So, this is a little different from the fics I've written in the past... Let's see how it goes.

-dialogue- = quotes from Thor

Warnings: self-harm, internalized racism, self-hatred

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Things had been going so well.

He had arrived, as always, in his characteristic glory and splendor, sending the pathetic mortal worms running for their worthless lives. Their paltry defensive forces had quickly fallen, of course, before his superiority. Honestly, why did they even try, even dare to challenge his obvious right to rule over them? They were nothing, worthless, and yet they constantly spurned his gracious offer to take control and liberate them from the curse of freedom! Ungrateful wretches. One day, after he took his rightful place as sovereign of this insignificant rock, they would thank him for being so merciful and forgiving as to overlook their folly and continue his conquest. Then they would love him! Would praise him! See him! See him…

-No Loki -

Well! Things had been going well. Yes, he had been winning! He was strong, so much stronger, not weak, not worthless, he was mighty! The humans had been nothing before him.

And then, as always, Thor had chosen that moment to arrive, his pitiful human pets in tow. Of course he would arrive then, just as Loki had a moment, a taste, of recognition. Fates forbid that the light shine on any but the mighty Thor for a moment.

Once again they fought. Once again Thor prevailed. Once again Loki fell.

They had dragged him back to their flying fortress, Thor and his pets. Disgusting, pathetic creatures. If not for Thor's presence they would have stood no chance against Loki's awesome might. He would have crushed them under heel like the insects they were. No, not crushed. Too quick, too easy. Hurt them. Yes, yes he would hurt them, make them scream, make them recognize their utter insignificance before he finally granted them the mercy of death. They were no true warriors, no heroes. Fighting from afar, relying on tricks and shunning the weapons and tactics of true fighters, those of true worth. Acting so proud of their cowardly methods, no doubt to hide their shame at their own ineptitude.

-Some do battle, others just do tricks-

Nothing! They were nothing! Just miserable curs, running after Thor's heels, begging for scraps of attention and praise from one far more worthy and great.

How proud they looked, for pleased with themselves, when they left him in a cell blazing with runes to cut off his magic, cut off his escape. Told him to wait there, be a good boy, while Thor prepared to take him back to Asgard.

Asgard. Yes, Thor, take him back to Asgard. Back to his gilded cage. Back to the "healers" with their tongues sweet as rotting fruit who promised to 'help him, heal him.' Back to the servants who whispered. Back to the traitors who called themselves friends and acted as though they had been betrayed. Back to the jailors who played the cruelest games, who named themselves mother and father, who whispered 'I love you' and 'son' and 'darling' and always lied, lied, lied!

-You are our son, Loki, and we are your family, you must know that-

Lies! Always lies! Lies and secrets. Pretty words that meant nothing. Pretty chains to bind him. Well he would not listen. He had learned his lesson, and now they would never again trick him with their empty words and false reassurances of love and belonging. Too late. Too late to mean anything. Too late to save-

The world shook, scattering his thoughts. Noise blared from all sides, alarms in tandem with flashing lights and the shouts of the miserable wretches around him. Something nearby hissed, then shrieked loud and high, and suddenly his cell was filled with cold that pierced into him and cut down to his bones.

He jerked, stumbled, trying in his shock to get away from the cold. But it was everywhere, the cold, cold blue clinging to the walls and the floors. The cold, cold blue filling the air and invading his lungs. And there, there! It was on him! The cold, cold blue sticking to his fingers and hands and arms, crawling all over him like a disease!

He made a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a child's cry of terror, as the blue hands – not his, not his hands – moved against the blue arms – not his! – again and again, harder and harder, trying desperately to rub the blue away.

It was not working, was not going away. The blue hands rubbed harder, faster, as a low keening noise welled up in his throat. Why was it not going away? The sound escaped him, transforming into a feral snarl as the blue hands curled into claws and torn sharply against the twisted flesh of the blue arms.

He froze, staring down, eyes wide. There, standing out against the blue, were four lines of perfect red. The blue claws moved once more, and again the red chased away the blue, the heat chased away the cold. Another sound welled up in him, half way between a sob and a laugh, and the blue claws began to move. Again and again they fell, bringing out lines of red.

Still there. The blue was still there! Still clinging to him, hiding his true flesh under its cold wrongness! He keened again, willing the blue claws to move faster, cut deeper, free the red and chase away the blue, free the red and wash the taint away until he was himself again! From outside his cell he heard frantic sounds, shouting, banging, trying to distract him. He did not listen, could not listen. Had to make the blue go away!

Why would it not go away? Why? Why did it persist in clinging to him? It was not real, was not him, could not be him. Not blue, not cold, not blue, not cold, not blue, not a monster, go away!

The blue claws fell again, sharper, harder, and there was a blinding rush of pain, hot and searing and so, so red! He stared at a shoulder, the sick, blue skin hanging loose, freeing the red from underneath the taint. It hurt, burning through him like a brand.

It was so hot and red and beautiful in the lack of cold blue.

The claws were red now too, so beautiful, as they fell on the flap of skin, pulling and tearing and chasing away the cold blue with the burning red.

The shouting was louder now, more frantic, but he cared little. All that mattered was chasing away the blue, chasing away the cold, chasing away the monster.

-I'll hunt the monsters down, and slay them all-

Something made a shattering noise to his side, almost distracting him from the red and the blue, before something fell on him. Hands grabbed at the claws, pulling them away from their precious task as he fought and screamed and begged for the salvation of the red. Arms pulled him close, crushing him against the form of another as he struggled helplessly, pitifully weak. A voice murmured above him, around him, desperate and pleading in words he could not understand, and the frantic shouting continued from outside his cell.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he felt a different red, softer, gentler, sinking into him from the body that surrounded his own. He watched, shaking helplessly, as the gentle red chased away the last patches of blue, leaving him a patchwork of beautiful, searing red and untainted white. The voice murmured again, more desperate and pleading than before, and he looked up and saw gold, beautiful and perfect and everything he could never be.

The golden voice was speaking, a torrent words that he could not understand and would not dare believe if he could.

His eyes fell, fixing on the patchwork of red and white. Something trailed down his face, falling to splash, hot and burning, against the red on his arms. He clung to the heat, savored it. Let it wash over him and cleanse the last chills of the blue. Let it wash away the knowledge that the blue was still there, lurking under the white and red, waiting to come out once more.