[closed]

[sorcerous]

Characters: Loki, Sif
Open?: No
Where: Drunk Duck Inn and Tavern
When:Rebirth Height 8, late
Warnings: Loki is a warning. A warning of angst and petty bitchery. Also probable mentions of genocide and arguments and identity crises. Will update if necessary.

He has taken a single room at the inn, pending time to find his own space. It is simple -- he has no need of ostentation. He has few possessions, too, though being poor in wealth bothers him little, knowing how poor he is in everything else. Power, companions... There is naught in his room but bed, ever-so-limited wardrobe -- and, of course, the mirror.

A hand-mirror. Silver, embossed and engraved, with a handle. It is face-down, on the bed, half-covered by the pillow as though the owner didn't quite know whether to hide it from sight or leave it in plain view.

The door is locked, but not warded by any noticeable means.

Comments

[brosif]

"Who says I've stayed my hand," she says, dully. "Perhaps I poisoned you and you haven't noticed yet."

In truth: she has no idea how to proceed from here. She can't forgive him, even knowing the full circumstances. But he wouldn't ask for such a thing anyway.

[sorcerous]

He makes a derisive noise. "The Lady Sif, a poisoner? Never."

[brosif]

She shrugs. It was something to say.

"I'm thinking. You can withhold comments on how hard that may be for me."

[sorcerous]

"Consider them withheld," says Loki, primly. There are ever-so-many insults he is holding back, Sif; he deserves a bit of respect for that.

[brosif]

"All right, then."

She's quiet a moment, fingers tapping again against her knees.

"I'm thinking about prophecy," she says, slowly, working it out as she goes. "That's better left to other branches of my family tree, but nonetheless. I've always hated it. The idea that we don't have control over our actions and are punished for it anyway. It goes against everything I believe. And yet your mother weaves, my brother watches, and Odin knows."

As far as Sif knew, she'd never been part of a vision. It was easier to write them off when you had no part in one.

"I'm thinking of what Odin whispered, and how Thor had to die before he could reclaim what was his. How what you did insured what he became. So, I'm thinking about prophecy. And I'm thinking about you. And I'm wondering who I might be, if my entire life had been structured around the ideas of another."

[sorcerous]

His heart flares with pain, fury, fear; he detests her, in this moment. Her words portray him as worse than nothing -- as a puppet to Odin's will, and a pawn of prophecy.

He tightens his hand so hard on the bed's wooden post that splinters break loose. So hard that he drives them deep into his palm, focusing on the pain, on the blood that wells from his skin.

[brosif]

The blood surprises her, even now. He’s almost always in more control than that. She rises, but stops before she goes to him. She doesn’t suspect that any assistance would be appreciated.

“I was born to be a lady, and found ways to change what that meant. You seem to be at such a place. If you are Jotunn, you are still Loki. You can abide by tales of the wicked frost giants, become the monster. Or you can make tales of your own. I suspect they’d be much more interesting.”

She looks around for some sort of cloth to staunch the bleeding, but the room is quite bare. She takes off her own sash and places it on the bed. She doesn’t suspect he would take it if she held it out to him.

“If it’s worth anything, I think I am glad you aren’t dead. And I don’t care that you’re Jotunn. I just care that you’ve been an ass.”

With that, she turns to go.

[sorcerous]

He takes the sash in his uninjured hand, and holds it, curling his fingers in its folds.

"Were I to do it over again," he tells her, "I would do the same. I would destroy the Jotunn, and prove myself worthy for Asgard's throne. I would not allow Thor to lay me low."

The lies spill from his tongue so easy -- they belie Loki's terrible confusion, his conflict, the emptiness within him. Sometimes he looks back on it and he thinks he always expected to lose. He expected Odin to let him go. He expected Thor to sour love to hate so quick, quick enough to overpower his brother.

Loki bows his head. Blood leaks from his palm, and he cries with silent, shivering tears.

[brosif]

She doesn't look behind her. For whose sake, she is not sure. Her own face, unguarded enough, is too expressive right now. Regret, sympathy, and anger all rolled into one. She clears her throat before she speaks.

"You can lie better than that, Loki. Though I hope you do not need to."

With that, she takes her leave. The ride home will feel much longer than the ride here did.