Loki's Daughter, Mortem and Mischief

Chapter Thirty-Eight

LOKI'S POINT OF VIEW
I may be old, but I was plenty far from senile. I still had my quick wits about me and just enough energy to keep up with my daughter. At the time, I was thanking my lucky stars for this. As a 1,236 year old, I desperately needed to keep up with my barely 16 year old, otherwise-I was fearful of what she may do to others as well as herself.

Something had changed within her, something I couldn't quite explain. Her eyes had turned acidic once she came here, that familiar green now mirrored viles of poison rather than lush forests. Despite the abundance of food, Hela's frame had somehow grown skinnier, her bones were sharp against her skin. Her magic had even grown erratic, sparking at random times or misfiring constantly. I knew well enough that these physical changes were only a glance into what was going on internally, within her mind.

And yet, with all of these signs I felt utterly helpless. I was too afraid to step out of line and ask her questions. If she were to get angry or anxious, I had no way of telling how Hela may act out. I already knew that she had very little bounds when it came to what she would do to get her way. Afterall, the child had already stabbed herself.

I knew from the second I saw her with that knife dug deep inside, she had practically done it to herself. Yes, Grimnir may have been the one to drive the weapon, but Hela had been the mastermind. Before that moment, I never really understood the way my mother would fuss over me or the way that my father would get so angry whenever I would harm myself or make bad decisions. But with Hela, every single thing that my parents did were put into perspective.

My heart had shattered when I saw her. Her perfect little nose-the one I had always traced in her sleep, was broken into oblivion. Smashed and swollen and bloody. As she gave a crooked smile, hardly able to hide her delight in her "genius", I could see her teeth and gums bleeding and chipped. Her perfect porcelain skin, a color no paint would ever do justice to, was scraped and punctured by the dagger I had gifted her so many years ago. When you step into fatherhood, the last thing you ever want to see if your daughter hurt. I never imagined how much more that image would sting with the knowledge that she did it to herself. It was enough to make me sick with anger.

How could she? I had bent over backwards to protect her, to keep her safe. I had tracked through time and space twice to give Hela the life she deserved. This perfect little body that I had somehow helped create had been defaced by her own actions. My own flesh and blood had decided that all that I had given to her, whether through my efforts or my DNA, was simply not enough. I could've easily hit her, whipped her into shape and shown her my anger. Could've beat her into next week. But I contained myself cause God forbid I ever hurt my baby, all that would do is make me just as bad as she was.

As I walked through those gardens with her, I stayed silent as I could nearly hear the buzzing of her mind. Hela gripped my arm tightly, so tight that it seemed she was afraid I might let go. I didn't want to pressure her into speaking though I longed for her voice, for her to look at my and admit she needed help. I stayed quiet, I knew from my own past that being forced into getting better was not getting better at all. Hela had to make that decision by herself.

Hela's steps stopped before the red roses. Her eyes were transfixed on the thorns and in all honesty, I was worried she may just reach out and grab them. I hardly knew if she would use those tiny daggers to hurt herself or me.

"I feel as though I'm going insane," she said softly, her face barely moved a muscle as she spoke. She looked just as stoic as ever. "I don't think...I am insane. Not yet at least, but I know my actions might prove otherwise," she added casually. I knew she wasn't lying though I wished she was.

"I wonder if I can ever feel happy," she explained, her voice was shaky and shifted to a tone full of anger. She parted away from me and plucked one of the roses, being careful not to prick her fingers. "Because all I ever feel is...angry, or cheated. I don't remember the last time I didn't feel this way."

I sat down on the small bench before the rose bushes. I wanted to just hear her out, to try and wrap my head around her thoughts. It was clear that my advice was only making matters worse and I certainly didn't want to set her off. Besides, I felt as though she may be able to talk through her madness-discover her own way out of it.

"I thought Grimnir might be able to make me happy...that's part of why I helped him," Hela admitted softly. It was the first time she was actually confessing to her aid in his escape although I had known it all along. "I know it's stupid. But I almost had everything. I thought that then I would find some happiness, through Grimnir or through this crown...I wasn't ready to just give up on that," she added as she picked the petals of the rose. I could see tears beginning to well in her eyes but she was holding her breath as if she was too scared to let them fall.

"And I don't regret it. But  it didn't make me happier. Just gave me an ugly scar," she concluded sourly. In her hand, the bright red rose began to wilt before it altogether disintegrated. Even the grass under her feet began to die.

"What can I do for you, my love?" I asked cautiously, looking up at her from where I sat. I was doing my best to stay strong for her, to be as kind and steady as possible for my little girl. It pained me to see her so conflicted, so upset. I wondered if I had any part in making her feel so awful or driving her to feel like she needed to act out.

I knew the things that Hela had gone through were hard. I would've sold my limbs, every possession I owned, to just shield her from those parts of her life. I wished that the version of myself that raised her had been more loving, caring and protective. I wished that Hela didn't have to watch her parents die in front of her. But, all of those things were irreversible-that trauma was set in stone. And all the while, though it was an explanation to the way she acted-it was not an excuse.

"I think I just want to go to bed," she said softly, pouring out the rose's ashes into the flower bed. Hela wiped her eyes and took a deep breath, I don't think I saw a single tear fall.

I nodded and gently placed my hand on her back as I lead her out of the garden. "How does a cup of tea sound?" I asked as we began to walk through the long marble halls that leads to her chambers. She sniffled softly and shook her head, "I've been enough of a bother. You don't have to go make me tea."

"No, no. I insist," I said, pushing open the large oak doors to her room. For just a small moment, I could see the twinge of a smile, I felt hopeful that everything would be okay.