified him how others could cope so well. They all had bodies; why did they seem perfectly alright with it?
Why did they smile and laugh, act like everything was good? Why did no one ever mention it? Surely Loki couldn't be the only one feeling like this.
He found nothing on it in the libraries. Though he didn't socialize much, he was an excellent eavesdropper, and he employed that skill vastly.
Nothing.
Loki tried disguising himself and talking to people about it; though everything he came upon didn't feel quite right. He had done enough research to write a booklet on the various ways one could feel discomfort in one's own body. But there was nothing that really fit his experience, and no solution to be found.
Loki was stuck like this.
Caged and constricted; tied up in a pale wrapping of skin that seemed to cut off his air bit by excruciating bit.
He had contemplated going to his mother to ask her for advice - but everytime he had gathered the courage and opened his mouth, it wouldn't come out. It made him realize that he didn't feel safe in his skin - and that he didn't feel safe with her.
Loki didn't feel safe with his own mother.
Something was very, very wrong.
He only became more irritable as the centuries passed.
He manipulated, lied, 'played tricks'. Loki had no qualms about taking his less sublime emotional state out on others. They didn't deserve his kindness anyway.
Most shunned him, and though he imagined his personality and behaviour didn't exactly help, he was quite sure that a good part of it was due to his seidr and preference of book over sword.
Loki loved his seidr, and he liked books.
Really, they could go and pat a Bilgesnipe.
No taste, no sense, no understanding for Loki - and so Loki wouldn't grant them any in return.
Even Thor seemed to have joined them. As Loki had become a trickster, his brother had become an oaf - senseless, stupid, brash. It made Loki dread the possibility of Asgard gaining a blockhead like him for a King. He would ruin her, make her people suffer.
Loki could only hope that their father would choose him. Though he didn't relish the thought of gaining more duties he would have to use his body to tend to, it would surely be better than Thor becoming King.
Father had chosen Thor.
Undeserving, harebrained, careless Thor.
Loki had to do something.
And he did.
He lured and pretended; carefully plucked at strings. Father would see his idiot brother for what he was: an abysmal candidate for a King, who would rashly ride into battle at the first opportunity.
But it went wrong. He had misjudged Heimdall. Another fool.
They went to Jotunheim.
They fought, and Loki was sure he could still make something out of this situation, twist it to postpone the coronation. Maybe, by some miracle, Thor would learn.
Maybe, it hadn't all been for naught.
Or so Loki thought.
But then, a Jotunn held onto his arm, and instead of freezing, it turned blue. Instead of bitingly cold, it only felt right.
No.
Horror spread through his chest, tendrils of it creeping and winding and spearing his heart.
This couldn't be.
Beside himself, Loki fought, and maimed, and fled.
Once alone in his rooms, he sank to the ground, burying his head in his arms; mind flashing back to what had happened earlier.
It had felt … so right.
For the first time in all his years, his body had felt right. Though only the part that the Jotunn had touched - and it made Loki wonder what it would feel like if his whole body was Jotunn blue.
He recoiled at the thought, aghast. Jotnar were monsters.
…
And Loki was likely one of them.
He curled into himself, fingers pressing into his scalp as a pitiful little noise escaped him. Grief and horror flooded his chest, and he could only think, 'Why?'
Why am I here?
Why didn't they tell me?
Why do I have to feel like this?
Unable to resist, he went into the vault. He had to know, had to feel.
Loki's hands grasped the Casket of Ancient Winters. Slowly, they began to turn blue, and as the colour spread, so did blessed relief.
He barely paid attention to his father calling out to him, so focused was he on the sensation permeating his body. He felt light, unburdened. Free.
For the first time, his skin fit like it was meant to.
For the first time, he could breathe.
Loki felt fine; he felt good, even.
Nothing hurt. Nothing constricted him.
This skin was his, and it felt incredible.
And with the physical discomfort gone, the shock of his discovery hit him even harder.
Loki was Jotunn. He didn't belong here. It had all been lies: his family, his skin, his chance to the throne.
And it hurt, more than his false skin ever had. Why was he here?
Loki questioned his father, screamed at him.
Why?
With his father having fallen into Odinsleep, and Thor banished to Midgard, Loki became King.
But why … why like this?
...
With his false skin back in place, the itch slowly began to return, and it was unbearable after the sweet relief he had tasted.
Loki reached for it with his seidr, grasped for what he had never consciously perceived before, and ripped his glamour to shreds. For a moment, he could only stand there as utter bliss consumed him, trembling and panting like a wild animal.
And then, he looked down at his hands.
His blue hands.
And his mind warred with itself, part exclaiming 'Yes!', part screaming, 'No!'.
It was wrong, and right, and wonderful, and horrible.
Loki was a monster.
Yet he felt so good like this.
...
No, that didn't matter. Soon, he would lose everything. Once Thor had proven his worth and father had woken up, he wouldn't be needed anymore.
He would have no home, no family.
Loki had to prove himself. Show them that he was best for Asgard, that he was on their side.
Loki wove a new glamour for himself, this one much more comfortable. It didn't make him feel as constricted - it was almost alright, even.
Fighting the urge to let it fall so he could enjoy freedom again, he planned. He acted.
Loki threatened Thor and his friends, put them in harm's way - he reckoned they deserved it after betraying him not only as their King, but possibly as their friend, too - and killed the King of Jotunheim - his sire.
And then ... then, Loki went too far.
Even as he did it, as he pointed the Bifrost, he knew it was too much. But he couldn't stop. He had already come this far, and now he could only continue in his bid to prove himself, to gain acceptance.
...
Yet he was stopped.
He hadn't managed to prove himself. It had all been for naught. Loki ... had failed.
"No", his father said.
And Loki let go.
He fell for an eternity.
He fell for so long that he found himself getting used to it.
And finally, Loki gave in, lacking both the power and the will to deny himself anymore. He dropped his glamour, and immediately his body relaxed. Though he was falling, physically, he had never felt better. He was free. Nothing to bind him. Nothing to hold him. Nothing of importance, nothing to do, nothing to return to.
And Loki simply felt.
... could it really be wrong if it felt this good?
Norns. It almost made him want to cover his face in embarrassment. Of course it could be wrong. A lot of questionable things felt good.
...
But his skin … it was his. It hadn't done anything wrong.
Though Loki certainly had.
He had ... he had tried to eradicate an entire realm.
Even if his skin didn't make Loki a monster, what he had done - or tried to do - undoubtedly did.
Now that he had gained some emotional - and physical, he thought sardonically - distance, he was rather appalled at himself.
Desperate for approval, for acceptance, Loki had gone too far. He had betrayed his - flexible but nonetheless existing - morals. He might have betrayed his own skin.
His skin, that fit him so well. That surrounded and enveloped him like home, like safety.
No, his skin couldn't have been wrong. Only Loki was.
He wasn't sure how long it took, but he was caught. And he refused to cooperate.
And then, Loki wasn't really Loki anymore.
He was anger, and disdain, and violence.
He killed. He obeyed.
At least that's what it seemed like as something in him manipulated, prodded and tricked his body, refusing to play along. Refusing to be an obedient puppet.
Loki wouldn't betray himself anymore.
For no one.
For nothing.