Tom Hiddleston & Loki Imagines (xReader)

Two

They say that, deep down, no matter how many fears one has, they all boil down to exactly one thing:

Oneself.

The cell was dim. Musty air recirculated throughout the ducts like stale blood through weak veins, and Loki huddled in a corner, waiting.

Any moment now, they would bring him "food"—a questionable lump of something he didn't recognize, paired with a dubious liquid he couldn't name that was meant to pass for a "drink." It was the same disgusting fare they'd provided him for the last week and a half, and in meager enough portions at that. To say it was appalling would be an understatement for a commoner; how much more so for the son of the king?

He clutched the makeshift knife close to himself, holding it so tightly that his already pale knuckles showed white and his fist began to tremble. Turning the blade over in his small hands, he pondered. He'd never stabbed someone before. But this was a matter of survival.

The past three days had been spent in scheming and calculations; today was the last that he would spend on this prison-ship. He'd spent the past week locked in a cell, with hardly any light, breathing in the wet, stale air. No longer. He would escape, or he would die trying.

He really hoped he wouldn't die.

His thoughts were interrupted by the harsh grating of the bolt in door as it was drawn back. Iron scraped across the ground, emitting a shrill squeal that made the boy's ears throb in pain. Loki winced, causing the guard to cackle as he entered, bearing with him the expected abomination that passed as "food". The guard—large, hooded, heavily armed, and not the one Loki was accustomed to seeing—entered carelessly. He set the tray down on the floor beside the pathetic excuse for a bed. Not thinking the boy worth the effort of actual speech, he gestured toward the tray and turned to leave.

Loki's heart raced. His will froze in the heat of the moment. He was only a child, for the love of Skuld; he wasn't supposed to kill people! Yet his mind urged him to act. It was now or never.

He was running out of time.

All at once, the child sprang forward with unwarranted agility at the guard's back. The knife was buried into his ribs with a grunt of effort; not cleanly, but effective all the same. The man, taken by surprise, stood rooted in place for a breathless moment before keeling over and collapsing, nearly taking Loki with him. The young prince just barely managed to move out of the way as the larger person fell.

Blood pooled on the floor. Loki scrambled away from the crimson stain, heart pounding hard enough to crack his ribcage. Bile rose in his throat as he stared at the scene. That was his doing. He had killed that man. He had taken a life. He didn't enjoy hurting people—he never had—yet here he'd just killed someone. It was a terrible feeling.

He wanted to drop the knife. He wanted to fling it into the abyss and forget its very existence. Instead, his fingers tightened around the tied cloth that sufficed as a hilt.

He was one step closer to freedom.

—

The body had taken a few minutes to hide.

Loki had pulled it out of the doorway and off into the darkest corner of his cell, making sure to cover it with the thin blanket they'd thrown at him the day they locked him in.

With that out of the way, he was now skulking through the bowels of the labyrinthine ship.

Corridor connected to corridor in a myriads of twists and turns. He assumed the way out would be up, so he slowly chose the paths that took him upwards and out of the cell block. The lights cast an eery glow on the dull floor that made him shiver as he snuck through the vessel. Something felt off. Something felt wrong.