Retribution

Loki gazed at himself in the golden plate. 20 years had passed since he had tasted the throne, and since it had been ripped from his lips. Only 19 years had passed since he had almost become the king of the Earth, and given a throne in prison. Now he had to abdicate that throne and was still, and forever would be, a prince of Asgard. His hand felt so light and grounded without the electric scepter in it.

When had he fallen so low?

"Loki!" A friend, one of the peasant gods that he had once ruled over, skidded around the corner. He was out-of-breath, and couldn't seem to articulate his thoughts. "He's—he's—"

Loki placed his hands on his friend's shoulders. "Take your time. Take a breath. Whatever it is you need say can wait for you to catch your breath."

"No. It cannot," he wheezed. He paused to take a large breath. "Your son—it was done today. And, they decided. It would be tonight."

"Tonight?" Loki smiled, then chuckled. "I don't understand. It was set for a week from today. There must be some mistake. It—it must be a joke on the Prankster God. They couldn't have done it today."

His friend was now clutching his shoulders. The serious look on his face made chills run down his back. "There is no mistake, Loki. It will be tonight."

Loki's smile fell. The shock and horror washed over him, then slapped him in the face. He recoiled.

Hues of orange, yellow, and red striped the golden palace floor. The sun was setting and washing the gold with a beautiful color that had Loki—the sun was setting?

The sun was setting!

"How long?" The silence felt like a knife in his back. It was his own son. His son. He had to know. He had to know. "How long?! When?!"

"Once the sun sets, it will be done."

He took off. He couldn't feel his feet moving beneath him, taking him as fast as he could run. He couldn't hear his friend yelling after him, or the sound of his feet slapping against the cold golden floor. He couldn't see the gathering storm-clouds when he dashed out of the palace or the eyes of the people that watched as he raced past them. He couldn't smell the fresh scent of the roses on the side of the walkway or the food that was being prepared for night. He couldn't taste the need for blood that the other gods felt, or the sweat that was rolling down his face.

He only thought. He thought about his son, about the twenty years he devoted to raising him. About the first time he learned to conjure fire, about the first time he could replicate himself, about the first time Loki ever yelled at him, about the first time that he moved out of the palace, about the first time he came back from Midgard without telling his father, about that moment when his son finally understood what it was like to be a father. About that first time he lost his son. About that first time his heart felt so hollow, so empty with the loss. About that first time he finally cried.

The crowd of gods surrounding the wooden platform told him he had found his destination.

They hauled his son up onto the wooden platform, his wrists shackled together. Four men surrounded him, making sure he didn't escape. But he could only see the black-haired boy. He was skinny—skinnier than he should have been. His clothes were hanging off of his frame He wondered if his brother even fed his son. His skin was pale—he could hardly see the color behind it—but it still matched his skin. It was his skin. And his hair, though mussed and dirty, was his hair.

Loki could finally hear himself panting; it matched his son's breath. His ears pounded with his heartbeat; it matched his son's heartbeat. His hands were sweating; it matched his son's hands. He could feel a tear running down his cheek; it matched his son's tear.
When his son stumbled on the last stair, Loki stumbled into the crowd. When his son was hit by one of the guards, Loki was jabbed by a man's elbow. When his son senselessly pushed through his fear, Loki senselessly pushed through the crowd—and his own fear. As his son turned to face him, he turned to face his son.

A man, unimportant, stood forward and began to speak. Even though he couldn't hear anything but their syncopated breaths and heartbeats, Loki knew he was explaining the treachery of his son. How he'd run away from home at a young age. How he'd joined a cult and became a monster. How he'd joined a revolution to spite his father. How he'd finally been caught by the own hands that raised him. How he'd been put on trial by his own people. How he'd been sentenced to death. And how the gods would finally have payment for the revolution.

Loki trained his eyes on his son. He only hoped that everything he couldn't say aloud his son could see in his eyes.

Identical tears rolled down their faces. Identical emerald eyes held the same black hole and sun. Identical olive-skinned hands reached out for one another. Identical feet brought them together.

They crashed together in a moment of complete similarity; all of the emotions they shared.
"You cannot take him," Loki croaked, finally waking up, "by the command of your prince. You will all face death if you disobey." His green, puffed eyes burned into the guard's, daring them to challenge him.

One soldier bravely stepped forward. "But, Prince Loki, he was part of the rebellion. King Thor told us—"

Loki stopped the man with an evil cackle. "I don't care what my brother told you. If you continue to speak, I will have you added to the list and killed yourself."

No one spoke up. Loki smirked.

The two separated, but Loki slung his son's arms around his shoulders. They slowly made their way across the gallows.

Once the two were headed back to the palace—back home—and far away from the rest of the world, his son hurdled himself into his father's arms. The two sat for a few moments, happy to just hold one another.

"Thanks, Dad," he whispered. "Thank you for everything."