And that's a wrap. As promised, have a link to a fic that ends happily that I'm posting at the same time: s/8397646/1/June_21st

Warnings: self-harm

This is the chapter you need tissues for guys.

Chapter 10
He woke first, Anthony's breath against the nape of his neck. The sun had not managed to breach the horizon and everything was icy blues and greys. The high whine of ice already picked up and rubbed against his nerves as he carefully slipped out from Anthony's arms.

He stood before a mirror, studied himself. In the early twilight, he resembled a statue, frozen Ophelia preserved for eternity. You are what is best of me. He remembered the dazed joy when nothing existed but the ward and him. Selfish, isn't it?He clenched a fist, dug nails in until he drew blood. His heart twisted and writhed in his chest, breaking apart with hate for himself, for his pettiness, for his selfishness.

This was more than just his name, now.

He pressed a hand against the mirror to steady himself, to keep from punching it and waking Anthony. Dear Anthony, Anthony who was more and better and who believed Loki ignorant of the cause of all this. Innocent. Blood streaked across the surface as he turned away, dressed slowly, precisely. Rough-spun shirt, pants; nothing else. He'd just need to remove them again.

He pulled out the silvery sharp knife from the pile of things he'd brought from the estate, examined the whisper sharp Jotun steel of his mother's ritual blade, the serpent devouring its own tail at the hilt.

He paused at the door, stared at where Anthony still slept, unknowing.

You are what is best of me.

The halls are quiet this early. Empty. No one sees Loki pad barefoot through the halls, go down and down into the belly of the castle.

The hallway is lined with ice now and the cold steals his breath as he walks inside the room with the key stone. Delicate icy things, faux trees and frozen animals, are beginning to form. He pauses, breath clouding before him, then goes forward. Makes sure he does not slip in the muddy ice that breaks and cuts into bare feet.

He strips, stands shivering by the keystone altar. His fingers grow numb and he tightens his grip on his knife so that it does not slip. He hesitates, feeling for how to do this because he doesn't know and he only has one life to give. He crawls, slipping, onto the keystone altar, muscles clenching beneath his flesh as he sits and shivers and reaches for the melody he can hear, flickering and fading beneath the cold.

He holds it tight to him, marvels that he didn't realize sooner that it sings the way Anthony's presence does, that the warmth is the warmth that keeps the nightmares away.

You are what is best of me.

He clutches the words tightly to himself as he listens to the melody, wrapping both words and song about himself though they are nowhere near strong enough to keep away the sharps and flats and off-key noise that digs into his mind and tries to bring him to a shuddering halt.

The whisper sharp blade feels dull with how cold he is, each delicate rune carved into his flesh burning like fire. His blood runs in rivulets down his skin, drips and pools around him on the keystone altar. Ice melts away from it, and finally, finally, he lays the knife down as he sets the last cut into his flesh. He dips his fingers in the blood and he begins to paint himself, his face, his chest, and legs. His eyes are half-closed, he is near dreaming, listening, feeling his way forward, allowing the melody to tell him what to do.

His hands are shaking, muscles twitching, spasming, but he gathers the cold to him, lets it fill him up and near to breaking, oceans and dark pools, glaciers and frostburn.

All is darkness and sound and he is drowning.

Dark. Screeching. Ice crushing and groaning beneath its own weight. He cannot breathe but he does not flail. His lungs burn and he draws in air and water fills him, makes him cough and choke. Noise, noise, dis-din-cophony. None of it makes sense and his heart pounds a staccato terror in his ears, the tempo of his death.

You are what is best of me.

He flails then, fights, swims towards the words and summer and heat, heart full to bursting with love of this thing he has heard, for this being. Anthony. Warm brown eyes and the swell of a song in C major, the best of his life and he will make himself greater and better and morefor this man.

Ice cuts against his skin and he opens his eyes, laughing, aching, hurting. He can see the way the ice and cold shriek through the air, and he takes more of it, pulls it close, pulls it in, draws the sound into himself though it hurts; he reaches beneath him, pulls the sound of the keystone's melody close, its earthy warm summer sound. He grabs these sounds and draws them close, listens. Listensuntil his head feels as if it will split open and the melody rises up in him, swells.

More.

He gathers more, lets the melody wait, there, in his throat. Tears glaze his eyes, and he struggles to stay afloat, to keep from losing his self in this energy and sound and song. Finds the knife one-handedly and cuts deep into his wrist, using the pain as an anchor even knowing it will not be enough.

You are what is best of me.

He sings.

The song flows from him, in him, and tears him apart. It hurts but he does not stop. He will fix this. He will be better, more. Anthony. He does not know the words, does not know if there are words, but it pours out of him and the ice melts and he grows hot and hotter, fire filling him, a melody that repeats ever and ever and never the same way twice.

You are what is best of me.

It is warmth and light everywhere. Summer afternoon dozes in the gardens, insects buzzing overhead. They make a pattern with their buzzing, a song that repeats endlessly and never the same. He recognizes it, realizes that he has stopped singing, but it continues without his voice and his energy to give it shape and form.

He opens his eyes to darkness, pained brown eyes and being clutched against a familiar chest. He aches to see the pain there, tears spilling down that face. He tries to move, to press a hand to that face, to smile, but it is all so tiring.

"Loki," raw and anguished.

He focuses, gathers together what he has left, presses his hand to that familiar face. A familiarly calloused hand grabs his, presses a kiss to his quietening pulse uncaring of blood that smears across familiar lips.

He smiles and closes his eyes. He is so tired.

Summer buzzing insects and heat beckon.