We are like the living dead
Craving for the deliverance
With a frozen heart
And a soul on fire.

[HIM]

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For a surreal moment, his mind balanced on a blade's edge, uncomprehending as it tried to pitch over the edge of some epiphany. He swallowed and blinked more tears out of his eyes, willing his mind to work past the numbing grief.

The snow that touched his skin was melting.

How? He wondered, his mind latching onto this niggling question in a quest for denial. I'm a… a Frost Giant. My hands should create ice, not melt it…

Sitting up straighter, he wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand, sniffing slightly, then held out his and again, watching the snowflakes melt in his palm. The raging tempest of bitterness and horror that had torn at him since Odin's words had set him adrift began to calm around the edges now, each dissolving fleck of frozen night washing away at it until he could see through it to the flickering light at the edge of his horizon. Flickering in the core of his chest like a flame driving back a blizzard's chill, insubstantial, but undeniable.

His eyes fluttered up to take in the frozen garden, and his gaze lit on a small patch of rue. They were a favorite of his mother… Frigga… no his mother! The little yellow blossoms in their bed of heavy green leaves were shriveling in the ice. Scrambling to his feet, sliding unsteadily on the slick ice that coated the walkway, he crossed to the flowerbed and knelt beside the languishing blooms.

Slowly, almost afraid, he reached down and cupped one of the little flowers in his hands. The frozen stem snapped like a straw of sugar candy, but Loki hardly noticed as he lifted the little golden gem of a flower between his palms. Breathing deep, he summoning up his sorrow and longing, and that flickering flame of hope, he poured them into the little plant. Magic swirled in the freezing night, dancing dreams between the snowflakes, as the little flower grew radiant with the light of his power. He watched, intent, his heart aching, as the rue blossom brightened, defiantly throwing off its killing coat of ice, its leaves firming, its petals growing supple and bright once more.

Filled with his magic and will, bloomed more beautiful than before, straining towards him as though it felt the same longing for light and warmth as he.

And the same hope.

He was a Frost Giant. There was no denying the words from Odin's lips, much less the proof of his own eyes.

But I am not only that. I cannot be only that…

He was raised the son of an Aesir. The son of a king. He had lived a thousand years in the shining shadow of the Realm Eternal, eaten the golden apples of Idunn, honed his magic and his skills beyond the greatest magic masters of the realm.

The storm inside him had condensed, become smaller, less destructive, but harder, more furious at its core – controlled, but more potent; and ready to be unleashed, tenfold stronger, at whatever threatened the tenuous, flickering flame of hope, more fragile than the glowing bloom, at the core of his soul. Darkness called from the edges of night, a siren song mysterious and threatening from between the stars, still pulling at the bleeding wound that the truth had carved into him, needling him towards the edge of sanity. But oh, for this hope… for this hope he would endure.

Dark thoughts leaked from the heart of the crystallized storm within, twisting strands that began to stretch into a web of possibilities constructed to shield the flicker of hope from harm, stretching into the immediate future and beyond: machinations, half-truths, manipulations… Loki was a master of blades and magic, but his weapon of choice had always been words, tricks, lies.

He was no monster. That was just an accident of birth. An accident he had spent the past thousand years amending, a lie he'd worked tirelessly to disprove all his life, without ever knowing he was doing it. He was worthy to be called the son of Odin. Just as worthy as Thor… just as worthy…

A shadow passed over his face, and his eyes grew cold and hard for an instant. But the glow of the rue caught his gaze, and melted his expression. He held it closer, huddling around the warmth and life of it where he knelt surrounded by a world of ice and death.

"I am Loki, of Asgaard," he told the rue blossom, his voice shockingly calm and loud in the sound killing blanket of snow. Piercing the night with fierce promises. "I am the son of Odin. And somehow, I will prove it."

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END

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A/N: And the rest is history. You know what to do - review!

Songs I listened to for this story:

Soul on Fire by HIM
Nemo by Nightwish
My Destiny by Leaves Eyes

Reminder, this story was inspired by the fanart entitled "Rue" by Linda Marie Anson; check it out, its beautiful:
lindamarieanson . deviantart art / Rue-339197355